Articles - Page 47 of 51 - Small Boats Magazine

From Aerodynamics to Aesthetics

Jack's American Star on the building jig: The numerous crosspieces make it possible to assemble the board without the use of staples or other fasters that would damage the wood.Hess family collection

Jack’s Columbia Star kit on the building jig: The numerous crosspieces make it possible to assemble the board without the use of staples or other fasters that would damage the wood.

John “Captain Jack” Hess got an early start with strip-building, but it wasn’t with boats. Around 30 years ago, his sons Chris, Ben, and Jonathan, and his daughter Sara, all took an interest in Soap Box Derby racing and Jack guided them through the process of making gravity-powered Derby cars, each custom-fit to its young driver. With their sleek aerodynamic shapes and strip-built construction, the race cars were a lot like boats. The Hess kids built their cars with Sitka-spruce cove-and-bead strips either bent over ordinary molds or pressed into concave female molds. The interior surfaces were sanded smooth and sheathed with fiberglass and epoxy; after the top and bottom assemblies were finished, they were joined together and the whole body was faired, glassed, and painted.

The four kids participated in races coasting down tracks around 1,000′ long, reaching speeds around 30 mph. All four qualified for the Soap Box Derby World Championships. In 1992 Ben finished in 4th place; in 1984 Chris, at the age of 11, was the World Champion.

Hess Soap Box Derby cars in the 1980: spruce strips, fiberglass, and gravity.Hess family collection

Hess Soap Box Derby cars in the 1980s: spruce strips, fiberglass, and gravity.

Jack had always dreamed of building a boat and when he retired recently he had his opportunity. He thought he’d start with a plywood kit wherry and a strip-built kayak, but when he first saw a stand-up paddle (SUP) board go by his lakefront home on Lake Keowee in South Carolina, he thought: “Wow, that could really be something if made out of wood!” He put his strip-building knowledge to good use and began building SUP boards.

 

The deck of AMERICAN STAR has a pattern that represent a graphic version of a totem pole owl.Hess family collection

The deck of AMERICAN STAR has a pattern that is a graphic interpretation of a totem-pole owl.

 

AMERICAN STAR is Jack’s first board, built around a Columbia Star frame from Cedar Boat Works. It measures 12′ by 30″ and is designed for flatwater paddling. The bottom starts out as a flat strip-built panel, later cut and curved to fit the snap-fit, interlocking 5mm plywood framework. Jack avoided the rows of staple holes often associated with strip-built boats by assembling the panel on an intricate strongback and clamping the strips together.

He also used clamps to glue deck strips to the curved sides and top of the framework. The work doesn’t go quickly applying one strip at a time and waiting for the glue to cure, but the unblemished finish was worth the extra time and effort.

Clamping strips in place avoids the holes left by nails, but slows the work. Capt. Jack uses the time needed for the glue to cure to smooth other sections of the hull.Hess family collection

Clamping strips in place avoids the holes left by nails, but slows the work. Capt. Jack uses the time needed for the glue to cure to smooth other sections of the hull.

Jack built his second board for his dentist, an enthusiastic stand-up paddler. When Jack showed her pictures of AMERICAN STAR, she asked him to build a wooden board for her. Jack did a little research and chose the Chesapeake Light Craft kit, Kaholo, for her. Jack suspects that his dentist keeps the board displayed on a wall inside her waterside house near Charleston—she said her furniture isn’t as nicely finished as her Kaholo.

The paddle for LOKA KAHOLA has a carbon-fiber tube at its core and the middle of its shaft has finger notches for a relaxed but secure grip.Jack Hess

The paddle for LOKA KAHOLO has a carbon-fiber tube at its core and the middle of its shaft has finger notches for a relaxed but secure grip.

LOKA KAHOLO is his third board. It’s another Chesapeake Light Craft Kaholo, built from a kit. The hull is stitch-and-glue sapele marine plywood but instead of using the same plywood for the deck, Jack created patterns in strips of Peruvian walnut, red mahogany, and the various colors of cedar. The deck fittings are walnut and include a lathe-turned cup holder. After the deck got its sheathing of glass and epoxy, Jack sanded the board smooth, finishing with 2000-grit wet sandpaper. A clear UV-resistant coating, polished to a high shine completed the job.

Rodd Langenhagen and family use the LOKA KAHOLO in the coastal waters of Maine.John Barnum

LOKA KAHALO now plies the coastal waters of Maine.

LOKA KAHOLO was built for his neighbors’ daughter and her family. LOKA KAHOLO’s matching paddle was built by Jack’s good friend Tim Deppen of Deppen Paddles. It has a hollow shaft with a carbon fiber tube built in and weighs only 26 ounces.

For Capt. Jack, paddle boards are as much a means of artistic expression in wood as they are functional watercraft.Jack Hess

For Capt. Jack, paddle boards are as much a means of artistic expression in wood as they are functional watercraft.

Jack keeps AMERICAN STAR at home, but he hasn’t yet mastered stand-up paddling. He finds it rewarding enough to build boards as works of art and to watch his kids and grandkids paddling.

.John Barnum

.

 

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.         

 

Southwester Dory

It’s unfortunate that “Jack of all trades” is so often followed by “master of none.” It is possible to do a number of things quite well, and versatility is often of more value than virtuosity. The new Southwester Dory from Chesapeake Light Craft (CLC) was designed to serve not only as a sailboat and a rowboat, but also as a motor launch, and it does well in all three capacities. Its predecessor is CLC’s Northeaster Dory, a boat that proved popular among the sail-and-oar crowd, but many prospective buyers asked about adding outboard power. Designer John Harris wisely left his Northeaster as it was and drew up a slightly larger boat that could accommodate a small motor.

The narrow, raked transom isn’t meant to support an outboard, and the slender sections aft won’t support the weight of someone at the motor’s tiller, so John situated the Southwester’s motorwell just aft of amidships. The centralized well, an optional module that can be installed at any time during or after construction of the boat, allows comfortable seating and makes it easy to get to the motor’s fuel cock, steering friction screw, tilt lock, and fuel-tank cap without having to hang overboard. It brings the motor’s noise into the middle of the boat, but in a small boat, there’s no escaping it anyway.

The well is long enough to allow the motor to kick up when it hits something or isn’t in use—a real advantage over a short well that requires removing the motor and stowing it elsewhere  to transition to rowing or sailing, coming ashore, or coasting over shoals. While leaving the motor lowered creates a lot of drag, so does the motor well opening. So the Southwester has two inserts to fill the open slot, one notched to fit around the motor when it is in use, and the other to fill the entire slot. Toggles hold the plywood inserts in place.

There's no need to go to the trouble of control lines for the kick-up rudder when you can just reach over the side, ease the pressure applied by the threaded knob, and put the blade where you want it. Christopher Cunningham

There’s no need to go to the trouble of installing control lines for the kick-up rudder when you can just reach over the side, ease the pressure applied by the threaded knob, and put the blade where you want it.

The rudder has a kick-up blade. A knob on the pivot bolt is backed off to drop the blade and tightened to keep it in place, up or down. Applying a moderate amount of pressure to the knob will keep the blade down and still let it swing up over an obstruction. The rudder stock is 1” higher than the skeg, and the jog will help keep lines or kelp from slipping in between the transom and the rudder. If you’re rigging the boat for sailing, keep in mind that it’s easier to tend to the rudder blade when the mizzen isn’t stepped, but even if you have to snake around the mast to get to the rudder, there’s still enough stability to keep the boat upright.

The Southwester’s Norwegian-style push-pull tiller has a half yoke extending to starboard and a pivoting extension to reach around the mizzen mast to the center of the cockpit. The transverse arm is permanently fixed to the rudder head, making the assembly an awkward thing to stow. Instead of gluing the two pieces together, I’d add a few extra layers of plywood to beef up the slot in the tiller for a secure slip-fit over the rudderhead. Having the rudder in place while rowing can work well when there’s a second person aboard to take the helm, but for rowing solo, even with a pivoting rudder blade retracted, there’s enough of the rudder in the water to cause drag, slow steering, and flop over while backing. I prefer to have it unshipped. Removing the rudder will also allow you to use the notch in the transom for sculling. The notch is deep and partially enclosed, making it also well suited for using an oar as a backup rudder.

The 9'10" oars would be suitable for the beam of the dory, but a pair about 6" shorter would fit neatly in the cockpit footwell without interfering with the seating. For those devoted to rowing, the longer oars could be accommodated by a recess built into one of the bulkheads.John C. Harris

The 9’10” oars would be suitable for the beam of the dory, but a pair about 6″ shorter would fit neatly in the cockpit footwell without interfering with the seating. For those devoted to rowing, the longer oars could be accommodated by a recess built into one of the bulkheads.

 

Unlike CLC’s Northeaster, which has three rowing stations to accommodate one or two rowers, the Southwester has only a single rowing station. It would be difficult to fit two more stations into the Southwester for tandem rowing—the centerboard trunk and motorwell are in the way—and I’d be willing to bet that folks drawn to the boat will choose passagemaking under sail or power. A single rowing station is all that’s needed for shorter distances.

At 18′10″ x 5′2″, the Southwester dory is a lot of boat to row solo, but the stitch-and-glue construction keeps the weight down; the boat has a light and lively feel under oars and carries its way well. The 8′6″ oars I used worked well enough but were a bit on the short side; the common formula for oar length suggests 9′10″ oars would be the best fit. A foot brace could easily be attached to the motor well for rowing solo very powerfully. While the insert in the motor well eliminates drag, it’s not gasketed, so there are always a few inches of water in the well. I wasn’t even aware of it while motoring or sailing, but as I was rowing, the rhythmic surge set the water to sloshing about, and if I rowed with gusto a bit would splash into the cockpit. The water does no harm, but the meditative aspect of rowing is incompatible with all the commotion in the well. A watertight insert with a self bailer or pumping out might solve the problem. Another fix is to have something to fill the space—say, foam blocks or a custom-built insert (the one I have for the well in one of my boats has a Plexiglas window for a view below).

The mizzen's partners and step are built into the aft end of the motor well. Note the jigsaw-puzzle joints connecting the plywood pieces.Christopher Cunningham

The mizzen’s partners and step are built into the aft end of the motor well. Note the jigsaw-puzzle joints connecting the plywood pieces.

Balance-lug rig is used on both the main and the mizzen masts. The spars are all rectangular in section, but their tapers keep them from looking clunky. The main’s downhaul takes a turn around the mast to serve as a parrel line. It holds the boom in its proper position while sailing; when striking the main, casting off the downhaul allows the boom to slide forward, as it must as the yard rotates to horizontal and pushes the sail forward. It’s a simple and effective arrangement for a lug sail.

The storage compartments in the bow and stern provide a total of 12 cu ft of storage space.Christopher Cunningham

The storage compartments in the bow and stern provide a total of 12 cu ft of storage space.

The mizzen has a loop of line made off at the forward end of the boom and looping around the mast. It slides up and down as the sail is raised and lowered. The tail end of the mizzen sheet is tied to a bridle across the stern and its working end leads forward along the boom through a cam cleat on the mast.

Lines for raising and lowering the centerboard lead aft within easy reach of the helmsman.Christopher Cunningham

Lines for raising and lowering the centerboard lead aft within easy reach of the helmsman, though the downhaul here has slipped from its fairlead/cleat.

The centerboard is lowered and held in place by a downhaul, which I prefer to a weighted board, which can’t be forced down if jammed and adds to the burden of moving the boat across a beach. The downhaul is held by a jam cleat and won’t release if the board runs into something, so a releasing cleat (by ClamCleat in the U.K.; click “Purchase Options” to find distributors worldwide) is worth having if you’re in an area of rocks or shoals—or if you’re like me and occasionally forget to raise the board before haulout.

When switching from motoring to sailing, it only takes a minute to tilt the outboard up and close the the bottom of the well. Taking another minute to stow the motor—alongside the centerboard trunk—will clear the path for the tiller across the boat for tacking.John C. Harris

When switching from motoring to sailing, it only takes a minute to tilt the outboard up and close the the bottom of the well. Taking another minute to stow the motor—alongside the centerboard trunk—will clear the path for the tiller across the boat when you’re coming about.

 

In wind around 8 knots and waves under 1′, the Southwester’s 107 sq ft of sail had me scooting along at a satisfying pace—I’d be content to sail like that for hours. When the wind picked up to around 12 knots the sailing was more exhilarating, but not approaching the need to reef. The dory tacked quickly, carrying enough momentum to not get caught in irons. With the long Norwegian push-pull tiller I could sit where my weight belonged—amidships—and the wide side benches were comfortable, with room enough to move laterally to respond to gusts and lulls. With the sails largely self tending and only two sheets to fuss with, singlehanding is easy.

The 2.3-hp outboard motor available for my test outing wasn’t the one meant for the plug in the motor well, so I had to go with the well open. The motor supplied more than enough power to get the boat moving as fast as it will comfortably go, and while there was turbulence in the well, it wasn’t enough to slosh into the cockpit. At full throttle, the raked transom pulled up quite a pile of water astern. I enjoyed not having to reach behind me to get to the throttle and shifter.

In the bow there’s a recess for stowing a long line threaded through a hole in the stem. The hole squeegees water and seaweed off and any remaining water drains through two discreet holes though the planking. The line pays out again tangle-free and can be adjusted to any length with a figure-eight on a bight. It’s a dandy system. Stowage compartments at the bow and stern are fitted with hatches for access. The side benches enclose large flotation compartments filled with slabs of expanded polystyrene foam—the pink or blue insulation panels you’ll find at home improvement stores. Ledges along the side benches support the thwart and it would be quite easy to add ledges along the well and trunk for inserts to create a continuous platform for a crew of two to sleep aboard. There’s an optional bimini top available for shade under sunny skies…which would be a good starting point for enclosing the cockpit for shelter in cold and wet conditions.

CLC has packed a lot of features into the Southwester without making it cluttered or complicated. It offers a lot of options for propulsion, and none of them feels like a compromise.

Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats Monthly.

CLC Southwester Particulars

[table]

LOA/18′10″

Beam/5′2″

Hull, stripped/200 lbs

Hull, motoring, with engine/280 lbs

Hull, sailing, rigged/350 lbs

Draft, rowing/7″

Draft, sailing/3′

[/table]

 

Dory3drawings

DoryperspectivePS

Kits and plans for the Southwester Dory are available 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!

Inlet Runner

Any serious angler knows the need for fresh bait for a day of fishing;  being able to catch your own and not having to depend on a bait-and-tackle shop is a big advantage. After many very early mornings being let down and left scrambling for bait because the bait shop was either sold out or the quality was poor, I decided it was time to make a change: I started catching my own baitfish during the week, after work, and keeping it alive in cages I sank alongside the dock. The boat I was using at the time was well suited to chasing flounder and cobia in the lower Chesapeake Bay and coastal waters off Virginia Beach, but too large for the baitfish-rich inlets and shallow coves, and I found myself looking for a small, easy-to-maintain outboard skiff.

The search for an inexpensive, used, production fiberglass skiff went on for a while without success. The fit and finish of most affordable small and simple powerboats left much to be desired. Exploring other affordable options, I discovered I could build a wooden boat for less money and put into the project the standard of finish that I wanted.

I found my way to Dudley Dix, a yacht designer living in Virginia Beach. When I sat down with him to talk about what I was looking for, he said he’d wanted to design a line of garvey-style outboard-powered boats and was looking for the right time to start the drawings. The boat I outlined for him provided the catalyst for his design project. My list of requirements for the boat were fairly basic. I had very little woodworking experience and no boatbuilding experience so I needed something easy to build, something a true novice could tackle. The project needed to go quickly enough to complete in six months, working in my spare time, so the boat could be ready for the upcoming summer. My plan was to leave the boat in a slip during the summer so I wanted it to be self-bailing, to ease the worry of swamping while the boat was tied up and unattended during the many evening thunderstorms we have here. After a few months of designing, Dudley presented me with drawings for a 16′ garvey, and I began construction.

The outwale is the only brightwork on the boat. Its wood is of unknown species, having been cut from a 2x6 that Dudley Dix found in his front yard, evidently having fallen off a garbage truck. It was once part of a door because a handle was still attached. Dudley ripped it down to size on a table saw and Kevin coated it with epoxy and finished it off with varnish.photographs by Jesse Goodwin

The outwale is the only brightwork on the boat. Its wood is of unknown species, having been cut from a 2×6 that Dudley Dix found in his front yard, evidently having fallen off a garbage truck. It was once part of a door because a handle was still attached. Dudley ripped it down to size on a table saw and Kevin coated it with epoxy and finished it off with varnish.

 

The hull was to be built with okoume plywood and epoxy using the stitch-and-glue method. Since my boat was the prototype, there wouldn’t be a time-saving CNC-cut kit available. Instead I received a roll of full-sized patterns to transfer over to the plywood panels. The hull bottom and sides are built from four sheets of 9mm plywood using taped joints to create the lengths needed. Tabs on the five bulkheads and slots to fit them in the hull panels made stitching the basic shape of the boat together quick and easy; the bulkheads stayed securely in place while I assembled the hull.

As I stitched the keel seam together, the bow took a smooth and sweeping curve upward in the simple but functional garvey fashion. Once the hull was stitched together, fiberglass tape and epoxy resin reinforced the chine and keel seams inside and out. Several layers of 9mm plywood added to the transom created a total thickness of 45mm, which is strong enough to handle an outboard of up to 50hp. Fuel-tank beds support a permanent 12-gallon below-deck fuel tank. A stout tray under the deck amidships stores the battery out of the way, keeping its weight out of the stern. A pair of 1×2 carlins running from the transom to the bow and secured in cutouts on the top portion of the bulkheads supports the inside edge of the deck.

The framework for the bilge-access hatches was laid out according to the full-sized patterns, and the cockpit sole was cut to fit. Before the sole was installed, its underside and the entire bilge area were coated with three coats of low-viscosity epoxy. To save money and enhance the clean appearance of the deck, I built my own flush-mount hatches and access covers.

Dudley and I decided against covering the hull with a layer of fiberglass and instead three coats of epoxy seal the entire hull. The extra time and work needed to obtain a nice finish over the weave of fiberglass cloth did not justify the extra abrasive resistance a layer of ’glass would have provided, given the way I’d be using this boat: I had no need to pull it ashore.

To stiffen the hull and add longitudinal strength, 1×2 stringers were added to the bottom. Installed on the exterior side, the stringers would help give the boat lift by trapping water and air while on plane and add some protection if I should happen to run aground in the shallows. All of the 1x2s I used for the hull and carlins were sourced from our local home improvement center, helping keep the costs down. It was cheaper than shopping at a specialty lumber yard but I had to spend lot of time picking through the select poplar boards looking for pieces that would suit my needs.

The interior is spare to keep the boat versatile. Sealed storage under hatches in the foredeck, sole, and the seat to port keeps gear out from underfoot. The starboard seat conceals a live-bait well.

The interior is quite open to keep the boat versatile. Sealed storage under hatches in the foredeck, sole, and the seat to port keeps gear out from underfoot. The starboard seat conceals a live-bait well.

Once the hull was built, sealed, and faired, I could fit the deck. To make the boat simple to maintain and keep the cockpit open, the only interior furnishings are a pair of rectangular boxes built into both sides of the stern. The starboard one is a 19-gallon bait well with plumbing to support a 500-gallon-per-hour pump to keep baitfish alive and happy. The port-side compartment has a dry storage box that also serves as a seat for the helmsman. The forward section of the port compartment has an electronics panel that is easy to access and see while steering from the seat flush with it.

The instrument panel includes switches for lights and bilge and bait-well pumps, flush-mount GPS/fishfinder, CD player with AM/FM radio, master electrical switch, and fuel gauge.

The instrument panel includes switches for lights and bilge and bait-well pumps, flush-mount GPS/fishfinder, CD player with AM/FM radio, master electrical switch, and fuel gauge.

Side decks, 7″ wide, extend from the stern boxes forward to the foredeck, and along these decks are flush-mounted stainless-steel rod holders, three per side. A hatch on the foredeck provides access to a storage compartment. The enclosed compartments leave plenty of space in the cockpit for stowing all of the safety equipment, fishing gear, and anchor.

 

I named my boat INLET RUNNER, and Dudley adopted the name for the design. On the water, the boat jumps up on plane with little rising of the bow, and then quickly levels out at speed. With a dry hull weight of only around 400 lbs, she feels very light and responsive. Banking into turns, she carves around nicely and feels predictable. With two adults on board, the 25-hp, four-stroke outboard pushes her in the mid 20-knot range at full throttle. At three-quarters throttle, she cruises along nicely around 19 knots. She’s at her best running trim with a passenger just forward of the centerline with the helmsman sitting close to the stern. The hull has an 18-degree deadrise at the entry, which helps soften the ride in a chop; this angle flattens to 5 degrees at the transom. At rest she draws just 4″ and, for having only a 6′ beam, she provides a very stable fishing platform and has enough buoyancy for standing on the side while pulling pots.

The self-bailing cockpit has plenty of height to drain well and to keep the scuppers from taking on water while moving in reverse and at anchor in choppy conditions. Seat cushions made to snap on top of ice chests add comfort to the tops of both stern compartments while under power. The open cockpit layout leaves plenty of room for crab pots if needed or a small cooler added for extra seating.

Running in a slight chop on Virginia’s Back River, the builder’s home waters, INLET RUNNER moves along nicely with very minimal pounding.

Running in a slight chop on Virginia’s Back River, the builder’s home waters, INLET RUNNER moves along nicely with very minimal pounding.

The Inlet Runner’s lightweight design needs minimal horsepower to perform well. We can cruise around all day on only a few gallons of gasoline, making the garvey very inexpensive to operate. With every nook and cranny sealed with epoxy, maintenance is easy. After returning to the dock, a quick rinse with fresh water is all that is needed. I leave the boat at the dock uncovered and it is unaffected by downpours.

The Inlet Runner is a great all-around, well-thought-out and -designed little powerboat. It’s easy to build and once completed is a lot of boat for the money: around $3,000 for the completed boat, less the engine. From start to finish the boat took a little over six months to build. I expect to spend many pleasant hours on her catching baitfish, fishing for flounder on calm days, and just messing about in the local estuaries and protected waters.

Kevin Agee is a professional BMW Mechanic living on the east coast of Virginia. He spends most of his spare time fishing or sightseeing on his local waters. He has long been passionate about small, simple, and easy-to-maintain wooden boats that are versatile and have character; new to boatbuilding, he’s looking forward to more projects in the future.

Inlet Runner Particulars

[table]

LOA/15′11″

Beam/5′11″

Draft/7.5″

Design displacement/1,180 lbs

Recommended outboard engine/25–30 hp

[/table]

InletRunnerLines2

InletRunnerSections2

 

 

Plans are available from Dudley Dix Yacht Design and can be purchased along with measurements for the components or full-sized patterns on paper or on Mylar. A pre-cut plywood kit is in the works.

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!

Whitehalls on the Colorado

After the close of the American Civil War in 1865, John Wesley Powell, a Union Army veteran who had lost his right forearm to a Confederate musket ball, returned to civilian life as a geology professor. In 1869, he set out to explore and survey the Green and Colorado Rivers and lead the first scientific expedition through the entire Grand Canyon. The feat required boats built specifically for the task by the Thomas Bagley boatyard in Chicago. In the 1860s, there were no boats appropriate for this kind of journey and also no practical way to get them there until the completion of the first Transcontinental Railroad on May 10, 1869. Bagley could then send the boats west by rail to the Green River station in Wyoming. After christening the three large boats KITTY CLYDE’S SISTER, MAID OF THE CAÑON, NO NAME, and the small one EMMA DEAN, the expedition got underway on May 24, 1869. Three months later, on August 30, Powell arrived at his goal, the mouth of the Virgin River, with just three of his four boats and six of the ten men he’d set out with.

In 2013, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) commissioned the Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding to recreate two of Bagley’s 21′ Whitehall “freight boats” and the smaller 16′ scout boat for Operation Grand Canyon, a TV program about the retracing the famous expedition by Powell, who was later the director of the U.S. Geological Survey. I worked with eight students to build the Whitehalls, and senior instructor Jeff Hammond built the  scout boat with other students.

There are no plans or pictures of the boats of this expedition. Powell’s journals offer only an outline for their construction:

Three* are built of oak; stanch [sic] and firm; doubled-ribbed with double stem and stern posts, and further strengthened by bulkheads, dividing each into three compartments.

Two of these, fore and aft, are decked, forming water-tight cabins. It is expected these will buoy the boats should the waves roll over them in rough water. The little vessels are twenty-one feet long and, taking out the cargoes, can be carried by four men.

The fourth boat is made of pine, very light, but sixteen feet in length, with a sharp cutwater, and every way built for fast rowing and divided into compartments as the others.

*One of Powell’s boats was lost at the rapids he named Disaster Falls. For Operation Grand Canyon only the boats that had survived were replicated.

The usual carvel construction of Whitehalls in the last half of the 19th century was ill-suited for this type of expedition, and, following Powell’s notes and channeling Thomas Bagley, I beefed everything up considerably and added some atypical features. I decided that Bagley would have added a keel batten to back up the garboards if he was concerned about the boat coming down hard on a rock. I also studied photographs and engravings in books about Powell’s second expedition—in 1871—and built the boats the way I felt Bagley would have in 1869.

The oak logs harvested for the Whitehalls were sawn with a bandsaw mill in Bristol, Rhode Island. The planks cu from trees with curved trunks made it possible to get planks with a lot of shape out in one piece.Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding

The oak logs harvested for the Whitehalls were sawn with a bandsaw mill in Bristol, Rhode Island. The planks cut from trees with curved trunks made it possible to get planks with a lot of shape out in one piece.

The first two tasks were to find suitable white oak and to draw the lines that would later be lofted full size. While Jeff and I were drawing lines, our executive director at the time, Pete Leenhouts, was on the phone searching for oak. He eventually found white oak big enough for full-length planks and backbone timbers in Rhode Island, some 3,000 miles away. While we were building the strongback and making patterns and molds, the oak was being harvested and sawn and I was quite nervous about building boats with green wood.

The oak arrived, some as rough-sawn 10/4 flitches. We planed them down to 2 ¼″ and arranged our Mylar backbone patterns to make the best use of the oak’s beautiful grain. The wood had had very little time to dry after being cut, and our moisture meter just blinked—the readings were off the charts.

The frames on the two large Whitehalls were bent around the forms’ ribbands. Pockets chopped in the backbone aft allowed the frames to get a nice tuck in the stern. Whitehall designs vary slightly depending on the builder; I drew these boats with the aid of lines from John Gardner’s Building Classic Small Craft and lines taken from a San Francisco Whitehall by fellow school instructor Jack Becker.Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding

The frames on the two large Whitehalls would soon be bent around the forms’ ribbands. Pockets chopped in the backbone aft (left) allowed the frames to get a nice tuck in the stern. Whitehall designs vary slightly depending on the builder; I drew these boats with the aid of lines from John Gardner’s Building Classic Small Craft and lines taken from a San Francisco Whitehall by fellow instructor Jack Becker.

My students seemed to be enjoying themselves despite the cold, wet, dark shelter we worked in and our morale was high. Soon enough the enormous backbone was in place, and the transom was bolted on.

Powell’s description of the boats as “doubled-ribbed” could be taken to mean either that there were twice as many frames as a normal Whitehall might have or that each was twice as thick. I decided to compromise by increasing the thickness by half and decreasing the normal frame spacing from 9″ to 6″.

As we decked the large oak boats the plank seams began opening up. If you look closely at the seam just below the forward thwart you’ll see light coming through. The hatches were made traditionally without any modern gasket materials. Water found its way into the "sealed" compartments in a few big rapids making it difficult to keep gear dry. I am sure Powell dealt with these issues as well.Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding

As we decked the large oak boats the plank seams began opening up. If you look closely at the seam just below the forward thwart you’ll see light coming through. The hatches were made traditionally without any modern gasket materials. Water found its way into the “sealed” compartments in a few big rapids making it difficult to keep gear dry. Powell must have dealt with the same problem.

The green oak was glorious to bend when steamed—it could take a 90-degree twist in a matter of a few feet—so the garboards went on quickly and we had plenty of time to put on the first broadstrake before we left for the weekend. On Monday morning, as I’d feared, the plank seams that were perfect on Friday now had ¼″ gaps. It was going to be a battle to get these boats to float. I tried everything I knew to keep this from happening again—oiling the planks to slow the drying, building a kiln to dry the oak before it went on the boat, even using a wood stabilizer that replaces water in the cells—but in the end it was a losing battle. Time was not our ally, so we planked the boats and let the oak do what it wanted to do. We flipped the hulls and turned to fitting out the interior and decks.

Pete Leenhouts, then the school’s director, and author Ben Kahn contemplate widening gaps in the planking seams and the looming deadline for the completing the boats.Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding

Pete Leenhouts, then the school’s director, and author Ben Kahn contemplate the widening gaps in the planking seams and the looming deadline for the completion of the boats.

By May, it was time to get the boats afloat, but some of the seams had gaps of as much as 3/8″. We ripped 8′ lengths of red-cedar splines, matched to the thickness of our planks. Because the seam gaps were anything but uniform, we made splines in several different widths, coated them with linseed oil, and tapped them in. The cotton caulking that followed kept everything in place without glue. I had to leave the shop in disgust several times after I’d caulked the same spot multiple times before it seated properly and didn’t blow out the inside of the planks. My students were calmer than I was about the whole process and so absorbed in it that they wouldn’t even look up when I blurted out my frustrations.

The scout boat’s tongue-and-groove decking will have tarred felt stretched over it, followed by canvas and paint. A few screws await bungs. The scout boat had bronze screws and the large boats had galvanized screws; Powell's journals didn't mention the type of fasteners used in his boats.Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding

The scout boat’s tongue-and-groove decking will have tarred felt stretched over it, followed by canvas and paint. A few of the screws  here await bungs. The scout boat had bronze screws and the large boats had galvanized screws; Powell’s journals didn’t mention the type of fasteners used in his boats.

After six months of work we put the Whitehalls—one painted green, the other blue—and the red-hulled scout boat on the beach by the school and waited for the rising tide to lift them off their slings. In the days that followed I trained with the boats in the bay. They were like huge battleships compared to the light boats I was used to rowing, but they could take a pounding like no other Whitehall. They were ready for their journey.

The two Whitehalls, left and center, and the scout boat, right, lined up at Redwall ready for action. Powell came ashore here on August 8, 1869 and named the place for a 400’ band cliffs stained red by iron leaching from the strata above them.Bryan Smith

The two Whitehalls, left and center, and the scout boat, right, lined up at Redwall ready for action. Powell came ashore here on August 8, 1869 and named the place for a 400′ band of cliffs stained red by iron leaching from the strata above them.

 

The boats arrived in Flagstaff, Arizona, amidst such a frenzy of activity and preparations for the trip down the Colorado that they were never given names. Fred Thevanin, the fearless leader of Arizona Raft Adventures (AZRA) and in charge of the trip, also served as the guide in the scout boat I’d be in as crew. I had never seen such insanity as people threw bags of potatoes, welded solar-panel brackets onto raft frames, filled whiskey barrels, and moved boats around. We were all as excited and as anxious as we’d have been if we were going to the moon and might never come back. Even the guides, who had been down this stretch of river countless times, knew this would be no ordinary trip.

A few days before launching, the British boatmen arrived along with the remaining film crew—which included Dan Snow, a popular British television host and dedicated historian. The boat crew included Mike Dilger, an ecologist and BBC reporter; Dougal Jerram, a geologist; Sam Willis a maritime historian; Bryan Smith, a filmmaker and whitewater kayaker; Fred Thevanin; and Adam Bringhurst and Tom O’Hara, both river guides. This crew of nine was the same number Powell had for this stretch.

KahnGrandCanyonMap2bPS

We piled everything into trucks and headed to the boat ramp at Lees Ferry, arriving to ominous claps of thunder and bright, ragged lightning bolts. The rain came soon after so we checked into a local hotel for one last comfortable sleep. Those who hadn’t been down the river looked to the guides for assurance, but because they had never used boats like those we’d built even they were unsure.

The scout boat, with only six feet of cockpit between its bulkheads, was cramped for out crew of three but on the bright side, with only one rowing station, Sam and I had to row half much as the crew in the other boats and had only half as much water to bail when we got swamped.Bryan Smith

The scout boat, with only 6′ of cockpit between its bulkheads, was cramped for our crew of three but on the bright side, with just the one rowing station, Sam and I each had to row only half much as the crew in the other boats and had only half as much water to bail when we got swamped.

The next day, we launched the boats for rowing trials. The hulls had dried out in the desert air, and the seams were leaking badly. I assured everyone that this was normal and the planks would swell up, but feeling cold water around my shins as I rowed a sinking boat made me more terrified by the hour. I had committed to something that now seemed downright foolish; once we left Lees Ferry, there would be no getting out of the canyon except by helicopter. I took solace from Tom’s calm demeanor and focused energy. As we shoved off and headed downstream, I took a deep breath, rejected negative thoughts, and pondered the eight months of hard work that had gotten me this far. What a relief it was to be on the river, living in the moment, and no longer fearing the future. As we rowed through the first riffle, I was surprised by our speed; Fred was quickly figuring out how to manage the 14′ ash sweep he was using to steer. After that riffle, my anxiety turned to excitement.

Fred steered the scout boat to the line he'd chose to run Badger Creek Rapid.Bryan Smith

Fred set the scout boat up for the line he’d chosen to run Badger Creek Rapid.

Our first real challenge was 17 miles downriver from Lees Ferry at House Rock Rapid, where the current threatens to take you into a large hydraulic hole to the left; to avoid it, the boat must cross the river mid-rapid and dodge huge rocks on the river’s right. It would test our maneuverability. As we dropped into the smooth V of water at the top of the rapid, Fred said, “Take me on a walk,” meaning row with a slow but powerful cadence. When smooth water turned to cresting waves Fred said: “Take me on a jog.” A cold breaking wave smacked me in the back and took my breath away. Another wave wrapped around us from the other side. “Don’t forget to breathe,” Fred yelled. He squared up the bow of the boat with the huge lateral wave. As the boat climbed, the water pushed our bow parallel to the lip on top of the wave and we got a glimpse over the edge into the deep and deadly hole, which was roaring like a jet engine. Then, like a big-wave surfer, our boat dropped into the downstream trough, sped into flat water, and pushed through the eddy line with authority. As the eddy spun the boat up river, we were nearly submerged and bailed water while our hearts pounded. The other two boats punch though the waves and into the safety of the eddy.

 

That night, we camped on a soft, sandy beach sloping from a sheer wall of ancient rocks. Everyone had aches and pains, even the film crew. Despite being on modern rafts, they too had taken some punishment. We unloaded the boats of gear and food, and set up the kitchen. Fred and Bryan figured out what to make for dinner. Our meals consisted of foods that Powell may have taken on his journey. By this point on Powell’s trip, his crew had been on the river for months and were running out of food. Our meal was simple but delicious after a long day of physical exertion under the desert sun.

We set up camp on a beautiful beach above Unkar Rapid. The Unkar (the Paiute word for red stone) Delta has several archaeological sites, indications of a settlement dating back 1,000 years.Bryan Smith

We set up camp on a beautiful beach above Unkar Rapid.  Unkar is the Paiute word for red stone; the area has several archaeological sites, indications of a settlement dating back 1,000 years.

On many of the nights that followed, like our first night camping just upstream from the head of Crystal Rapid, we would drink bottom-shelf whiskey and sing around the campfire to the beautiful music of Sam and Tom on guitar and banjo. On those nights when we expected torrential rains, I’d work with the English crewmembers to create shelters out of a huge canvas tarp using oars as poles. At the camp downstream from Separation Canyon, we set up a particularly nice canopy over the kitchen using four oars on the perimeter and a longer sweep oar for the peak. We were grown men arguing the finer details of design and knots while wrestling a huge leaky tarp, but it felt like we were kids building a fort.

On a sweltering off-river day, I got a chance to put a riser block under the scout boat’s stern-sweep oarlock. Fred needed a few extra inches above the deck to get his sweep oar to clear cresting waves.Bryan Smith

On a sweltering off-river day, I got a chance to put a riser block under the scout boat’s stern-sweep oarlock. Fred needed a few extra inches above the deck to get his sweep oar to clear cresting waves.

 

The boats were constantly deteriorating, and I spent most evenings fixing broken oarlocks, patching holes, and mending oars. To achieve better trim for steering and climbing over waves, I arranged a few boulders as ballast in the stern compartments. Obsessed with the maintenance of the boats we’d created, I was prepared and ready for almost any repair. I’d brought wood, screws, bolts, and three canvas bags full of tools. Almost daily something needed to be fixed. Halfway through the canyon, CRAZY HORSE, as Dan had been calling the blue boat, pulled through an eddy line and struck a rock concealed just below the surface of the water; an hour later, as the fleet pulled into camp, Dan mentioned the boat was sinking. The mangled stem and keel took three hours to fix, with three other team members helping. I had brought large pieces of wood to replace broken pieces, but even if we could replace the stem and keel, the task would have set us back a week. So we put tar in and around the hole, molded a lead sheet by hammering it over the tar, and then tacked it down with copper nails. The four of us showed up for dinner covered with splattered tar.

Adam drilled holes in each stern sweeps’ oarlock to attach tethers. Our sweep oars had been getting wrenched out by powerful whitewater and this simple modification successfully kept the oars and their oarlocks where they belonged.Bryan Smith

Adam drilled holes in the oarlocks to attach tethers. Our sweep oars had been getting wrenched out by powerful whitewater and these simple modifications successfully kept the oars and their oarlocks from getting lost overboard.

It was satisfying to see what these boats could endure. People asked me if it was painful to watch the boats get damaged over and over again, but I enjoyed seeing them pushed to their limits and beyond and relished the challenge of keeping them afloat. CRAZY HORSE collided with a sheer wall at Bed Rock Rapid and I was amazed the boat didn’t break in two. The patch we’d put on a few days earlier was ripped completely off, exposing the hole again. The impact punched through the planks, but the damage could have been much worse: The double framing prevented more of the plank from being shattered, and the hole in the stem could be repaired because the timber was oversized.

Dan and Dougal kept CRAZY HORSE moving slightly faster than the current so Tom could maneuver the boat and navigate around flat-water obstacles.Bryan Smith

Dan and Dougal kept CRAZY HORSE moving slightly faster than the current so Tom could maneuver the boat and navigate around flat-water obstacles.

 

Crystal Rapid was an exceptional threat to both boats and crew. The filmmakers wanted us to line one boat, portage the second boat, and run the rapid with the third boat to demonstrate methods used by Powell’s expedition. We eased CRAZY HORSE down the bank next to the rapid, with Tom and Bryan in the boat and the rest of us three-deep paying out and then grasping bow and stern lines, we controlled the boat’s descent. We let the boat drift just far enough from shore for the current to pull it downstream without letting it into faster-moving water that would have ripped the lines out of our hands. At one point, CRAZY HORSE perched on some rocks and rolled on its side, allowing a huge wave to come over the rail. The additional weight solidly pinned the boat there, and despite trying for hours we could not free it. We gave up, hoping that the expected decrease in water level at night (the Glen Canyon dam upstream releases less water as the demand for electricity diminishes in the evening) would help get it off the rocks. It was depressing to think that the boat might be in its final resting place. If three crew were rendered boatless, they would have to cram aboard the other two boats. At 4 a.m., however, the water was low enough that we could bail the boat and work it free, after which we lined it the rest of the way to a beach at the bottom of the rapid.

We portaged the  scout boat around Crystal Rapid. All nine of us carried provisions and gear 400 yards downriver along the bank. We then lashed oars across the 800-lb boat to provide handholds for carrying it over boulders at the edge of the river. Stumbling and falling in the sweltering sun, it took us hours to portage the boat.

The green boat ran Crystal Rapid and got swept into a boulder garden, slamming into several rocks without much damage. While Powell portaged his boats overland to avoid rapids he deemed unwise to run, most of us agreed that running the rapid was the best way to get people and boats down the river. It was less risky for the boats than lining and safer for the crew than portaging.

Adam, Bryan, and Mike braced for a big hit at Lava Falls. Moments later, their boat disappeared into a hole and resurfaced with only Bryan and Mike still aboard.Bryan Smith

Adam, Bryan, and Mike braced for a big hit at Lava Falls. Moments later, their boat disappeared into a hole and resurfaced with only Bryan and Mike still aboard.

 

Lava Falls was our last big rapid. Of all of the rapids in the Grand Canyon, it is widely regarded as the most powerful and the most dangerous. The film crew took several hours to set up, since they would have only one chance to capture the run on film. After hours of watching private groups scout the rapid only to have Lava Falls flip their rafts, it was finally our turn.

I shoved off while Fred gave directions to Sam on the oars. Fred maneuvered the boat a few feet to the right of a giant hole that has claimed many boats over the years. The muddy water was boiling as we plowed through and over a train of giant waves. At the bottom of the rapid we rode over a pressure wave the size of a bus and came to rest in an eddy on the right side.

Although it looks like we’re about to be swallowed up by the whitewater, Fred had chosen a perfect line to get the scout boat safely through the heart of Lava Falls.Bryan Smith

Although it looks like we’re about to be swallowed up by the whitewater, Fred had chosen a perfect line to get the scout boat safely through the heart of Lava Falls.

Next came CRAZY HORSE carrying Tom, Dan, and Dougal, who also survived Lava even though the boat was swamped. We all stood by as Adam, Bryan, and Mike entered the rapid in their Whitehall. Adam maneuvered next to the explosive keeper hole at the top, then his boat hit a huge hole at the bottom and vanished. When it emerged from the depths like a breaching whale, only two people were aboard. Adam was gone. We quickly rowed out in search of him. Adam eventually resurfaced 10′ behind his boat and swam to catch up. With Bryan’s help, he clambered aboard just before they were swept into the next rapid, Son of Lava. Completely swamped and lacking Adam’s steering sweep, they were at the mercy of the river; they could only hope for the best. All three boats made it through. Our nerves shattered, we regrouped, had a quick bite to eat, and rowed in silence for an hour until we reached our next camp.

Our last day in the canyon we ate breakfast in the dark and pushed off the beach at daybreak. We rowed through a thick low-lying fog and covered our last miles on flat water. All the drama was behind us.Bryan Smith

Our last day in the canyon we ate breakfast in the dark and pushed off the beach at daybreak. We rowed through a thick low-lying fog and covered our last miles on flat water. All the drama was behind us.

 

Our 18 days in the Grand Canyon gave us a deeper understanding of ourselves, the power of the great Colorado River, and the toughness of Powell and his crew. Only six of the 10 who started his 101-day, 930-mile expedition made it through the canyon, the final leg of the journey. One had given up before reaching the Grand Canyon and after Lava Falls three of the men abandoned Powell at Separation Canyon and were never seen again. Of his four boats, three made it to the end of the expedition. After running just the 280 miles of the canyon and more than 100 rapids, I understood all too clearly my obligation as a boatbuilder to build boats as best I can and to take good care of them. In the Grand Canyon the bond created with boats is especially strong; as the Colorado River guides say: “If you want to live, stay with your boat.”

Ben Kahn earned a bachelor’s degree in industrial arts from Berea College in Kentucky in 1999 and graduated from the Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding (NWSWB) in 2001.  Working in the Port Townsend, Washington,  and Sausalito, California, shipyards prepared him for his current job teaching at NWSWB.  He spends his free time enjoying boats and friends in the beautiful Pacific Northwest.

A trailer for the Operation Grand Canyon, is on the BBC’s YouTube channel.

A footnote

John Wesley Powell went on to serve as the director of the U.S. Geological Survey, and as an anthropologist and ethnographer he was the first director of ethnology at the Smithsonian Institution. He died, strangely enough, in 1902 in none other than Brooklin, Maine—the headquarters of Small Boats Monthly and its sister publication, WoodenBoat. For more about his explorations, see Wallace Stenger’s book Beyond the Hundredth Meridian: John Wesley Powell and the Second Opening of the West.

If you have an interesting story to tell about your adventures with a small wooden boat, please email us a brief outline and a few photos.

A Canvas Bunk

With the sleeping bag in place, the bunk is ready for the night.

With a sleeping bag in place, the bunk is ready for the night.

Cruising under sail and oars can be an odd combination of casual relaxation and nonstop intensity. It means uninterrupted time on the water, to be sure—and intimacy with nature and the elements. But the imperative of covering miles to make it to the next safe anchorage, or home, can sometimes involve a relentless focus that can be mentally exhausting. Getting a good night’s sleep is imperative.

Sleeping well on board starts with choosing an anchorage wisely, setting a heavy anchor on an appropriate rode, and getting settled early enough to eat well, get organized, and enjoy the evening light. In addition, having a comfortable place to bed down makes all the difference in facing the next day, especially in less-than-sterling weather. I had been sleeping on the floorboards of my 18′ No Mans Land boat, which worked well enough. But my feet were captive under the after thwart, and the space between the centerboard trunk and the side seats was, admittedly, a bit tight. Plus, the floorboards could be damp, or downright wet, from the day’s rain or spray.

It all seemed acceptable enough, though, and I didn’t give my sleeping arrangements much more thought—at least not until I happened to be in Portsmouth, England, during a voyage and went to see HMS VICTORY. There, in the admiral’s cabin, was a sort of plank-bottomed, canvas-sided box slung from the beams overhead. Though not original, this reproduction of Horatio Nelson’s hammock, down to the froufrou embroidery done by his mistress, seemed more than a bit “precious” to me. Nevertheless, the idea was interesting enough to remember.

It came back to me on a solo cruise, during a driving night rain. I had jury-rigged a tent out of my mainsail—a bad idea, since the Tom Sawyer approach is often lacking, and cheating nature is a losing proposition. As soon as the reefpoints started dripping rather liberally, I threw my gear on top of the oars on the other side, which was drier because the sail was doubled there. I perched my sleeping bag on top of it all—and I distinctly recall muttering, among other expressions, that this just wasn’t any fun. Right then, I vowed to come up with a better tent, which I’ve done. In that moment, I had time to think more about Nelson’s hammock. I also fondly remembered the security and comfort provided aboard racing yachts by lee cloths, those simple canvas panels held vertical by lines to overhead deckbeams to prevent off-watch sailors from being thrown from their berths during a change of tack. When I got back home, I made the simple canvas bunk that I designed in my head that night.

Floorboards provide a reasonably good sleeping surface, but a purpose-made boat bunk is more comfortable. Here, the mainsail is rolled around its yard and slung between the main and mizzen masts. With thole pins removed, a tent pole set in the vacant holes arches from one side to the other to provide a generous interior space. The tent cover is omitted here for clarity.photographs by the author

Floorboards provide a reasonably good sleeping surface, but a purpose-made boat bunk is more comfortable. Here, the mainsail is rolled around its yard and slung between the main and mizzen masts. With thole pins removed, a tent pole set in the vacant holes arches from one side to the other to provide a generous interior space. The tent cover is omitted here for clarity.

This bunk, designed around a standard camping pad, is made of readily available synthetic canvas. The bottom has five 1-1/8″ x 5/8″ wooden slats slipped into sleeves. I made the sides about 6″ high. The ends are generously peaked, each supported by an additional 3/4″ x 3/8″ slat. The whole thing rolls out on top of two oars, laid on top of the thwarts. (Aware that this “traps” the oars, I always keep a good-sized paddle forward in case I need to maneuver at night.) Lines from grommets in the end panels and sides extend up to the spar-and-sail bundle that I sling between the masts to serve as a ridgepole for my tent.

The first attempt didn’t work well. I made the slats a bit too thick, thinking they would need to withstand point loading. But with the standard foam pad slipped into the bunk, I couldn’t get my hip and shoulder to find comfortable spots between the slats. I considered adding more slats to spread the load, maybe making them thinner to avoid too much bulk to stow. But at an outdoor store I found an insulated air sleeping pad that has a built-in pump operated by hand pressure to blow it up to about 3″ thick—much thicker than my earlier-generation one. This was perfectly comfortable, plus the air pad packs in less than half of the volume of my old foam pad, and less volume in stowage is always a real benefit aboard a small boat.

Modified foam pads—the type used for cartopping canoes and kayaks—protect the thwarts from the oar looms forward and the blades aft, all lashed to keep them in place.

Modified foam pads—the type used for cartopping canoes and kayaks—protect the thwarts from the oar looms forward.

 

The oars are lashed at both looms and blades to keep them and the foam pads in place.

The oars are lashed at both looms and blades to keep them and the foam pads in place.

 

The canvas bunk rolls out over the oars. All lines remain with the bundle to hasten setup.

The canvas bunk rolls out over the oars. All lines remain with the bundle to hasten setup.

 

The bottom of the bunk is turned up here to show the line about to be unknotted and then tied around the oar below.

The bottom of the bunk is turned up here to show the line about to be unknotted and then tied around the oar below.

 

The bottom of the bunk is turned up here to show the line about to be unknotted and then tied around the oar below.

The short line extending from the bottom of the bunk, now tied around the loom, keeps the bunk in place over the oars.

The 1-1/8” x 5/8“bottom slats, made of common pine, are fitted into canvas sleeves. At each end of a slat, the canvas layers are sewn together with sailmaker’s twine through a hole bored in the wood, keeping the slat from sliding out.

The 1-1/8” x 5/8” bottom slats, made of common pine, are fitted into canvas sleeves. At each end of a slat, the canvas layers are sewn together with sailmaker’s twine through a hole bored in the wood, keeping the slat from sliding out.

 

Lines pass over the main yard and are made off to keep the sides and ends vertical. Note the short lines passed through grommets inside the bunk—they tie the slats to the oars.

Lines pass over the main yard and are made off to keep the bunk’s sides and ends vertical. Note the short lines passed through grommets inside the bunk—they tie the slats to the oars.

 

The canvas “box” was designed around a standard-sized camping pad, which is inserted next. Note the 3/4” x 3/8” slats sewn into each end panel to keep them from collapsing.

The canvas “box” was designed around a standard-sized camping pad, which is inserted next. Note the 3/4” x 3/8” slats sewn into each end panel to keep them from collapsing.

The bunk, with all of its associated gear, fits into a large dry bag along with my tent and mosquito netting, and takes just a few minutes to set up. There’s ample room underneath to stow things I won’t need for the night, keeping them from getting underfoot. I am the admiral of nothing and have no embroidering mistress, but with the boat well anchored down and a good book at hand, I can look forward to a fine night’s rest and to arising refreshed at the next day’s dawn, ready for more sailing and whatever the day might bring.

Tom Jackson is the senior editor of WoodenBoat.

You can find a picture of Nelson’s bed on the HMS VICTORY web site at the bottom of the page.

If you’d like to share your tricks of the trade with other Small Boats Monthly readers,  send us an email.

Shinto Rasps

Shinto's Planer Saw Rasp (top) and 9" Saw Raspphotographs by the author

Shinto’s Planer Saw Rasp (top) and 9″ Saw Rasp

Over the years I’ve gathered up a lot of rasps, usually with high hopes that their shark-like rows of teeth would cut through wood with ease, but none did much more than gnaw. I’d never grown fond of any rasp until I bought a Shinto Planer Saw Rasp. It’s just as effective rounding the tip of a dory’s oak stem as it is fine-tuning spruce tenons for a Greenland kayak. While I’ve always just accepted that the Shinto works well, I’d never taken a really close look to see why. At first glance it looks nothing like an ordinary rasp. Instead of being a bar of gray steel with rows of teeth, the Shinto is a lattice of what appear to be wavy hacksaw blades.

The lattice design helps to prevent clogging, not so much because the open structure provides space for the wood debris—most of that gets pushed away with every stroke—but because the teeth aren’t in rows. It’s easy to push one person off a chair; difficult to shove a row of congregants off a pew. The vast majority of the teeth on the Shinto are loners, like the single person on a chair. There are some shoulder-to-shoulder pairs where the blades touch and that’s where little bits of material get stuck. Compare that to an ordinary rasp where the clogs accumulate in the rows.

The machine-cut teeth of this rasp curve up on the back side to the cutting edge, creating a point of contact that is nearly parallel to the work.

The machine-cut teeth of this rasp curve up on the back side to the cutting edge, creating a point of contact that is nearly parallel to the work and making it difficult for the rasp to engage the wood.

The teeth of an ordinary rasp are gouged up from the metal’s surface, each having a little triangular hollow in front of its cutting face. You can see that the tool that made the groove had a sharp point, but the teeth it creates are not themselves pointed, even on expensive hand-made rasps. Instead they’re shaped a bit like Half Dome in Yosemite—a rounded mound with a flat vertical face. The teeth of some machine-made rasps have another thing in common with Half Dome: The edge of its sheer face isn’t quite at the summit, and engaging similarly shaped rasp teeth in wood requires a lot of pressure.

This machine-cut tooth's cutting edge doesn't make direct contact with the work.

The rounded high point of this machine-cut rasp tooth, not its cutting edge, is what makes contact with the work.

 

The teeth on the round rasp are poorly tempered and have bent away from the work.

The teeth on my round rasp are poorly tempered and have bent away from the work.

The Shinto’s teeth are cut, evidently, as they are in hacksaw blades, with a mill grinder—a rotary cutter that moves across blade blanks and cuts all of the teeth in one pass. The front face of each tooth is vertical and the cutting edge across the top is straight, just like the teeth of a ripsaw. The backside of each tooth slopes directly away so there’s nothing to keep the cutting edge from biting in. The teeth are well tempered and make quick work of brass, aluminum and even steel—as you’d expect of hacksaw blades—but I prefer to extend the life of my Shinto tools by using them only on wood.

The teeth of the Shinto saw rasp have straight cutting edges, all parallel with each other for a smooth cut. These are the teeth on the coarse side.

The teeth of the Shinto Saw Rasp have straight cutting edges, all parallel with each other for a smooth cut. These are the teeth on the coarse side.

 

Shinto teeth on the fine side

These are the teeth on the fine side of the Shinto Saw Rasp. The teeth in the center of the image are at the contact point between two blades. Staggered, they don’t get clogged.

The sides of the Shinto rasps aren’t straight; they curve in a bit at the rivets that hold the blades together. (The blades aren’t welded where they contact each other.) The concavity at the rivets “buries” their heads so the rasp can be worked into the corner of a right angle.

I have several common rasps with smooth sides that can also be worked in a corner, but the teeth on the working faces of those rasps don’t extend fully to the edge and leave a ridge of material that has to be removed with some other tool. The Shinto has a full complement of teeth right up the edge. Those outside teeth are ground back at a bevel, a special operation done only on the two outside blades, so there must have been a reason to add the extra step in the manufacturing. In a right-angle tenon the bevel would leave a fillet of wood just 3/100” wide, which is hardly worth fussing over, but in an obtuse angle, like the beveled shoulders of the tenons I cut for Greenland kayaks, the Shinto won’t cut an unwanted groove in the apex.

Shinto rasps come in two styles. The Saw Rasp has a handle in line with the cutting surfaces and the Planer Saw Rasp has an offset handle. The offset handle allows work in the middle of large flat surfaces and is removable, so you can switch between the coarse side and the fine. My Planer Saw Rasp came with a knob extending forward for my other hand, but I removed it, preferring to have my left hand on the back of the rasp itself for a better feel for the work.

The Shinto does faster and smoother cutting with less effort than with a common rasp. Because its teeth aren’t aligned in rows you don’t have to angle the tool to keep it from getting hung up. Pushing a common rasp’s rows of teeth straight across the edge of a board is like negotiating a flight of stairs with a hand truck. The Shinto rasps leave a noticeably smoother surface when worked with the grain and excel at working across end grain. Are you fine-tuning the end of an inwale for a perfect fit with a breasthook? The Shinto is the tool for the job. I’ve had my Shinto Planer Saw Rasp for at least a decade, maybe 15 years, and it still has plenty of bite and remains a pleasure to use. My other rasps? They’re under a blanket of dust waiting for me to brush their teeth.

Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats Monthly.

Shinto rasps are available from the WoodenBoat Store,  woodworking stores and web sites.

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.

A Diminutive Fantail Launch

The deck is strip-built, alternating western red cedar with white pine; the trim is walnut.photographs and video by Sandy MacKenzie

The deck is strip-built, alternating western red cedar with white pine; the trim is walnut.

Sandy MacKenzie lives in Gananoque, Ontario, just a few blocks from the banks of the St. Lawrence River. He enjoys fishing from kayaks, but putting his fishing rod down to pick up the paddle began to wear on him. He scouted about, without success, for plans for a canoe or a kayak with pedal or electric power that would leave his hands free for fishing. He had built a few kayaks and felt confident in his boatbuilding abilities, so he decided to take a chance on coming up with a design himself, something quite different from anything he’d seen.

Using balsa-wood strips and working by trial and error, Sandy arrived at the shape of his mini-launch.

Using balsa-wood strips and working by trial and error, Sandy arrived at the shape of his mini-launch.

He had always admired the lines of fantail launches and embarked on an experiment to create one as the size of a paddling craft, but with the eye appeal of a launch. The overall dimensions were determined by other existing small boats, which assured him that a 10′ 7″ by 2′ 4″ mini-launch would support his weight and the boat’s outfitting. He “sketched” the boat in three dimensions by constructing a 1:8 scale model, planking it with strips of balsa wood and adjusting the shape as he went. Designing with a model is traditionally done by carving a half hull from a block of wood, but that involves a lot of wood chips, which is okay in the shop, but not in the living room where Sandy could work in more comfort. When he had the model shaped to his satisfaction he derived six stations from it, and scaled them up to make the molds on which he’d build the boat.

Unsure if the finished results of his experiment would be worth keeping, Sandy didn’t buy a new batch of cedar strips, but instead used white-cedar strips he’d culled from the stock used for other kayaks he’d built. Like most fantail launches, the hull of this new boat would be painted anyway, and the worst of the knotty subpar strips would be used where they would be hidden from view in the bright-finished interior.

The mini-launch's seat was inspired by Adirondack chairs.

The mini-launch’s seat was inspired by Adirondack chairs.

It took Sandy only two days to strip the hull. Then came a layer of 6-oz fiberglass cloth and a skeg scribed to fit the stern. The seat and backrest, to be finished bright, weren’t so easy to make and consumed countless hours.

The electric motor fits a well initially intended for a pedal-drive unit. Latches fixed to the well keep the motor locked in place.

The electric motor fits a well initially intended for a pedal-drive unit. Latches fixed to the well keep the motor locked in place.

Sandy outfitted the hull with a custom “motorwell” to take a Hobie Mirage drive—a pedal-powered device designed for sit-on-top kayaks. Its oscillating pedals power two flexible fins beneath the hull, propelling the boat like penguin wings. Unfortunately, sea trials revealed that the spoon-shaped stern was pulled down when the boat was pedaled up to speed. Moving the seat and the drive-unit receptacle forward might have solved the problem, but there wasn’t enough length in the boat to make that adjustment. Fortunately, Torqeedo makes an electric power unit, the Hobie evolve, designed to fit in receivers for Mirage drives. Sandy could move the seat forward to solve the trim problem and leave the drive mount in the same place.

Sandy christened the boat O’SEA DEE, a nod to the inordinate amount of time and obsessive fussing he had invested in such a small boat. His little launch cruises comfortably at 4 knots and can do 6 at full throttle. The stern still squats at top speed, but not nearly as badly as it did. As for the fishing that O’SEA DEE was designed to accommodate, “trolling with the motor,” he says, “is a dream.” It has a distinct advantage over the pedal drive in that it has reverse, so Sandy has all the maneuverability he needs to pursue fish.

As fall comes to a close, Sandy still takes O’SEA DEE out on the St. Lawrence River exploring the clusters of islands surrounding Gananoque and “jigging for pickerel and small-mouth bass in deep water where there isn’t much boat traffic,” he says. “If I’m not catching anything, I’m thinking about the next design.”

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.

SCAMP

Never mind that until grounding on a mudflat less than 30 miles from the finish line, SCAMP #4 breezed through a difficult year in the 300-mile Everglades Challenge adventure race a few years ago, pressing on comfortably when many bigger boats had to quit. Never mind that during the inaugural Race to Alaska earlier this year, SCAMP #11 completed a very rough 40-mile open-water crossing of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, taking its solo skipper safely from Port Townsend, Washington, to Victoria, British Columbia. And never mind that yet another SCAMP (extensively modified for the venture by its builder) may attempt to round Cape Horn—yes, that Cape Horn—this year and, if successful, will be the smallest sailboat ever to do so. Despite all that, the overwhelming impression I get when Dave Ender drives up with his newly built SCAMP to take me sailing is: What a cute little boat.

The buoyancy of the blunt pram bow resists digging in while running downwind and reduces the likelihood of broaching.photographs and video by the author

The buoyancy of the blunt pram bow resists digging in while running downwind and reduces the likelihood of broaching.

SCAMP is short, curvy, beamy, and high-sided, with a well-rockered flat bottom and a distinctive pram bow—a cross between a bulldog, a basketball, and an angry rubber duck. It’s also one of the easiest-launching boats I’ve ever encountered. I barely had time to grab my gear before Ender had the boat rigged and ready: mast stepped, sail hoisted, and rudder hung on the transom. He backed the trailer into the water and shoved SCAMP off. Less than 10 minutes from arrival and it was time to sail.

Josh Colvin, who commissioned SCAMP—an acronym for Small Craft Advisor Magazine Project—wasn’t looking for an ultimate adventure boat when he approached New Zealand designer John Welsford (see WB No. 225 for a profile on Welsford and his design work). “My initial goals for the boat were based largely on a 150-mile sail down the Columbia River, from Beacon Rock to Astoria,” Colvin says. “I kept coming across backwaters and shallow estuarine areas and thinking, That’s where I really want to go, but my 16-footer was too deep, wasn’t easy to row, and if I wanted to overnight up among the reeds, wouldn’t dry out level if the tide left. So the idea I eventually took to John Welsford was for the smallest possible boat that would be able to do all of these things, but still be seaworthy enough to cope with something like the middle of the Columbia River on a breezy afternoon.”

Judging by SCAMP’s popularity among amateur builders—roughly 340 kits or plan sets have been sold since 2011, with about 60 boats launched—plenty of other people are interested, too. Designer John Welsford sees SCAMP as a sort of 21st-century version of a much-loved classic, the Mirror dinghy. “While we don’t expect to do anywhere near as many boats,” Welsford says, “it’s hitting a similar, but older market.” Along the way, SCAMP has fostered an enthusiastic and supportive community of builders and owners, encouraging new builders to take the plunge.

The SCAMPS's 100-sq-ft sail is set high for good visibility under the boom and is easily reefed.

The SCAMPS’s 100-sq-ft sail is set high for good visibility under the boom and is easily reefed.

To bring the new design to life, Welsford was able to make good use of his previous experimentation with similar boats. “SCAMP is number six in a series of very beamy, shallow-bodied boats with that distinctive high-positioned pram bow,” Welsford says. “Tender Behind, Tread Lightly, and Sherpa are the other designs that made it to plans. All work really well, can carry huge loads for their size, sail well, and are well balanced. I learned something from each of them, and SCAMP is a result of that learning.” Besides Welsford, boatbuilder/designer Kees Prins of Port Townsend, Brandon Davis of Turnpoint Design, and adventurer/prototype tester Howard Rice all contributed to final design details and kit elements for SCAMP.

SCAMP is built upright on its flat bottom, which serves as the base for an egg-crate arrangement of plywood that forms the boat’s furniture and structural members. No temporary molds or frames are used. It’s a method that makes for an exceptionally stiff hull, and a safe one—the completed “boxes” create six entirely separate buoyancy chambers within the glued-plywood lapstrake hull. Welsford reports that one SCAMP was able to remain comfortably afloat despite suffering “a hole in the side that you could put your head through” after hitting a snag. And although there are plenty of parts to assemble when building a SCAMP, no single step requires more than moderate woodworking skills and a selection of basic tools.

 

SCAMP is rigged with a single balanced lugsail, an excellent choice for a cruising rig that’s simple to handle and easy to reef. With 100 sq ft of sail and the stability to stand up to it, the boat also performs well. On my second sail in a SCAMP, working to windward on a gusty day, I was able to keep ahead of a 21′ Sea Pearl for several miles. SCAMP’s shallow draft and flat bottom make it a perfect gunkholer, and 173 lbs of water ballast (roughly 40 percent of the total hull weight) make it capable of much more. It’s no pulling boat, but SCAMP won’t be too difficult to move under oars when necessary. Some builders have considered experimenting with a single sculling oar at the transom; Dave Ender plans to try a yuloh. There’s room to mount a small outboard on the transom for backup propulsion.

Builders have the choice of building from plans or from a kit, with custom sails and hardware available for purchase. Another popular option for builders is the SCAMP Camp, a two-week intensive class in which participants come together to assemble their own SCAMP kits under the direction of designer John Welsford and prototype tester Howard Rice.

One unintended feature of the design deserves mention: several SCAMP builders I have met describe the boat as “a chick magnet,” and from my own observations at various messabouts and festivals, I’d say that such a claim is closer to reality than to hype. For potential builders with wives or girlfriends reluctant to take up sailing, this might be the single biggest advantage SCAMP has to offer.

A kick-up rudder allows sailing in shallow water and twin skegs help the SCAMP sit solidly upright when grounded.

A kick-up rudder allows sailing in shallow water and twin skegs help the SCAMP sit solidly upright when grounded.

 

Back aboard Dave Ender’s Scamp, we were away from the dock with an easy shove, heading across Lake Pepin, a wide stretch of the Mississippi that’s often subject to strong winds sweeping down between tall bluffs. Dave filled the ballast tank under the cockpit sole. With the drain holes open, the tank floods itself almost completely; the top of the tank is a few inches above the waterline, so must be topped off by replacing the plugs and pouring water in with a bucket from the cockpit before sealing. He could pour water in quickly without worrying about spilling or overflowing: The excess water drains out of the cockpit’s scuppers. With the water ballast in, we soon shook out the reef we started with, and Dave put me at the tiller. It was a windy day, but even under full sail we continued on in perfect comfort. SCAMP may be a small boat, but it’s the biggest small boat I’ve ever sailed. In fact, it’s almost impossible to categorize SCAMP by size. It weighs just over 400 lbs empty, but has the cockpit and freeboard of a 20′ keelboat (in fact, the freeboard is so high that reboarding the boat without a pre-rigged foot stirrup or rudder step would be problematic). It’s easy to drag up a SCAMP onto a beach for a quick stop ashore, yet filling the ballast tank adds stability well beyond the reach of a typical small boat. The self-draining cockpit sits high enough above the water that you feel like you’re aboard a much bigger boat—yet SCAMP is extremely maneuverable, tacking easily and spinning around within its own length like the smallest dinghy.

While it performs well enough to keep experienced sailors interested—Dave and I kept pace with several much bigger keelboats without much trouble—SCAMP would also be a great boat for beginners to learn on. The balanced lug makes tacking or jibing very simple and stress-free; lazyjacks hold the sail and boom securely in place, making reefing easy once the lines and cleats are set up; the boat is stable and comfortable. And it’s pure fun to sail. The only thing that I needed some time to get used to was being so far from the water compared to the sail-and-oar boats I usually sail. Of course, that higher freeboard and greater volume help make it easy to recover from a capsize (see the video below). By the time Dave and I returned to the dock, I was reminded again of just how much I like this design, and how much it can do.

The diminutive SCAMP is easily trailered, rigged, and launched.

The diminutive SCAMP is easily trailered, rigged, and launched.

With its quick launching capabilities, SCAMP would work well as a family-friendly daysailer. There is space enough for four adults in relative comfort (three is better; two is luxurious), and the boat’s stability makes it a comfortable ride even for the elderly and infirm, young children, or passengers who might simply be a bit nervous around boats. The boom is high overhead, minimizing the risk of hitting an inexperienced passenger, and the seats are wide and comfortable.

Cruising solo or two-up is where SCAMP really shines. The 8′3″ x 29″ cockpit sole provides ample space for one person to sleep aboard very comfortably (the offset centerboard is hidden in the starboard seat face), and filler planks between seats can be used to create a double bunk. The benches themselves (6′8″ by 17.5″) offer a place to stretch out but aren’t quite wide enough for sleeping. There is plenty of stowage space under the seats and cockpit. The “veranda” (a small cuddy/locker at the forward end of the cockpit) provides additional stowage, sitting headroom, and shelter from the wind, as well as a convenient place to anchor the forward edge of a cockpit tent. Forward of the veranda’s bulkhead there are 8.5 cubic feet of sealed stowage that provide extra buoyancy well above the waterline, just where it would be most useful in a knockdown. And of course, like all small boats, a SCAMP can easily travel to windward at 60 mph, pulled on a small lightweight trailer by a small four-cylinder car.

All in all, SCAMP is an unusual boat—an odd duck, both in appearance, and in its strange synthesis of big and small. It’s part keelboat, part dinghy, and part semi-eccentric fashion statement. Make no mistake, though; SCAMP is plenty of boat, wherever your interests lie. Anyone who builds one will definitely find plenty of ways to use it, and plenty of people to use it with. And that, after all, is the point of having a boat in the first place.

Tom Pamperin (www.tompamperin.com) is a frequent contributor to Small Boats Monthly and WoodenBoat.

SCAMP Particulars

[table]

LOA/11′11″
Beam/5′4″

Draft (board up)/7″
Weight (including rig)/420 lbs
Water ballast/173 lbs

[/table]

SCAMPSAILPLAN

SCAMPlinesCCPS

Plans and information are available from Small Craft Advisor. Their YouTube channel has several videos featuring the SCAMP, including a capsize trial with Howard Rice, below.

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!

The Caracal

Arey’s Pond is a green, bowl-shaped jewel, one of several ponds in Orleans, Massachusetts, that give access, through narrow, winding waterways, to Little Pleasant Bay and, just to the south, Pleasant Bay itself. The pond is covered with various examples of that boat type most indigenous to Cape Cod, the catboat. There are good reasons for this. A wise adage worth remembering when boat shopping admonishes: “Get a boat suitable for your local waters.” On Cape Cod, that means shallow waters, sand bars, and, often enough in the afternoon, a brisk southwesterly wind. Catboats were born for this environment.

Tony Davis, proprietor of Arey’s Pond Boat Yard, has been building well-regarded catboats since the late 1990s. Today, his offerings range in size from 12′ to 22′, and there are enough models that one might think every potential customer’s needs would be met. But that assumption would be incorrect. “The couple who commissioned the Caracal’s design,” Davis said, “wanted a boat suitable for themselves and a crowd of kids. But they found nothing available that combined the really big cockpit necessary with a small cuddy that provided space for a portable toilet and room to take a nap.”

The head, a portable toilet, is concealed by a cover and topped with a cushion.all photographs by the author

The head, a portable toilet, is concealed by a fabric cover and topped with a cushion.

Thus was born a new model that Davis named for the caracal, a small, fleet-of-foot wildcat native to Africa and points east. As Davis probed the buyers’ preferences, a number of requirements emerged that would influence the design. “I asked if the boat would be primarily a daysailer for Pleasant Bay or whether it would also be going to the Vineyard.” The “Vineyard” is Martha’s Vineyard, the popular Massachusetts offshore island, and getting there would require a higher level of seakeeping ability than would Pleasant Bay. “The answer,” said Davis, “was ‘Pleasant Bay.’ I asked if they might sometime want to start racing. The answer was ‘yes.’ I asked how many people the cockpit must seat. The answer was ‘six to eight.’”

The long cockpit provides seating for up to eight adults.

The long cockpit provides ample seating for up to eight adults.

With those questions answered, Davis began the design process in September 2013. As it happened, he’d been thinking about just such a boat—a daysailer for Pleasant Bay—for quite some time. Years earlier, he had “sharpened up the bow” on the popular Arey’s Pond 14, and that experience would be reflected now. In catboat terms, “sharpening up” the bow means reducing the traditionally full shape of the forward-most hull sections. That fullness had long been necessary to provide the structure to support a heavy wooden mast. But, knowing the Caracal would doubtless find itself racing against several catboats with comparatively fine, hollow bow sections and an aluminum mast, Davis made a water-slicing, sharp entry a key element of the new model.

 

There were, of course, other considerations. The owners wanted their new boat to have a varnished transom unencumbered by an outboard motor. “I pushed for an inboard electric,” Davis said. The 2 ½-hp Mastervolt motor’s compact dimensions and aft location allowed him to include an appropriately sized—that means big—centerboard. Such a centerboard is key to a catboat’s windward performance. “We got the board the right size and located it exactly where we wanted,” said Davis. “Especially when reefing, which moves the sail’s center-of-effort forward, the board needs plenty of surface area to help maintain performance and balance.” (The boat’s 24-volt lithium-ion battery, incidentally, is located in a sealed, portside cockpit locker just forward of amidships.)

The big centerboard would work hand-in-hand with the Caracal’s comparatively large 290-sq-ft sail. “I asked the owners if they would be okay with having a big sail to drive the boat well in light air, even if it meant putting in the first reef at around 8 to 10 knots of wind. They agreed.”

Although a 290-sq-ft sail on a 19′ catboat might impress sailors today as large and daunting to handle, it would have seemed quite normal or even a bit small to catboat sailors of the late 19th and early 20th century. That said, Caracal’s 12-degree angle of the fully peaked gaff, though comparable to many modern catboats, would have been unusual in the past. Then, gaffs were peaked noticeably lower.

The 290-sq-ft sail provides good performance in light air; the first reef goes in at 8 to 10 knots of wind.

The 290-sq-ft sail provides good performance in light air; the first reef goes in at 8 to 10 knots of wind.

The result of a high-peaked gaff is improved windward ability. However, such gaffs impose challenges when it comes to how well they function as the boat moves from one tack to another. Caracal meets the challenge with a nicely crafted gaff saddle rather than jaws. It lies flush—some saddles may occasionally tip and bind—and functions smoothly as the boat comes about. A custom bronze gooseneck serves as the mount for the halyard and topping-lift blocks, and locates them well away from the mast. This means that the throat and peak halyards and topping lift don’t cause friction on the mast hoops as the sail is raised and lowered. These are all small but important matters vital to the satisfaction and even safety of catboat sailing.

While the Caracal's rudder looks like a typical catboat rudder, it has a horizontal plate along its bottom edge to keep it performing well when the boat is heeled.

While the Caracal’s rudder looks like a typical catboat rudder, it has a horizontal plate along its bottom edge to keep it performing well when the boat is heeled.

Caracal is equipped with the transom-hung “barn door” rudder typical of most catboats, then or now. “Rudder design is so critical,” said Davis. “Too small and the boat gets squirrelly. Too big and it drags.” Caracal’s rudder has an endplate along its bottom, a feature long advocated by designer Phil Bolger as a way to add area and maintain good steering performance as a boat heels. Davis has found the end plate effective in terms of steering performance while also reducing turbulence.

Davis’s design process begins with hand-drawn hull lines that are later transferred to a computer-aided design program for final development. Although Caracal was initially anticipated to be an 18-footer, as Davis worked on his drawings, he found it necessary to extend the hull by a foot in order to gain the flowing underwater lines he desired. In addition to performance considerations, Davis had aesthetics very much in mind as he developed the boat’s shape. “The hull was totally an artistic adventure,” he said. “I didn’t want the boat to look similar to the competition, for one thing.”

In fact, Caracal is quite distinctive. Unlike the near-vertical stems most commonly seen on catboats, Caracal’s stem curves aft, forming a canoe-like shape evocative of many 19th-century catboats. With much refinement, Davis came up with a handsome sheer line that sweeps from the not overly high bow to the transom. The cockpit coaming is high without looking awkward. Combined with the deep cockpit, the coaming affords a great sense of security, whether for adults or kids. The little cabin’s top has a generous crown to maximize headroom.

 

Caracal is built of interlocking pine strips over laminated fir frames spaced on 2′ centers with additional frames installed in the forward and aft hull sections for extra strength. Once the hull is planked, it receives a layer of fiberglass inside and out. Finally, two layers of Dynel fabric are applied to the bottom for extra protection in case of grounding. An Awlcraft paint finish is applied; it offers the durability of Awlgrip but is applied by roller rather than by spraying.

Although about half of Arey’s Pond catboats have carbon-fiber masts to minimize weight at the bow, Caracal’s owners opted for a hollow spruce mast. That said, Davis reports that material prices and labor costs are approaching the point where carbon fiber is becoming competitive with a hollow wooden spar.

The spacious cockpit provides a table alongside the centerboard, a chart table topping the housing for the electric motor, and drink holders sewn into the cushions.

The spacious cockpit is equipped with hinged tables on both sides of the centerboard trunk, a chart table topping the housing for the electric motor, and drink holders sewn into the cushions.

While one would expect the cockpit of a 19′ catboat with a minimal cabin to be large, one really needs to go aboard Caracal to see just how much room there is. It’s a comfy place and there is ample storage beneath the long seats. There’s a centerboard trunk-mounted table and cup holders. A cup holder is also built into the cockpit cushions on either side of the helm. What a concept!

A convenient chart holder was fashioned atop the motor hatch. The coaming’s interior is sheathed in vertical staving reminiscent of catboats of yore, and adds a very definite “wow factor” to the boat. A full cockpit cover keeps out rain—the cockpit isn’t self-bailing—while protecting the varnished woodwork. Bronze cleats and a stout tiller complete the sense of having a boat with strong ties to a storied past.

 

Typical of catboats, Caracal feels substantial when one steps aboard. A first and lasting impression at the tiller is that the boat feels bigger than its actual length. On the day of our test sail, the wind, alas, fell light. However, this 2,400-lb catboat can make progress in light air thanks in large part to her fine bow sections and big sail.

Perhaps the most revealing display of the boat’s potential came at the 2014 Arey’s Pond Catboat Gathering, an event that attracted an impressive 102-boat field. The race was sailed in a 10-knot wind, a perfect whole-sail breeze for Caracal. The boat placed first overall against some very competently handled, fast catboats.

“Well,” Davis said, “it was a good test but not the same as an around-the-buoys race because there was more chance for a boat to get into bad air while others did not.” Still, for those considering a Caracal who might be interested in racing, it was a result—like the boat itself—to be reckoned with.

Stan Grayson is a regular contributor to WoodenBoat.

Caracal Particulars

[table]

LOA/18′9″
Beam/8′7″
Weight/2,400 lbs
Draft, board up/19″

Draft, board down/4′6″

Sail area/290 sq ft

[/table]

CaracalLines

Arey’s Pond Boat Yard builds the Caracal , priced at $97,000 (as of 10/2022).

Included on their web page devoted to the Caracal is the video below, showing the Caracal under construction and under sail:

 

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!

The Boat, the Boy, and Baja

Bands go on the road; mom/artist types with a kid in tow usually do not. But I sorely needed to look at life from a different vantage point, and to reconnect with beau and babe in a not so 9-to-5 way. So we cut through all of the excuses not to, and went off adventuring.

There was, of course, a year of planning and waiting while the mountain of anchors and spare tires and expired safety flares grew in the garage. But on a rainy, windy November day we hitched FIG, our 15′ skiff, behind IDA, our unpredictable ’69 Chevy van, and rolled away from Seattle, headed for Mexican skies and the Sea of Cortez. The windshield wipers quit about an hour into the rainstorm. But, hey, we were going to Mexico, so a little Rainex and we carried on.

On our way south we killed off our Seattle mossyness with some climbing in the boulders of Lone Pine, California, at the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Our boat generated many strange glances in the high country.Joe Talbert

On our way south we killed off our Seattle mossyness with some climbing in the boulders of Lone Pine, California, at the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Our boat generated many strange glances in the high country.

We trundled FIG along up desert dirt roads, parking among chalk-smudged climbing boulders and next to hidden hot springs. She got to wet down briefly, and only after rigorous inspection, in the great blue waters of Lake Tahoe, and later, after a flash rainstorm, became the only boat that ever needed to be bailed in Joshua Tree National Park. At one point FIG found herself feeling underdressed in the parking lot of a swanky Palm Springs hotel, but then finally, finally, made it over the Mexican border, and to the sea.

We were calling it my son Ely’s gap year. He’s a September birthday so he didn’t make the cutoff for kindergarten, but he had done a few years of preschool already, so why not take him on the road before there were school secretaries to give you the stink-eye about family trips and soccer games that can’t be missed?

Our plan was to put in just south of Puerto Escondido at a little empty beach, and then I’d wait with the boy while my husband Joe drove overland to Todos Santos to leave IDA and trailer in a friend’s yard for the duration and take the bus back to us. He left early, and Ely and I were alone with our boat on the sand and our tent in the bushes.

After a long drive south, I stole a moment to sketch our first contact with the sea. There was still a lot of bumping along crazy Mexican roads to do, but the dramatic scene was cause for celebration.Hannah Viano

After a long drive south, I stole a moment to sketch our first contact with the sea. There was still a lot of bumping along crazy Mexican roads to do, but the dramatic scene was cause for celebration.

The beach was scattered with sweet retirees in campers and RVs. Some of them had run to our aid, unbidden, when we got the van stuck in the sand while launching FIG. Word of our story and our plans had spread, and many folks swung by to offer help and let us know we could come on over if we had any trouble. The only trouble was a rogue bed-wetting incident on our first night in the sleeping bag sack system. Aarghhhhh. That and the near heart attack I had when Joe stumbled in at 3:00 a.m., having made great time and walked the last few miles.

Loaded to the gills, our little FIG still had plenty of freeboard but no free cockpit sole to speak of. As the coastline we intended to sail had only small villages, we packed most of the food we needed for the entire trip, with stops for beer and water when available. Sticking out over the gunnels are the custom bronze pieces that the leeboards slide onto. They are then screwed down tight with a small handle that we miraculously managed to avoid dropping in the sea.Joe Talbert

Loaded to the gills, our little FIG still had plenty of freeboard but no free cockpit sole to speak of. As the coastline we intended to sail had only small villages, we packed most of the food we needed for the entire trip, with stops for beer and water when available. Sticking out over the gunnels are the custom bronze pieces that the leeboards slide onto. They are then screwed down tight with small handles that we miraculously managed to avoid dropping in the sea.

We pushed the boat down to the water and started piling the gear in. And piling, and tucking, and before we knew it there was almost no place for three bodies to sit. There was camping stuff, cooking stuff, fishing stuff, food for a few weeks and water for one week, even a small guitar and toys. Though in this mess the teensy dry bag that I told Ely was his allotted space for toys made me laugh. He had done great at packing to fit; Joe and I, it seemed, had not done quite as well.

Anyway, it was all in there, and the neighbors were trying to give us more stuff every minute so we needed to get off the beach. You know that feeling when there is momentum started and you just need to keep going, or it feels like you will never be able to get rolling again? Even after we were finally loaded, they were calling out more things that we needed to have.

Furling sail after riding the surf in on our first day out, I looked at the wind driven waves and wondered what conditions were to come. We had scheduled the voyage around our outside lives and responsibilities rather than weather patterns, but later locals all agreed that December was notoriously windy in the Sea of Cortez.Joe Talbert

Furling sail after riding the surf in on our first day out, I looked at the wind driven waves and wondered what conditions were to come. We had scheduled the voyage around our outside lives and responsibilities rather than weather patterns, but later locals all agreed that December was notoriously windy in the Sea of Cortez.

With the wind up we were soon screaming off along the beach. Our goal was a small cove, only a few miles down the way but well away from the road and neighbors. At one point we thought landing on the lee side of a small islet might prove smarter than taking a chance with waves breaking on our intended beach, but that option didn’t pan out and we did our first of many high-action surf landings. We threaded the needle between rocks and landed with all our gear still aboard. Ely immediately got naked and ran around looking for prize sticks and chasing seagulls.

After a beach landing, Ely would always leap out and run off to splash in the waves while we used our inflatable fenders to roll the boat up beyond the tide line. The fenders proved to be some of our most crucial pieces of gear.Joe Talbert

After a beach landing, Ely would always leap out and run off to splash in the waves while we used our inflatable fenders to roll the boat up beyond the tide line. The fenders proved to be some of our most crucial pieces of gear.

Our first time getting FIG up the beach, we realized that almost everything had to be removed in order for us to roll her on the fenders up above the tideline. We got better at this over time, and one person would jump out of the boat prepared to stand in waist-deep waves and hold FIG in place while the other shuttled back and forth with leeboards, mast, dry bags, water bags, etc., etc.

The weather in those first days was a fluky mix, with much wind at times and smaller breezes that seemed to change direction on a whim. We’d later come to recognize patterns, important because after getting beyond radio range of Puerto Escondido there were no weather forecasts to be had.

Ely’s toy bag was tiny but he never had a shortage of interesting things to play with. During a windy layover we all helped put together this exotic waterfront shack.Hannah Viano

Ely’s toy bag was tiny but he never had a shortage of interesting things to play with. During a windy layover we all helped put together this exotic waterfront shack.

After leaving an idyllic beach and tearing into a much less idyllic, rocky one the previous day, we were motivated to find a better spot, and when dawn broke calm, we saw our chance. We pushed out, and the swell that had risen up the day before was greasy smooth. A bunch of dolphins swam with us and then, in an odd and ominous way, headed in the opposite direction. Hmm. Two hours later the wind and swell built too much and we were sailing on a fast and furious broad reach toward a distant shore that seemed to have huge waves washing up on it. The only other option was to clear the point at the end of that beach and try to tuck into the teensy bit of protection that might have been had on its far side. This point was the lee shore of all lee shores, a tall ochre-bluffed peninsula that tapered out into a gnarly black rock cliff and barely connected islets strewn with jagged rocks.

Needless to say, we put on our life jackets. The ditch kit was close to hand and those hands were clamped tightly on the tiller and the sheet. FIG has a simple setup for sailing without much in the way of mechanical advantage. The sheet usually leads to a pin in the thwart, though it was around the thwart now, and back to Joe amidships so he could be near Ely. This child has an awesome ability to know when a situation is intense and just hunker down. Had he been the squally, panicky type we could have been in serious danger, but instead he was curled up in his life jacket, tucked under a sheltering yoga mat and possibly even asleep.

Basic RGB

By now we had made the precarious removal of the sprit, which meant a weighty adult had to go all the way out on the bow—not what we wanted to do in this downwind, following-sea situation, but we did it. Luckily, clearing the point was no problem, and with the wind at our stern, we just held our breath that the waves would treat us well. Joe and I were at odds about when to take in the sail. I wanted all speed possible to get us out of the waves before we took a big one; I was at the helm so we held out a bit longer and then struck the sail. We still had quite a bit of speed on with just the bare pole. We got the oars out as we cleared the point and headed for the closest bit of sand. When we finally got into a tiny bit of lee and had our four oars in the water, we breathed a little more deeply, but only until we saw a couple of menacing black fins flick in the water next to the boat. They were not too big, but it seems they wanted us to know they had their eyes on us.

As we neared the bit of sand we could see it was rocky. There was another beach in a notch at the base of the point, but it was upwind and tiny. The rocks and big surf we were approaching were definitely bad so we put our backs into the rowing, and fought our way upwind to the other beach. We made it and it was indeed a mere scrap of protection. We pulled FIG up as far as we could and sat slumped in the lee of the hull, cold and questioning our parenting choices. Ely was frolicking at this point, while we took a couple swigs from our tiny emergency flask and toasted: “To being lucky this time and smarter the next!”

From our planned launch site tucked in the bushes we could just see the masts of the yachts in the protected harbor nearby, and it was an exciting reminder that our voyage was a very different sort of cruising.Joe Talbert

From our planned launch site tucked in the bushes we could just see the masts of the yachts in the protected harbor nearby, and it was an exciting reminder that our voyage was a very different sort of cruising.

 

We ended up stuck on that bit of beach near Punta San Telmo for five days, with winds out on the water in excess of 40 knots and huge waves rolling even into our protected notch. As the seas built and the full-moon tides rose higher and higher, we moved our tent and the boat up and up until we hit the wall of the bluff. After a few days of lounging and lovely hikes among the desert wildflowers, we walked over to a fisherman’s house that we’d spotted from the boat. Our conversation was in stilted Spanish, but we came away with water and homemade cheese and little old abuela’s fresh tortillas. The tortillas looked so amazing we scurried only a short distance down the trail before sitting in the dirt to devour some.

Camping on the beach our two challenges were wind and sand. And, of course, wind-driven sand. One positive of unloading so much gear from the boat every day was that we could make a windbreak wall with our drybags and other gear.Hannah Viano

Camping on the beach our two challenges were wind and sand. And, of course, wind-driven sand. One positive of unloading so much gear from the boat every day was that we could make a windbreak wall with our drybags and other gear.

 

On our last day at the little cove we hiked to the south to check out a more welcoming anchorage we had seen on the map, a photocopy of a road atlas that turned out to be the most accurate of the various references we’d found. While we were eating lunch on the beach, in sailed some folks on a small wooden sloop. We had met them earlier in the trip and they swam ashore to chat, bringing news that the weather forecast was looking up.

The boat’s leeboards often did double duty as galley tables. After a few years trying to fall in love with them in their role as an alternative to a centerboard, I still like them best as furniture.Hannah Viano

The boat’s leeboards often did double duty as galley tables. After a few years trying to fall in love with them in their role as an alternative to a centerboard, I still like them best as furniture.

For the last week we had been scanning the horizon and checking the radio in hopes of connecting with some Seattle friends who had bought a beach catamaran (in Loreto, via Craigslist, sight unseen) and flown down with epoxy and extra line, ready to sail down the coast hoping to cross our path. We assumed that with all of the wind they’d be far ahead by now, but then as we sat on the beach finishing our tuna and crackers, we spotted a sail a ways offshore. It was a small colorful sail, such as a beach cat might have. There were few small-boat cruisers in these parts, so we assumed it was our friends and jumped up and down screaming and yipping and calling on our handheld.

No reply.

Our friends out on the anchored sloop heard our radio calls and blew their air horn, but the little sail kept right on going.

By now we were all fired up so we raced back overland to our beach. Tiny Ely was a trooper, jogging through the cactus-strewn hillsides on short legs at full speed and then helping as we ran back and forth down the beach to the boat throwing gear aboard. Our beach camp was down in minutes and we were rowing out into the now diminishing swells. It was dusk by then and since we weren’t quite ready to sail on into the dark in the still-large seas, we turned in at the anchorage and dropped our hook next to the sloop for a cramped sleep in the boat with all our gear.

In the morning we woke early, knowing that our last chance to catch our friends was if they had stopped that night in Timbabichi, a small village a few miles along. We rowed four oars for all of we were worth, singing and wishing and hoping as you do when a nice thing has built up in your mind to wondrous proportions.

As we rounded the last headland, it looked as though the beach was empty. Oh, our hearts sank. But no, tucked into the farthest corner of the harbor and already being loaded for travel was the beach cat. HHHHHHOOORAAAY!!!!!!!! Jake and Jean welcomed us with equal whoops and cheers of surprise. They had seen people on the beach, but as they hadn’t seen FIG they assumed we were somewhere far ahead.

Our camp near Punta Ballena typified our overnight stops, with a pebbly beach fading off into fine sand at the base of steep cliffs. It offered an excellent hike up a drainage filled with blooming desert plants.Joe Talbert

Our camp near Punta Ballena typified our overnight stops, with a pebbly beach fading off into fine sand at the base of steep cliffs. It offered an excellent hike up a drainage filled with blooming desert plants.

 

Over the next couple weeks, as rounds of wild weather came and went, we sailed past gorgeous multicolored cliffs and into tucked-away coves. One anchorage in the village of San Juan de la Costa found us wading through the shallow water of a red tide of fish guts for an unfortunate campsite next to the reverse-osmosis plant. Most others were pristine beauties with dorado jumping in the surf at water’s edge.

Eventually, north of La Paz, as the beach tapered off into industry, we spotted our little white van and empty trailer trundling up the dirt road with my father at the wheel. My parents scooped us up and we headed off to a beach-house rendezvous with a bunch of friends and family for Christmas.

The end of an adventure is always bittersweet for me. I want to keep going as much as I want a shower and a hamburger, and I always worry that we might not get another chance to do something like this. It was a long, slow re-entry as we towed the boat back north, wetting our bows one more time in back waters north of Bahia Magdalena to tack gently back and forth across the narrow channel as gray whales made their way slowly past.

Looking south at the black Punta San Telmo that we would later round in adverse conditions. The different colors of the sandstone cliffs continued to amaze us the entire trip, passing from yellow and ochre into greens, whites, and even a stunning violet that was positively otherworldly.Hannah Viano

Looking south at the black Punta San Telmo that we would later round in adverse conditions. The different colors of the sandstone cliffs continued to amaze us the entire trip, passing from yellow and ochre into greens, whites, and even a stunning violet that was positively otherworldly.

FIG ended up staying in Tahoe where our friends had been scheming to purchase our boat should we make it back that way. So she is sailing blue inland waters and nuzzling granite beaches, while we are trying to figure out what the postman has done with the Ness Yawl plans that should be on their way from Iain Oughtred in the Isle of Skye. Ely, when asked, will tell you that he doesn’t like sailing, but when we sold the boat there were tears. “How will we go on another adventure?” he asked. “Don’t worry sweets. We’re working on the next one.”

Hannah Viano is a writer and artist living in Winthrop, Washington, and her adventures have taken her from Ketchikan to Cape Horn. Samples of her work appear on her website: hannahviano.com.

If you have an interesting story to tell about your adventures with a small wooden boat, please email us a brief outline and a few photos.

Square Rigs for Small Boats

I’ve long been fascinated by the ancient square rig. It has been widely acclaimed for its downwind and reaching ability, but the traditional sails were often poor working upwind and required extensive rigging to do so. I wanted to experience what it was like to use the rig, and also to improve on its effectiveness using modern materials and aerodynamic theory. I built several square rigs for canoes and my peapod, and those results were rewarding.

Mike, seated aft and on a broad reach, steering with sheets attached to the lower corners of the sail. A bit of belly or camber in the sail increases its stability, so he has pulled its foot up against the mast and the corners to the rear.Bob Cavenagh

Mike moved his weight aft to steer downwind. A bit of belly or camber in the sail increases its stability, so he has pulled it up against the mast and the clews farther astern, curving the fiberglass batten sewn into the foot.

One simple sail for my canoe was particularly instructive. I made it quickly, just a flat shower curtain with edge reinforcements and a fiberglass bicycle flagpole for a batten, slipped into a sleeve sewn in its foot. It would go downwind and broad-reach as well as the traditional rig’s reputation suggested. My friend Mike tried it out on his beautiful 1937 Peterborough canoe with only a paddle and boat trim for steering.

Downwind, these sails do best when they have some “belly” to contain the wind and minimize eddies curling around, destructively, to the front of the sail. We achieved this by pulling the battened foot of the sail up against the mast, then creating the belly by pulling the sheets further to the rear. We also found that we could pull one corner of the sail snug against the mast, and downward; when we did so the sail could be pulled fore-and-aft and would point higher.

Mike has moved forward to depress the bow, and has pulled the leading edge of the sail down and fairly taut. The batten in the foot adds some control. In this mode he can sail downwind through about 150 degrees with only a paddle for steering and lateral plane. The sail now functions as a standing lug. On my sailing canoe with leeboard and rudder, that angle increases to over 180 degrees, depending on wind strength. A more developed sail with a strong downhaul could prove even better.Bob Cavenagh

Mike  moved forward to depress the bow and steer closer to the wind, and he  has pulled the leading edge of the sail down and fairly taut. The batten in the foot maintains the shape of the sail. In this mode he can sail downwind through about 150 degrees with only a paddle for steering and lateral plane. The sail now functions as a standing lug. On my sailing canoe with leeboard and rudder,that angle increases to over 180 degrees, depending on wind strength. A more refined sail with a strong downhaul could prove even better.

Encouraged, I later built a bigger, carefully designed sail rig for my Gartside Riff catboat, ROSE. I used 4-oz Dacron sailcloth and gave it a lower spar to tension its foot, avoiding the complex rigging of historic ships. ROSE’s unstayed mast lets the sail rotate easily without being hindered by shrouds and stays. This sail is a rectangle slightly wider than it is tall. (Square rig sails came in many shapes and were only occasionally square; the name comes from the sail being hung perpendicular—square—to the mast.) I designed this sail as I would a contemporary balanced lug, with a loose foot, vertical panels, head and foot round, and broad-seamed to make the middle fuller than the top and bottom. The starboard edge is perfectly straight and built to withstand high tension while serving as a lugsail’s luff, while the port edge is hollowed a tiny bit to prevent it stretching and flapping when it’s serving as a lugsail’s leech. I also moved the deepest draft from center to 5 percent toward the starboard edge to give better control in fore-and-aft mode. The loose foot can be tightened for upwind work and loosened for downwind, creating the desired belly. When loosened, the effective center of effort moves back toward the middle of the sail.

.drawing by the author

.

The sail operates in two distinctive modes: across and down wind, with the yard square to the mast, and upwind, with the sail hauled fore-and aft. Going downwind in the square mode, the sail is docile and easy to handle. In the upwind mode, the rig can also work across and downwind, but downwind steering is, as you’d expect of a sail set well outboard to one side of the hull, much more demanding of the skipper.

Reaching in about 12 mph wind, with whitecaps beginning to form. It will soon be time to reef. The upper yard is suspended from a pair of ‘lifts’ that spread load on the spar and also raise the pivot point. The downhaul next to the mast can tension the lower spar as needed and transfers sail thrust to the hull, reducing strain on the pair of sheets attached to the lower corners.Chuck Laudermilch

Reaching in a wind blowing at about 12 mph, with whitecaps beginning to form, it will soon be time to reef. The upper yard is suspended from a pair of ‘lifts’ that spread load on the spar and also raise the pivot point. The downhaul next to the mast can tension the lower spar as needed and transfers sail thrust to the hull, reducing strain on the pair of sheets attached to the lower corners.

A 4:1 downhaul is attached to the center of the lower spar for the square-sail mode, or near the starboard/front edge for lug-sail mode. Either way, this allows the edges to be tensioned, which is essential as it lets the sail develop aerodynamic lift and point higher. The leading-edge tension in fore-and-aft mode is much higher, creating the taut luff that is the key to best upwind performance.

Headed upwind in lug mode.Chuck Laudermilch

Headed upwind in lug mode.

In square mode I can run and beam-reach through a downwind arc of 190 degrees and more. When I take a couple of minutes to change mode to fore-and-aft, I move the downhaul point and change the sheets. The sail is now rigged like a balanced lug, and in this mode I can tack reliably and point as close as 55 compass degrees to the wind. Not too bad for a lugsail, let alone a square sail! With almost 30 percent of the sail forward of the mast in lug mode, one must tack rather decisively to keep from being backwinded, and this takes a bit of practice.

The lifts have allowed the center of effort of the sail to move rearward, matching that of the designers lug sail. The downwind sheets are disconnected, the downhaul moved to near the front of the spar, and a 4:1 mainsheet attached to the spar. The diagonal creases— called girts—will disappear in stronger winds.Bob Cavenagh

The lifts have allowed the center of effort of the sail to move rearward, matching that of the designers lug sail. The downwind sheets are disconnected, the downhaul moved to near the front of the spar, and a 4:1 mainsheet attached to the spar. The diagonal creases— called girts—will disappear in stronger winds.

I am quite satisfied with my new sail. It performs better upwind than I expected, given its low aspect ratio. The current rigging gets the job done, but there remains room for new thinking on the arrangements: I’d like to make the transition between modes quicker and easier to do without going forward.

My experiments with square rigs have satisfied my curiosity and exceeded my expectations. I think this sort of contemporary square rig has good potential for sailing courses that include lots of downwind work, for which square format is quite docile. When higher reaching and upwind work is called for, it can be changed to the lug mode. Lugsails appear to be the heirs apparent to the square rig, and this two-mode setup gave me a glimpse at the how and why.

Bob Cavenagh grew up in a Navy family and lived in seaports and around ships and boats from infancy. At the age of five he built his first boat; it sank immediately. After college, Army, and grad school he began an academic career, bought his first sailboat and canoe in 1975, and has been an enthusiastic sailor ever since. For the last three decades he has pursued a particular interest in rigs and sailmaking.  Now retired, he spends summers sailing a small fleet of small boats on a Canadian lake.

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

Oars by Grapeview Point Boat Works

For as long as I can remember, my father carved model oars in the living room. They were about a foot long, whittled from fine-grained Alaska yellow cedar and sanded silky smooth. He painted the blades with the colors of the crews he coached, and gave the oars out as prizes after rowing regattas. Standing upright in mahogany bases, they were objets d’art.

The looms taper to the grips to allow the use of closed oarlocks.photographs by the author

The looms taper to the grips to allow the use of closed oarlocks.

 

Proper oars, like almost anything meant for moving through water, should be beautiful. Tom Regan of Grapeview Point Boat Works (GPBW) in Allyn, Washington, sculpts beautiful oars and, not surprisingly, they perform effectively and gracefully. Their blades are curved along their length and across their width; the ends are squared off and capped with a hardwood tip. The looms, tight vertical-grained Sitka spruce, run through the full length of the blades, with 1¾″ pieces of the same wood glued either side to achieve the full 5 1/8″ width at the tip. The throats have a nicely shaped transition from the rounded triangular cross-section created by the wings of the blade and the central spine on the back, to the round looms.

At the leathers the looms have a diameter of 1 11/16″. The grips are unvarnished for a positive and blister-free grip, and the ends are plugged, covering holes where lead has been inserted as counterweights to balance the oars in the locks.

The oars are marked with green and red paint to indicate port and starboard, and while there’s no significant difference in their shape to require use only on one side, it’s a good idea to dedicate the oars in that manner to limit the area of wood that gets compressed during use and allow them to settle into a single orientation.

The 7′6″ oars I used weigh 3 lbs, 4.7 oz and 3 lbs, 13.6 oz, but I didn’t notice the difference until I put them on a scale. There are some slight differences in the thickness of the blades and looms, the heavier oar having the smaller dimensions, indicating that Tom did everything possible to match to weight of the oars and adapt to the variations in density of the spruce.

The locks that GPBW recommends for the oars have vertical ovals that slip over the ends of the oars (requiring lead instead of thicker loom inboard for balance). The leathers are sewn on and without buttons; their 10″ length allows adjusting the gearing of the oars.

I used the oars aboard my 14′ lapstrake Whitehall, and they were a pleasure to row with. The blades’ fine edges, slender profile, and smooth contours provide an exceptionally clean entry. The looms flex as power is applied, giving the stroke a smoother feel and, according to Andrew Steever (in Oars for Pleasure Rowing: Their Design and Use), making the oars more efficient: “…the limberness delays the acceleration of the blade slip through the water and reduces the turbulent energy losses around the blade.” My father advised rowers to “finish on a bent oar” to use the energy stored in the oar to power the finish and bring themselves upright at the end of the stroke. The flexible GPBW looms make that technique easily attainable for a recreational rower. This particular pair was made especially fine and limber to suit a rower smaller than I am; Tom makes oars to meet the requirements of individual rowers and their boats.

The smooth and slender shape of the blades allows them to slip in and out of the water cleanly, adding power to the stroke.

The smooth and slender shape of the blades allows them to slip in and out of the water cleanly, adding power to the stroke.

When I pulled very hard on the oars, the blades would flutter, but only with a single rise in the middle of the stroke. I was able to eliminate the flutter by driving the blades slightly deeper, to 4″ below the surface rather than 2″. By introducing a slight edgewise motion, an element pronounced in a dory stroke (see “The Dory Stroke: Efficient propulsion,” WoodenBoat #198) but not in a Waterman’s stroke (“The Thames Waterman’s Stroke,” WoodenBoat #240), I could eliminate the alternating vortex shedding that’s usually the culprit behind flutter.

The recovery was effortless. Left to sit in the locks by themselves, the oars rest with the blades (in a vertical orientation) a bit more than half submerged, but with the weight of my hands on the grips, the oars came into balance. I only had to push the handles aft to the catch and not force them down to lift the blades.

These oars are not meant for rough duty but for elegant rowing. When they’re not in use, it would be a shame to store them closeted away where they can’t be enjoyed for their form; you might want to make a place for them in your living room.

Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats Monthly.

Oars at any of the lengths offered are priced at $475 and available from Grapeview Point Boat Works.

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.

Aeré Beach Rollers

As the rollers partially flatten under the weight of the boat they broaden their area in contact with the ground and glide over it, conforming to its contours rather than plowing into it.photos and video by the author

As the rollers partially flatten under the weight of the boat, they broaden their area of contact with the sand and glide over it, conforming to its contours, rather than plowing into it.

My friend Sergei and I had put in a long day of sailing on the Columbia River, and pulled into a cove at dusk. I was looking for water deep enough to keep me afloat during the nighttime low tide so I could sleep at anchor. When Sergei told me he’d rather roll his boat onto the beach for the night, I thought he was nuts. Why go to all that trouble? I didn’t think he could possibly move a fully loaded SCAMP ashore.

Sergei produced and inflated two Aeré beach rollers. These tube-like devices are about the size of a large loaf of bread when deflated and rolled up, but filled with air, they’re about 5′ long and 9″ in diameter. Constructed of heavy-duty vinyl-reinforced fabric similar to the material used in whitewater rafts, these rollers are built to last. According to the manufacturer’s website, they are rated to support up to 2,000 lbs.

Using the rollers involves placing a roller under the bow, then pushing or pulling the boat over it. The beach we had landed on was quite steep, so it took both of us to get Sergei’s SCAMP out of the water. With one of us working the bow and the other the stern, the task was manageable. On a flatter beach, Sergei could have moved his boat by himself.

A second roller (in use under the boat in the background) would normally be set just astern to catch the keel as the middle of the boat passes over the roller shown here.

A second roller (in use under the boat in the background) would normally be set just astern to catch the stern as the middle of the boat passes over the roller shown here.

As the boat moves up the beach, so does the roller, but traveling only half the distance the boat travels—it moves one boat length, the boat moves two—and eventually pops out astern. Two rollers allow a boater to keep the boat moving without it coming to rest on the beach. The rollers work on both sand and cobble beaches. With the weight of a boat on it, the roller flattens against the beach, spreading the weight over a wide area and avoiding digging into soft ground.

I went ahead with my plan to spend the night afloat, and anchored offshore. But after a few hours, the water became so rough that I wasn’t going to be able to get any sleep. I persuaded Sergei to help me roll my Arctic Tern ashore, too. Unlike the SCAMP with its flat bottom, the Tern has a pronounced keel that pushed into the roller, but the roller still provided more than enough support for the rounded lapstrake hull to roll my boat up the beach. That night, Sergei and I each kept a roller under the stern to keep our boats level and supported as we slept. In the morning, neither roller showed any indication of losing any air pressure.

With a little practice, rolling the boats to and from the water was fairly easy to do solo. I found that moving the boat slowly and supporting the end farthest from the roller—shifting my position when the roller was centered under the boat— kept it from hitting the ground and grinding to a stop.

One end of the roller has a simple, stout air valve. The valve accepts a fitting for an air pump (inflating the rollers orally is not an option, but a small hand pump like the one Sergei used was perfectly adequate ). The other end has a looped strap that can be used to secure the roller and prevent it from floating away if the boat carries it into the water during a launch.

Sergei swears by his rollers, and I’ve come to see their usefulness. Their ability to move a small boat out of the water during foul weather makes them a good investment for any small boater who needs to sit out a storm or just get a good night’s sleep.

Bruce Bateau sails and rows traditional boats with a modern twist in Portland, Oregon. His stories and adventures can be found at terrapintales.wordpress.com.

Duckworks Boat Builders Supply offers Aeré Beach Rollers for $84.99 each. The rollers are also available from numerous US and international Aeré dealers.

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.

WENDY

The 6mm Vendia planking has four of its five veneers running lengthwise; it easily twisted to meet the stems.all photographs by Adrian Morgan

The 6mm Vendia planking has four of its five veneers running lengthwise; it easily twisted to meet the stems.

 

Adrian Morgan builds traditional boats by the shores of Loch Broom, a long inlet on Scotland’s west coast. He does business as Viking Boats of Ullapool, and has devoted himself to preserving traditional forms and methods, so it was quite a departure for him to use a recently developed laminate for planking instead of locally harvested larch and oak to build a rowing skiff for his friend Jan.

The design chosen for the boat was Paul Gartside’s 16′ Bob, a double-ended beach cruiser. While the plans were drawn up for strip planking, glassed inside and out, for Adrian “there was only one method: lapstrake. That would entail radical departure from the beautifully drawn plans. The planking, framing, and stiffening would have to be worked out from scratch.”

The frames are laminated from cut-offs from the planking stock.

The frames are laminated from off-cuts from the planks. Their rivets are the only fasteners  set in the laps.

While the conversion would take Adrian back to familiar territory, his choice for planking material would venture into new ground. Vendia is a laminated boatbuilding material made in Finland. Unlike rotary-cut plywood, it is made from veneers cut, rather than peeled, from logs with either vertical grain of flat grain, just like sawn lumber. That limits the width of the laminations—they can’t be made as wide as plywood sheets created by peeling a continuous veneer from the log—but provides the look of lumber and veneers less prone to cracking. Vendia laminates have all, or nearly all, of the veneers running lengthwise so it works like lumber and even has the fragrance of the pine it’s cut from.

The Vendia planking looks like sawn lumber but can have flat grain on one side and vertical grain on the other.

The Vendia planking looks like sawn lumber but can have flat grain on one side and vertical grain on the other.

With Vendia, Adrian could build the Bob as a glued-lapstrake boat and forgo fastenings at the plank edges. For an adhesive “rather than using epoxy, a glue I hate with a passion for its mess, mixing, and waste, I have been using Collano Semparoc on a number of glued-lapstrake boats. It sets hard, almost as hard as epoxy, cures in about the same time, can be sanded, and needs no mixing or fillers. And as it expands it has a limited but strong gap-filling effect.” Adrian used planking offcuts for making frames—he laminated three layers of the 6mm Vendia using the building molds as jigs.

The thwart set in the amidships position for solo rowing can be moved aft for tandem rowing.

The thwart set here in the amidships position for solo rowing can be moved aft for tandem rowing.

WENDY was outfitted as a rowboat, leaving the rudder and lug rig perhaps for a later time. (The boat was designed without a centerboard, reasoning that upwind progress would be better made under oars.) The bright-finished Vendia looked like traditional planking without the hundreds of lap fastenings. Adrian had no doubt the boat would row well. He said, “Some boats look sweet and fast before they hit the water, and the Bob certainly falls into that category—fine-lined and slippery.” Regarding her performance, he said “She did not disappoint, accelerating with minimal effort to cruising speed.” WENDY floated right on her lines with one or two rowers aboard and tracked well thanks to the long, nearly straight keel.

The 9' 3" oars were just the right length and the Australian Gaco oarlocks were virtually frictionless and allowed the trapezoid oar looms to be feathered.

The 9′ 3″ oars were just the right length and the Australian Gaco oarlocks were virtually frictionless and allowed the trapezoid oar looms to be feathered.

Adrian’s experiment with modern materials was a success. “Vendia,” he said “brought together a new material with an old method. Light, strong, easily worked, and above all capable of taking a clear finish to look like solid timber, it was a material I looked forward to using in all my future boats.”

Soon after Adrian launched WENDY, Vendia abruptly announced that it had discontinued production of its Marine Plank due to insufficient demand. The ensuing outcry seems to have caused some rethinking of that decision, however, and the company is seeking a way to keep the product going. Interested readers should visit the company’s web site for the most up-to-date news. [Editor’s note, January 2021: Vendia’s web site is now offering the planking again.]

“Vendia,” Adrian said, “was the only reason I decided to keep building boats. If it’s plywood from now on, then I’m out of it.” But, a month later, the shock had worn off and he had started building an Auk dinghy—in traditional materials. (You can track his progress on his blog: thetroublewitholdboats.blogspot.com)

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.

Clam Skiff

I’ve had a copy of Phil Bolger’s book Boats With An Open Mind for a long time, and I’ve always liked the looks of the Clam Skiff he designed for Harold “Dynamite” Payson. Payson, writes Bolger, “was a lobsterman before he began to write and teach. His orders for this design were for a solid skiff that could stand generous power, carry a big load, and have flat footing right out to the side. Nothing about it should be hard to explain.” At 18′ long and 5′3″ wide, the skiff will carry 1,100 lbs and draw just 3″; it seemed to me that it might be a very good companion for fishing trips in the North Country. When my brother Jon expressed an interest in a fishing boat, one he could easily trailer behind the family car and reach the many lakes and rivers in his part of Wisconsin, it didn’t take me long to talk him into the Clam Skiff.

I called Payson and ordered Bolger’s plan #606, called there a Workskiff, which came practically in the next mail. The drawings were clear and very easy to understand. After buying epoxy, plywood, and Douglas-fir lumber, I built a jig to make it easier to scarf the plywood sides. That turned out to be a waste of time, and I ended up scarfing the plywood by hand: I arranged the pieces for the sides stair-step fashion and cut the 8:1 scarfs using a power plane, a remarkably fast way to do it. A long, flat piece of 2×4 edged with sticky-backed 80-grit sandpaper flattened things out nicely.

I cut the various plywood parts out with a circular saw with the plywood set on a sheet of 2″-thick rigid foam that later ended up as flotation in the boat. The transom is built up of four layers of ½″ plywood. Like the bulkheads, it is edged with Douglas-fir to give the builder something more substantial than plywood edge-grain to hold the screws that secure the sides. I scarfed together the plywood sheets to make the sides. I clamped the full-length panels together, then cut out the sides with the circular saw. While the bottom edges of the sides are nearly straight, the top edges have more shape, but the long curve of the sheer was easy to cut out with the circular saw. After I planed the sides up to the lines, I separated them and glued Douglas-fir chine logs along their bottom edges. I had cut the chine logs square and realized later that they’d hold water; next time, I’d cut a bevel on the top of them to let any water to roll off. Assembling the transom, sides, bulkheads, and stem was a two-person job and used just about all the clamps in the shop. Deck screws served as extra clamps when needed, and with two screw guns, things came together faster than anticipated.

The sides, sprung to the transom, bulkhead, and stem, and constrained by a pair of temporary spreaders, determine the shape of the bottom. Peter Leenhouts

The sides, sprung to the transom, bulkhead, and stem, and constrained by a pair of temporary spreaders, determine the shape of the bottom.

There are two layers of ½″ marine plywood on the bottom, and the pieces are assembled and their scarfs glued-up on the boat. The bottom panels get cut slightly oversized and then trimmed flush with the sides at the chines. Bolger’s suggestion of installing temporary braces—2x4s laid on edge running from the transom to the center bulkhead—ensured the broad, flat bottom plywood panels did not sag.

After ’glassing the bottom and sanding everything, a shoe built up of two layers of ½″ marine plywood went on and was ’glassed with 9-oz fiberglass, and exposed end-grain was sealed and protected with three coats of epoxy. After I painted the bottom of the boat with a deep red polyurethane paint, the boat was ready to turn over. It took two older men, two women, and one boy to lift the boat off its sawhorses and walk it out to the lawn. My wife and I then turned it over using our truck and a towing strap. With the boat right-side up and back in the shop, I installed a second amidships bulkhead and built the four compartments in the aft end of the boat. I radiused everything and made small fillets along the chines and all of the bulkheads to ensure that the boat would be easy to clean.

Compartments in the bow. stern and amidships provide flotation. Scuppers through the center bulkheads allow water to drain aft.Peter Leenhouts

Compartments in the bow. stern and amidships provide flotation. Scuppers through the center bulkheads allow water to drain aft.

After the gunwales and drain-plug tube went in, all that was left was to finish the painting. The noted New Zealand designer John Welsford had taught my wife and me how to roll and tip paint, and the finish came out beautifully. In dark blue, the boat looks fantastic. After taping off the inside of the boat and applying the first finish coat of white, a friend showed me how to get a good non-skid surface. He laid a 1″- deep layer of clean washed beach sand right on the wet paint, let it dry overnight, then vacuumed up the excess and painted the entire inside of the boat with two layers of finish paint. The painted beach sand provides an excellent nonskid surface for very little cost, and it looks great.

Life tends to get in the way of projects, so it took me five years, working occasionally, to build the boat. Payson said the Clam Skiff could be built in a month of weekends, and I’d have to agree with him. You could, as he did, save on the cost of materials by building the boat out of lumberyard ACX plywood, ’glassing only the chines, and painting the boat with latex porch paint. I doubt you’d notice any real difference other than the boat might be a bit lighter.

Out of the shop and onto the road, the skiff traveled 2,000 miles to get to its launching.Peter Leenhouts

Out of the shop and onto the road, the skiff traveled 2,000 miles to get to its launching.

 

I towed the boat 2,000 miles from my shop in Washington State to deliver it to Jon in Wisconsin. With a used Mercury four-stroke 30-hp outboard engine bolted to the transom, he christened the boat FAMILY AFFAIR and launched her on a small lake near his home. Bolger said the boat could take up to a 40-hp engine, but I figure he had in mind a lighter two-stroke engine. The Mercury outboard my brother put on the boat weighs about 175 lbs, which worried me a little, but the boat sat right on its lines with the Merc, the operator at its tiller, and the 5-gallon portable gas tank aboard. Jon has since added a marine battery and a transom-mounted Minn Kota electric trolling motor with no appreciable difference to the way the boat sits in the water.

With his brother at the helm, the author enjoys the results of his 5-year project.Sonja Leenhouts

With his brother at the helm, the author enjoys the results of his 5-year project.

Launching and retrieving the boat with the trailer is very easy. While an extra pair of hands is always appreciated, the boat’s light weight makes it easy to manage alone. Powering up, the skiff climbs up and out of “the hole” quite quickly, and gets on a plane with no extreme rising of the bow. Similarly, when suddenly cutting the throttle from full speed, the skiff has a smooth runout and settles quickly without having the wake climb over the transom. Jon finds that opening the throttle about halfway provides a very comfortable ride in flat water or in a slight chop. At full throttle the stem rises up out of the water and the bow partially obscures forward vision from the from the operator’s station in the stern, so it’s important to keep a close watch on traffic or navigation hazards ahead. Having some additional weight in the bow improves visibility forward, so a passenger or a couple of sandbags will go there. The boat tracks straight and true and responds well to steering. Turning underway at any speed, the skiff remains flat without any uncomfortable heeling or rolling.

Jon and his daughter Keri take off. The transom, drawn in the plans with a straight upper edge and meant for a long-shaft motor, has a recess to accommodate a short shaft outboard. Sonja Leenhouts

Jon and his daughter Keri take off. The tall transom, even with the notch for the outboard, requires a long-shaft motor.

While the boat is trolling or at anchored, two or three adults can easily move around without having it tip or roll, which is nice when you’re sharing a look at the fishfinder. From the transom 8′ forward of the bottom is dead flat, so moving about inside very easy and comfortable and the feel is solid and balanced. This is especially important when standing at the gunwale recovering an anchor—the boat just doesn’t want to heel. That said, there is little reserve stability in a boat with vertical sides, so, as always, caution is indicated until one gets the feel of the boat.

Phil Bolger’s Clam Skiff is a very simple, forgiving boat to build and use. It is elegant and tolerant on the water, and draws plenty of attention from others who admire its clean, functional lines. All in all, it is much more than what we both could have hoped for when I bought the plans.

Pete Leenhouts, a retired naval officer, lives on Washington State’s Olympic Peninsula where he enjoys building, restoring and using his boats. His article on using rigid foam as a base for sawing sheets of plywood also appears in this issue.

Clam Skiff Particulars
LOA:   18′ 0″
Beam:   5′ 3″
Displacement:   1,100 lbs
Recommended outboard engine:   longshaft 5–40 hp 

WorkinskiffLines

H.H. Payson and Company (Payson died in 2011) has the plans listed as Workskiff for $45 on their website. Workskiff plans for a smaller version, at 15’6”, are also available.

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!

The Sand Bar by Tidal Roots

I was paddling on a placid Royal River with my four-year-old son Noah kneeling in front of me on a wooden Tidal Roots stand-up-paddle (SUP) board. The water hissed quietly as it slipped under the bow. The peaceful scene was disrupted by a paddler yelling, “That is a gorgeous board!” While I’d heard praise like that more than once while using the Maine-built, bright-finished Tidal Roots board [The company is no longer in business.—Ed.] It’s not something I ever hear when I’m paddling my fiberglass-and-expanded-polystyrene-foam board made in China.

Bookmatching the northern white cedar turns the variations in the wood's grain and color into appealing patterns.Tim Greenway

Bookmatching the northern white cedar turns the variations in the wood’s grain and color into appealing patterns.

Kyle Schaefer and Kent Scovill of Tidal Roots make SUP boards in a weathered, three-bedroom house in Eliot, Maine. Both are avid fly fishermen, and four years ago, when a friend of Schaefer’s left a paddleboard with Kyle, they immediately used the board to give them a better way to find fish. A light went on: What if they designed an SUP board for stability rather than speed, one that was built in Maine out of local materials, and built it of wood? They set about designing their first standup paddleboard. Building it took “forever,” but paddling it for the first time, Kent recalls, “was the best day ever.” Kyle and Kent are now producing about 36 boards a year.

Work on a Tidal Roots board begins in an old barn—warmed by a wood stove—where wood is rough cut and planed. The house’s basement, their principal workshop, is 750 sq ft and cramped; their workshop tables, by necessity, are on casters. The day I dropped in on them, they were building a Shoal, an 11′6″ board, a refinement of their first board, thicker and with less rocker to the nose. Kent says it has less plow, more glide.

Tidal Roots boards have between 24 and 28 CNC router-cut pieces in the framework. The solid balsa blocking to the left provides a backing for the recessed hand-grip installed later.Peter Van Allen

Tidal Roots boards have between 24 and 28 CNC router-cut pieces in the framework. The solid balsa blocking to the left provides a backing for the recessed hand-grip installed later.

 

The Tidal Roots boards have a spar-and-rib interior framework like that of an airplane wing. The patterns for the interlocking pieces were designed on a CAD system by Jon Deschenes, a friend in Tennessee, and two shops—one in Dover, New Hampshire, and one in Amesbury, Massachusetts —cut the pieces from ¼″ marine-grade plywood using CNC machines. The boards’ exteriors are northern white cedar, and about 95 percent of it is supplied by Bruce Tweedie of Thorndike, Maine.

For the bottom and top of a board, Kyle and Kent edge-glue 3″ to 4″-wide book-matched boards of northern white cedar. The glued-up sheets start at ⅜″ and are taken down to a fat ¼″ with a 43″-wide thickness sander. The frame pieces are assembled with interlocking joints, and the builders glue balsa blocks to the spars and ribs where cuts will later be made for a fin box, a handhold, and several tie-down fittings.

With the bottom panel on the workbench, a chalkline is snapped down the center from nose to tail. Along the line they lay a template made of cardboard and edged roughly, it seems, in black duct tape. “We’re not building spaceships down here,” Kyle quips. The template’s precut notches show where the ribs will match up. They trace out where the ribs will be positioned and where adhesive caulking needs to be applied prior to assembly.

After adhesive is applied and the framework sandwiched between the top and bottom panels, a two-part press (the bottom shown here) gives the board its shape.Peter Van Allen

After adhesive is applied and the framework sandwiched between the top and bottom panels, a two-part press (the bottom shown here) gives the board its shape.

The top and bottom panels and the plywood frame are all glued together at the same time. Kent and Kyle place the marked bottom panel on a purpose-made press that will join and mold the bottom, framework, and top. They squirt on a sub-floor adhesive on the bottom panel and then lay the spar-and-rib assembly on top of that; more adhesive is applied to join the top panel. The top of the press is put over all and the press halves are drawn together with bar clamps, bringing the top and bottom panels to their curved shapes against the interior framework.

“Rail strips” made of straight-grained western red cedar are bent along the panels from nose to tail and serve as chine logs and sheer clamps. The sides, or rails, of the paddleboard add substantially to the labor of the board: northern white cedar “rail blocks,” roughly 1½″ wide are applied vertically one at a time, side by side.

To trim the ends of the board for the nose and tail blocks, Kent uses a Festool track saw, a circular saw with an integral guide. The nose block’s stock is northern white cedar sandwiched around western red cedar. It gets mitered and epoxied to the angled forward end of the board. The Shoal’s straight tail block has the same laminated wood structure. Once the epoxy has set, Kent uses a power planer to get the approximate shape, then a hand plane, and finally a sander.

The board is finished with fiberglass and epoxy. The ’glassing is done by Keith Natti of Twin Lights Surf Company in Gloucester, Massachusetts. They use a surf industry-inspired epoxy with a UV inhibitor built in. A pad is glued to the deck to keep the feet from slipping. Each board has a vent equipped with a waterproof/breathable membrane that allows the board to equalize atmospheric pressure and avoid damage when the board sits for an extended period; the vent is closed before the board hits the water.

Each Tidal Roots board has a conventional fiberglass fin, like those you’d see on conventional SUPs, set in in a fin box. A purist might want to have a ’glassed-on fin made of marine ply or laminated wood. Other deck fittings include anchor points for an ankle leash and equipment tie-downs, and twist-on adapters for RAM Mounts to hold GPS, camera, or fishing rod.

For do-it-yourselfers Tidal Roots offers kits that include spar-and-ribs parts, instructions, and recommendations for the tools and materials required. The long fore-and-aft spars have jigsaw-puzzle joints to allow them to be shipped in shorter sections.

A handhold at the board's balance point makes carrying easy.Tim Greenway

A handhold at the board’s balance point makes carrying easy.

 

The Sand Bar model I tried is a 12′ board, the longest and fastest of the Tidal Roots models. It weighs 40 lbs; smaller Tidal Roots boards tip the scales at 38 lbs. Each Tidal Roots board is equipped with a handgrip that is well balanced and comfortable when toting the board from car to water.

The Sand Bar paddled smoothly on the flat water of the Royal River in Maine. At 28¾″ wide and 5″ thick, it’s stable enough to carry a small child just ahead of the paddler. I’m 170 lbs and my son adds another 40. The Sand Bar could just as easily carry 40 lbs of gear in dry bags for extended day trips and overnighters. The Sand Bar would be a stable platform for fishing or even yoga, though Tidal Roots’ Harbor Seal model, at 10′ x 33¾″ x 5¾″, is specifically designed for yoga.

Eager to get it into rougher conditions, I paddled on a windier day down the saltwater portion of the Royal River toward Casco Bay. Paddling into the wind is a challenge on any SUP, but the Sand Bar held its own. When a motorboat whizzed by, the board chugged right through the wake, easily rising and falling with the waves and feeling stable and controlled. While some would argue that the wood absorbs vibration and energy, I honestly didn’t see a huge difference going from foam-and-fiberglass to wood. I felt like the deck was more forgiving, which is easier on my old knees, but the hull is as stiff and strong as any board I’ve ridden.

With the stock fin from Futures Fins, the Sand Bar tracks well yet also turns easily. It’s not a speed machine, but it would be a comfortable board for a journey of several miles. Kyle reports that he’s paddled the Sand Bar 10 miles comfortably, and I think that if you’re used to extended trips, this board will get you there in comfort and with relative ease.

To duck out of the wind, I paddled the board into the tidal marsh, and it was there that the board excelled. I followed a tidal creek and the board turned easily with the bends in waterway where I was sheltered from the wind. Suddenly, some baitfish broke the surface, and I could now see the appeal for a fly-fishing paddler. It is indeed a gorgeous board, but its advantages are more than cosmetic. It’s durable, made with products that are sustainable, and will get you where you want to go—in style.

Peter Van Allen is a fanatic for small craft that keep him close to the water, whether it’s a surf ski, a sea kayak, a paddleboard, or a single-fin surfboard. He is based in Yarmouth, Maine. 

Sand Bar Particulars

TidalRootsLines

KitLinesB

Update: Tidal Roots is no longer in business. The article appears here as archival material—Ed.

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!

Investing in Memories

"Come TINTIN, come,” my four-year-old daughter hollered, then broke into a giggle. Her two-year-old brother threw back his head and let rip with his best belly laugh. We paddled, a family of four snug in a fully loaded 17′ canoe, up Lobster Stream in northern Maine. Tall conifers lined the banks on either side and funneled a mild headwind against our bow. Tethered to our stern, TINTIN, our 16′ wood-and-canvas canoe also teeming with gear, kept slipping broadside to our progress, creating drag like an anchor. I fiddled with the length of the line to no avail. I had built TINTIN 15 years earlier for a 700-mile paddle adventure across the Northeast. Before marriage and children, that trip had turned canoe and boy into an inseparable duo, but fast-forward to our inaugural and long-anticipated family canoe trip, and TINTIN had been demoted to service as a barge. What better way, I had naïvely thought, to instill a bond between my beloved TINTIN and the next generation than a family adventure— yet, 20 minutes into our first day, the kids were treating TINTIN like a goofy pet.

The put-in on Lobster Stream is just upstream of its confluence with the West Branch of the Penobscot River. We were all excited, a tad anxious, and already tired following the long journey from home. The 2-mile paddle up to Lobster Lake is, strictly speaking, upstream but in practice it’s an easy flat water trip. TINTIN, in the foreground, carries gear for a family of four.Donnie Mullen

The put-in on Lobster Stream is just upstream of its confluence with the West Branch of the Penobscot River. We were all excited, a tad anxious, and already tired following the long journey from home. The 2-mile paddle up to Lobster Lake is, strictly speaking, upstream but in practice it’s an easy flat water trip. TINTIN, in the foreground, carries gear for a family of four.

I was embarrassed to admit that I had stooped to the ignoble act of towing another canoe, but the previous week had been such a chaotic blur that finding the put-in, loading the boats, and shoving off felt like an accomplishment akin to a space-shuttle launch. A month earlier, during a heartfelt and late-night talk with my wife Erin, we agreed that, spring bugs and proper sleep be damned, the children were ready to experience true camping. Erin and I had met while working for Outward Bound and shared a long history of outdoor adventuring, running the gamut from a month-long paddle trip into the wilds of Quebec and Labrador to taking a reflective escape aboard TINTIN on our wedding day. Of course, our late-night declaration required of us a Herculean task: to find, organize, update, and pack the gear required. Then menu planning, shopping, and parceling out the food—which Erin largely executed herself, while also managing the children—as I busied myself with work, a handy camouflage for my being overwhelmed by the complex task of packing for a family of four, one still in diapers. My singular contribution, other than packing my own few clothes, was to mount the two canoes on the roof of our truck in a towering jumble that just might survive Maine’s punishing logging roads.

LobsterLakeMap

Erin and I had been to Lobster Lake years earlier, for a single night during a much longer trip, but it had remained in my memory as a tucked-away gem accented by sand beaches, smooth rock ledges, and old-growth pine all resting peacefully below the distant height and length of Mount Katahdin, Maine’s crown peak. The lake seemed like the perfect destination for a family. Our plan: set up camp for four nights and fill our days with short excursions, camp play, and nice meals.

Prior to the trip, the kids had taste-tested the various snack options and Sumner declared that the sesame sticks tasted like dog food. At Lobster Lake the kids and I came to call them “dog bones” which always elicited giggles but spoiled them for Erin. Sum munched away while Erin help a tarp up for our sail across the lake.Donnie Mullen

Prior to the trip, the kids had taste-tested the various snack options and Sumner declared that the sesame sticks tasted like dog food. At Lobster Lake the kids and I came to call them “dog bones” which always elicited giggles but spoiled them for Erin. Sum munched away while Erin held a tarp as a sail.

 

When we hit the lake, we aimed for the largest beach on the horizon. The wind had picked up, and we decided to lash the boats together as a catamaran. Simultaneously, Erin and I berated the kids for sticking hands in between the gnashing gunwales.

“I’m hungry,” Sumner complained.

Erin wanted to give sailing a try.

“Is it worth the effort?” I grumbled, but what I really thought, a holdover from my Outward Bound days: it’s cheating. Nonetheless, we dug out the tarp—and a snack.

We landed at the beach and it was a hectic moment as we unloaded the kids and the heaviest gear while the boats slopped around in the breaking waves. Standing between the boats, with a hand on either gunwale, a swell sloshed down my left boot. “Already?!” I held back a curse.

Erin tossed the beach toys into the sand. Without delay, Sumner put his front-end loader to work. Ceri lingered, watching us, wanting to help, but I’d told her to stay clear of the commotion. As the gear accumulated on dry ground, she carried or dragged it toward the campsite, at the high end of the beach. Once we had the boats out of the water, and most of the gear up to camp, Ceri joined Sumner at the shore. She tore up and down the beach, gripped by song, jumping, raising her arms and at times, letting her feet flick through the water.

 

During the trip, we kept a running list of camp items, that—forgotten or overlooked this time around—would enhance subsequent adventures. Such things as: binoculars, a brush to sweep out the tent, a Dutch oven hook, small saw, Cholula and a better rain jacket where commonly missed. Of course, foremost on our list, added with an eye to improving travel with young children, was a second tent.Donnie Mullen

During the trip, we kept a running list of camp items, that—forgotten or overlooked this time around—would enhance subsequent adventures: binoculars, a brush to sweep out the tent, a Dutch oven hook, a small saw, Cholula hot sauce, and better rain jackets. Of course, foremost on our list, added with an eye to improving travel with young children, was a second tent.

In a pleasant cedar grove, I started in on the tent while Erin began to pull out the dinner stuff and erect the kitchen. At one point, we crossed paths and exchanged tired smiles. The kids were playing happily, down below, giving us the freedom to bust through the initial camp setup.

“Wow,” Erin said. “It’s working.”

Good food was appreciated by everyone, and definitely helped sell the kids on the trip. Whether it was chocolate-chip pancakes on an overcast morning or Dutch-oven pizza for dinner, mealtime made everyone happy.Donnie Mullen

Good food was appreciated by everyone, and definitely helped sell the kids on the trip. Whether it was chocolate-chip pancakes on an overcast morning or Dutch-oven pizza for dinner, mealtime made everyone happy.

After a while, the kids charged up the beach to the camp kitchen, hungry. While they snacked, I noticed that Ceri’s long johns, her only pair, despite being rolled up, were dripping wet. On autopilot, I scolded her and then immediately felt like a heel. Here she was showcasing creative play, that same free spirit, inherited from her mom, which had hooked me all those years ago, and all I could come up with was with a criticism? Oh camping, please settle my nerves.

The onshore breeze was stiff come dinnertime. I slapped up the tarp semi-vertical to try and shield us, but it didn’t accomplish much. We huddled at the picnic table and gobbled. Ceri kept rising, trying to tighten the flapping tarp. The wind stopped at sunset. Then, yikes, mosquitoes. We retreated to the tent.

Ceri, was a perfect age for camping but we could never let Sumner get out of sight. At some times he surprised me with his endurance at sand play and coiling rope, and at others he required constant redirection. He was always hungry and cried if anything other than peanut butter and jelly was served for lunch.Donnie Mullen

Ceri, was a perfect age for camping but we could never let Sumner get out of sight. At some times he surprised me with his endurance at sand play and coiling rope, and at others he required constant redirection. He was always hungry and cried if anything other than peanut butter and jelly was served for lunch.

 

Sumner and I emerged from the tent early the next morning (on his accord, not mine). He beelined to the picnic table and dug out an apple, then dropped it twice in the sand as he walked about. Each time, I washed it clean and requested he sit. Eventually, he did; I wandered off to take pictures. Some minutes later, he called:

“Daddy, come back.”

I returned to find him methodically swatting blackflies. Feeling the absent-minded dad, I quickly helped him to pull on his bug-net shirt, yet he whined when the mesh interrupted his eating. I taught him a skill that Erin had imparted years before on our bug-crazed Labrador trip—lunch inside your bug shirt. He swung his legs gleefully and resumed his eating with his hands and apple safe behind the mesh. Before long, he looked up at me with a mischievous glimmer. “I can’t drop my apple,” he cooed. He promptly slipped off the bench and headed for his toys.

Despite their goofball sleep-deprived antics, the kids really did play well together. They shared the few toys we carried and collaboratively put to use found material, such as sticks for pre-bed jousting. Okay, it’s a bad example. When they began to incorporate TINTIN into their shared play I imagined a bond forming that would link my youthful spirit to theirs.Donnie Mullen

Despite their goofball sleep-deprived antics, the kids really did play well together. They shared the few toys we carried and collaboratively put to use found material, such as sticks for pre-bed jousting. Okay, it’s a bad example. When they began to incorporate TINTIN into their shared play I imagined a bond forming that would link my youthful spirit to theirs.

We dawdled away the remainder of the morning, while our intent of a proper outing floated like a pillow cloud overhead; camp details descended. Erin and I took turns at the outhouse. Ceri stuck her nose into the woodsy privy and decided in favor of the toddler potty we carried. Then Sumner needed a diaper. Damn, I still hadn’t made coffee. The mosquitoes passed, only to be replaced by horseflies. The kids made a sand-mound village accented with pinecones and sticks. As the day heated up, we peeled off our morning layers, hung our wet clothes out, and applied sunblock. Breakfast dishes were still wet when a peckish Sumner lurked for lunch. After his call went unheeded for too many minutes, he pulled down his diaper.

“LOOK, my bum!” he chortled.

“Christ,” I kvetched to Erin. “Can’t lunch wait?”

Glancing down at the shore, I couldn’t pull my camera out fast enough. Ceri had set her camp chair in the water. Tiny waves lapped at the chair legs while she kicked at the shallows with her boots. The shining blue lake stretched out before her. I loved this about her: her ability to design her own time. At home, she could pour herself into a collage or painting for an hour. Maybe she was just pushing the envelope with the “keep it dry” request, but even so it had flair. This time I was smart enough to praise her initiative when she pranced up from shore.

A while later, Erin tore from the tent, at her wit’s end after an hour of trying to put Sum down for a nap.

“We’re going hiking,” she declared.

Sumner was the wildcard of the trip. He had many moments of happy play and even helped with the dishes a few times, but then he could spiral into unabated silliness. Was he too young for canoe camping? At Outward Bound we often said “Hard isn’t bad. It’s just hard.” And as long as the hard is balanced by a few glorious moments, I can accept it every so often.Donnie Mullen

Sumner was the wildcard of the trip. He had many moments of happy play and even helped with the dishes a few times, but then he could spiral into unabated silliness. Was he too young for canoe camping? At Outward Bound we often said “Hard isn’t bad. It’s just hard.” And as long as the hard is balanced by a few glorious moments, I can accept it every so often.

We rallied, hastily packed the canoe, put hats on, zipped and clipped PFDs, and grabbed water, snacks, and the child-carrying backpack. Oh, camera bag. And then another jaunt up the beach to find our hiking boots. I ran down to the water, arms full, and we shoved off. To reach the trailhead for Lobster Mountain, a steep wooded face that loomed behind our beach site, we would have to paddle around the ledges of nearby Ogden Point into a neighboring cove.

As we paddled along the shore, we were reminded that without much gear aboard, TINTINs initial stability was a tad wobbly. Erin and I said as much, and Ceri latched onto the hint of anxiety. I hoped she wouldn’t notice TINTIN’s other curiosities: extremities that still leaked even after being recanvased, and the hull bumps from old collisions that never quite got replanked away. For me, these traits were part of his character, and reminded me of our adventures together. Yet, to Ceri, he was an old wooden thing that made her laugh first, and now had turned her nervous.

The brief trip Erin and I had made to Lobster Lake years previous hadn’t given us time to explore, so I was not expecting a vista as we rounded the point. All at once, shorelines green on either side, our gaze shot toward the immense emerald block of Big Spencer Mountain rising neatly above a sandy spit that reached into the lake. Our paddle blades hung in the water.

“Paddle, please,” Ceri requested, clearly uncomfortable with our drifting arc. After we lingered some more, and the bow got a little closer to the shoreside brush, she hollered, “Paddle!” Okay. Okay, but I was just starting to relax.

We found the trailhead, but the sign there indicated a 2-mile trail, one-way. It was humid and sweltering. Sumner’s head bobbed in and out of sleep, and Ceri whined as the mosquitoes flushed from the woods and found us. No sooner had we dragged the boat to shore, than it had to go back into the water. We paddled frantically into the middle of the lake, swatting all the while. Erin had Sumner in the bow, and before long he was cradled in a bundle of PFD and beach towel, fast asleep. Ceri slumped atop a collapsible camp chair and followed suit. With Big Spencer glowing at our backs, Erin turned to me with the widest grin I’d seen in days. “Canoe drive?” she said. At home, we often resorted to taking a drive in the car to wrestle Sumner down. Without his nap, he turned into a punch-drunk bear cub. Even life with Ceri, who had long ago outgrown her interest in daytime sleep, was easier if she napped. We took a final look at the mountain before returning to our strokes and the rhythmic creaking of TINTIN’s joints.

The “canoe drive” really turned out to be a viable method to settle the kids. Jerry Stelmok, master wood-and-canvas builder, once said that he never tired of gazing at the interior of a nicely finished boat. It’s true, the swirl and warmth of varnished cedar can mesmerize, and occasionally inspire a welcome dozing.Donnie Mullen

The “canoe drive” really turned out to be a viable method to settle the kids. Jerry Stelmok, master wood-and-canvas builder, once said that he never tired of gazing at the interior of a nicely finished boat. It’s true, the swirl and warmth of varnished cedar can mesmerize, and occasionally inspire a welcome dozing.

 

We reached camp and Ceri stayed asleep even as Erin transferred her to the tent. Then mom crashed alongside daughter. Sum, however, had awoken and upon landing had picked up a stick and was thundering around honing his inner screech owl. I gazed at him befuddled. He needed a calming activity. It took me a while, oddly enough, to think up taking him on another paddle. I plopped him back in TINTIN and handed him an apple. He fell silent and noshed. I quickly forgot about his restless state and we just paddled, father and son; wood and canvas—little on board that wasn’t born of the earth.

His body swayed with each of my strokes as we crossed the cove. We paddled to another beach, but didn’t go ashore. We glided, surrounded by the forest’s soldiers of green and eroded Swiss-cheese-styled stone. I looked back at our camp hidden among the trees, above that perfect beach, and wondered if Ceri and Erin were up. As the boat drifted, Sum exclaimed.

“If we don’t paddle, wind take us where wind want to!”

The camp kitchen is our central gathering area. I’ve always taken pride in keeping it neat and clean, but parenthood has required an adjustment from my persnickety past. I don’t often have the time for the perfect tarp setup or keeping the kitchen pack basket organized. Just getting the dishes done before the next meal is a success.Donnie Mullen

The camp kitchen is our central gathering area. I’ve always taken pride in keeping it neat and clean, but parenthood has required an adjustment from my persnickety past. I don’t often have the time for the perfect tarp setup or keeping the kitchen pack basket organized. Just getting the dishes done before the next meal is a success.

 

On Father’s Day morning, with just one eye open to the world, I watched Erin, clad in raingear, pick her way over our sleeping bags. Moist air and gray light filled the tent. It was far too early to be awake, yet I knew she was headed out to make a special breakfast for me. The night before I’d had a simple and silent wish to sleep in. The likelihood seemed so preposterous I had chuckled aloud. Yet, somehow, it was unfolding. Flocked by sleeping cherubs, I let my bones settle. Once more, I was lying dry while a rainy day let loose inches away. Too elated to fall back to sleep, I pondered my good fortune. Should I read? Take notes? Instead, I remained lost in thought. The kids awoke, snuggled in, and even agreed on what book to read.

Later, we hunkered down in our camp chairs, safe under the bug tarp. Our clothes were damp, particularly Erin’s. She had been cooking for over an hour beneath a not-quite-wide-enough kitchen tarp. Our hair was matted and we scratched bug bites, but we were together in a beautiful place, all smiles, about to share a breakfast of comfort food cooked over an open fire. Erin handed me a hot mug of coffee before sliding the lid from the Dutch oven. A puff of cinnamon-bun sweetness filled our meshed-in space. The kids wiggled in their chairs.

“I have a big mouth, so I have a big frosting,” Sumner declared.

“I need the largest one,” Ceri countered.

After minutes of eating in a silence broken only by wind in the branches and a spatter of wetness against the tarp, Ceri spoke up.

“I think every year for Father’s Day and Mother’s Day we should come here and eat these,” she announced. Then she added with a sticky grin, “I love this day!”

During a digestive lull, Ceri turned to me. “Do you want to go on a paddle with me? On the same route as Sumner.” My affirming reply was nearly a shout.

Ceri started carrying around birch bark after I told her that the native peoples built canoes with it. I think she was plotting her own one-off. Birch bark also meant campfires and having “for real and true” (Ceri’s phrase) s’mores over the campfire. Weeks after the trip, when asked to describe the adventure, Ceri answered: “campfire…marshmallow…CHOCOLATE.”Donnie Mullen

Ceri started carrying around birch bark after I told her that the native peoples built canoes with it. I think she was plotting her own one-off. Birch bark also meant campfires and having “for real and true” (Ceri’s phrase) s’mores over the campfire. Weeks after the trip, when asked to describe the adventure, Ceri answered: “campfire…marshmallow…CHOCOLATE.”

Later that day, while we prepped dinner, Erin turned to me. I was still thinking about my paddle with Ceri and how she had leapt from TINTIN, cove after cove, eager to collect freshwater mussel shells. The rain was gone, though the sky was still overcast. “It’s a lovely lake…but the bugs,” Erin said. Her tired eyes lingered on mine.

I was tired too. Our sleep routine hadn’t improved as we had hoped it would. The previous night Sumner had been running around barefoot, hours after his normal bedtime, howling like a feral imp. Even still, I didn’t want to entertain leaving a night early.

“I’d kinda like to follow through with our plan.” I said, as a surge of guilt shot through me. It being Father’s Day, I knew my vote carried an unfair advantage.

“Okay,” she hesitated. “Let’s ask the kids.”

Ceri didn’t have to think about it: “I never get to play on the beach this much.”

Sumner nodded happily, then added: “Can…can I play my truck, possibly, again?”

I built TINTIN in 2000 to paddle the Northern Forest Canoe Trail and together, TINTIN and I made the first known passage of the 700-mile route. When I became a parent I left TINTIN behind for a while, but a mingling of my canoe and my children has begun. Aside from romantic notions about raising a new generation of wood-and-canvas aficionados, I hoped our canoe trip would make lasting memories and contribute to their balanced upbringing.Erin Mullen

I built TINTIN in 2000 to paddle the Northern Forest Canoe Trail and together, TINTIN and I made the first known complete passage of the 700-mile route. When I became a parent I left TINTIN behind for a while, but a mingling of my canoe and my children has begun. Aside from romantic notions about raising a new generation of wood-and-canvas aficionados, I hoped our canoe trip would make lasting memories and contribute to their balanced upbringing.

On our last evening, we all gathered in the sand as the heat of the day was finally lifting. The warmth of the sun after the recent inclement weather was a gift we all felt. Sum, caked in sand dust and flush from hard play, leaned against his mom. Peanut butter was smeared across both cheeks. He patted her on the thigh. Ceri, in her pajamas and slippers, fresh from beachcombing, touched down beside me for no more than a minute.

I noticed her looking at TINTIN, who was overturned nearby. The shellac on the two-tone hull was ablaze in the late-day sun.

“Dad,” she said. “You’re gonna have TINTIN a long time.”

I nodded.

“Like 20 years probably,” she added, confidently.

“For sure,” I agreed. “Someday, you’ll get him.”

Without responding, she dashed off to the water’s edge, and I tried not to tread too deep into my hope that one day she or her brother just might really want him.

Donnie Mullen is a writer and photographer who lives in Camden, Maine, with his wife Erin and their two children. In the winter of 1999-2000, he built TINTIN and christened the canoe the following summer during his voyage along the 740-mile Northern Forest Canoe Trail, the first modern-day passage.

Homemade Rivets and Roves

The locust-crook jaws for my Whitehall required a couple of 4" rivets.all photographs by the author

The locust-crook jaws for my Whitehall required a couple of extra-long rivets.

I recently needed a handful of long rivets to secure the sides of a centerboard trunk to its ledges and to fasten jaws to a boom. Even if I could even buy just 8 rivets, I didn’t want to wait several days for an online order so I decided to make my own. I started with some copper water pipe I had on hand and some 6-gauge copper grounding wire (about 5/32″ in diameter) sold by the foot or in coils from the electrical department of the local home-improvement store.

There are two things wrong with the wire as it comes off the spool: it’s round and it’s soft. Boat rivets are square to keep them from rotating as the wood around them moves; leaks would follow the slow wearing away of the wood. By hammering the wire I could make it square and at the same time work-harden the copper to make it rigid enough to drive into the slightly undersized holes I’d drill in the wood pieces I was assembling.

From household grounding wire to a squared rivet, hammering the flat faces on the wire work hardens the copper.

Hammering flat faces on household grounding wire work hardens the copper to make a rigid rivet shaft.

I hammered lengths of wire on the anvil at the back of my vise. A small pair of vice grips holding one end helped me orient the wire in 90° turns to hammer four flat faces. The wire curled as it stiffened but it was easy to straighten it by pinching it in the vise. Rather than try to form a head on one end I opted to put a rove on both ends of the squared copper rod.

With a ball-peen hammer, a piece of copper water pipe, a couple of washers and a nail set you can make your own dished roves.

With a ball-peen hammer, a piece of copper water pipe, a couple of washers, and a nail set you can make your own dished roves.

I made roves from a short piece of copper 1″ pipe. (If you can’t buy a short piece, get a straight coupling.) I sawed through the pipe lengthwise, pried it open with pliers and hammered it flat on the anvil. To shape the rove I taped two 1/2″ washers (inside diameter 9/16″) on the anvil, with the face of the washer with the sharpest edge on top.

The hammer's peen dishes the copper and ultimately pinches it through the steel washers.

The hammer’s peen dishes the copper and ultimately punches it through the steel washers.

Two washers are required to provide clearance for the dishing of the rove. I taped the copper blank and the washers to keep everything in position during hammering.  I set the peen of a ball peen hammer on the copper over the hole in the washers and hit it, face to face, with another hammer. Initially, fearing that one steel hammer might chip another and send shards flying, I used a wooden mallet but it didn’t completely shear the rove free. A second steel hammer was much more effective and neither hammer chipped. Naturally, I wore safety glasses. Taping a third washer on one hammer face will keep the two tempered hammer faces from making direct contact and still provide the sharp impact the copper requires.

Masking tape holding the washers and copper in place on the vice's anvil keep them in place during the dishing and punching of the rove.

The copper is dished at this point and additional strikes of the hammer on the ball-peen will shear it from the copper blank.

The first blows dish the copper into a nice shape and work-harden it. A few more whacks shear it away into the hole in the washer. I used a fine-point nail set to tap a hole in the rivet’s concave side. A tap on the set with the rove on the anvil got it started; I finished driving the nail set through into a rove setting tool.

Fixing a rove on one end of the rivet gives it an easily made head. Vice Grips keep the rivet shank from slipping during the peening.

Fixing a rove on one end of the rivet gives it an easily made head. Vice grips keep the rivet shank from slipping during the peening.

The first rove goes on the rivet while it’s held in the vice. To keep the rivet from slipping through my vise’s smooth jaws as I peened the end, I squeezed vice grips on the rivet. Putting a point on the other end of the rivet is easily done with the same nippers you’ll use to clip the excess length of the rivet. One diagonal snip is all it takes. It’s also easy to create a point with a file, disk sander or grinder.

While I had already fastened the centerboard trunk sides to the ledges, I rivets for an extra measure of strength in the fastening.

While I had already fastened the centerboard trunk sides to the ledges, I added rivets for an extra measure of strength in the fastening.

Now the rivet is ready to use on the wood pieces. Proceed as you would with a store-bought rivet: drill, drive, apply the rove, nip the rivet, and peen the end. 

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.

The Taming of the Sheet

Sawing sheets of plywood is quick and safe when it's resting on a sheet of rigid foam insulation (1 1/2" shown here).SBM photos

Sawing a sheet of plywood is quick and safe when it’s resting on a sheet of rigid foam insulation.

Most of us who build boats at home do not have the facilities needed to handle 4′ x 8′ sheets of marine plywood with ease. I’ve always found it challenging to put a sheet of ¾″ or even ½″ marine plywood up onto the tablesaw to cut it to size. Thinner plywood may weigh less, but it doesn’t have the stiffness to lie flat on the tablesaw top. Roller stands, while useful in supporting the plywood, do not make it much easier to avoid binding the saw and the inevitable kickback. Besides, many of the cuts I want to make are curves—not an option with a tablesaw.

Building any boat that involves sheets of plywood is made much easier when using a technique taught to me by boatbuilding instructor Pat Mahon, now the executive director of the Great Lakes Boatbuilding School in Cedarville, Michigan.

Pat’s technique is simplicity itself: Use a 4′ x 8′ sheet of rigid foam, the type used to insulate buildings under construction, to support the plywood and then cut through the plywood and into the foam. The sheet I have in my shop right now is Corning Foamular 250, a 2″-thick sheet of extruded polystyrene (XPS) insulation (1½” XPS is shown in the photos) that weighs under 8 lbs and costs about $31. The XPS panels are stiffer and more resistant to compression than the other common insulation panels—expanded polystyrene (EPS) and foil-faced Polyisocyanurate (Polyiso)—so it won’t get badly crushed if you put your weight on it, especially if you have the plywood on top of it.

I’ve occasionally used sawhorses to elevate the foam sheet and the plywood, but it’s easier to flop the foam and plywood down on the floor than to get out the sawhorses and set everything up only to take it down 10 or 15 minutes later. Set the foam on the floor and put your plywood, best-side down, on top of the foam. If you don’t have room in the shop to do the cutting, you can use the foam sheet outside in the driveway. It will protect the plywood from grit and pebbles that would otherwise damage the plywood.

Sawing sheets of plywood is quick and safe when it's resting on a sheet of rigid foam insulation (1 1/2" shown here).

If the saw blade is set to cut slightly through the plywood, the foam will last quite a while and you’ll be able to make curved cuts.

Set your circular saw to the thickness of the plywood and add an extra 1⁄8″ to ¼″ to ensure you cut all the way through it without causing excessive damage to the foam. The foam offers little resistance to the saw blade and helps reduce tear-out on the plywood face that rests against it. Make the cuts you need. That’s really about it.

A circular saw set to cut just barely through the plywood will cut a gentle curve without binding. By using a sharp thin-kerf carbide-tipped plywood blade (I use Diablo blades, and I’m sure there are other equally good manufacturers), you can cut extremely close to the line and minimize the amount of time you will need to clean up the curve with a block plane and sandpaper.

Two circular saws and the curves they cut through common 3/8" CD plywood: The smaller blade of the cordless saw made the cut at right with a tighter radius.

Two circular saws and the curves they cut through common 3/8″ CD plywood: The smaller blade of the cordless saw made the cut at right with a tighter radius.

A small cordless circular saw with a 5 ½″ or a 6 ½″ blade can cut an even tighter curve than a standard saw with a 7 ¼″ blade. In one of Pat’s classes we could get 10 or 15 minutes of operation from the small circular saw we used, more than enough to cut the curves needed to shape each plank for the Caledonia yawl we were building.

I store my foam sheet above the overhead retractable door of my garage/boatshop. The foam sheet is easy to lift up there, and it is out of the way until it’s needed. If you don’t have space for the full sheet, cut it in half or even in quarters.

An added advantage to using a sheet of foam for a cutting surface is that you can put the foam to use in other ways after you’ve finished using it. You can cut it up with a craft knife or circular saw and use it as flotation in the boat you’ve built or glue pieces together to make a highly efficient cooler.

Pete Leenhouts, a retired naval officer, lives on the Olympic Peninsula where he enjoys building, restoring, and using his boats. His review of a clam skiff also appears in this issue.

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Torqeedo’s Travel 1003

Torqeedo's outboards with ratings up to an equivalent of 8 hp, are designed without anti-ventilation plates. The foil-sectioned shafts of all but the smallest outboard aid in keeping surface air from getting to the prop.all photographs by the author

Torqeedo’s outboards with ratings up to an equivalent of 8 hp are designed without anti-ventilation plates. The foil-sectioned shafts on all but the smallest outboard aid in keeping surface air from getting to the prop.

For decades I resisted boating under power and took pride in getting where I wanted to go under my own steam or under sail. That changed when I had kids: they were too young to help with rowing, the summer winds are usually too light for getting anywhere by sailing, and the joy of hanging out with them meant more to me than manning the oars. I built a Caledonia yawl with them in mind and installed a motor well. I bought a small 2.5-hp Yamaha outboard—a four-stroke to avoid leaving behind a cloud of stinky blue smoke typical of two-stroke outboards—but it still had an environmental impact in both the fuel it consumed and the peace it disturbed. For the past 11 years, Torqeedo has worked to eliminate both with their electric motors. In 2010 I tried the smallest motor they produce, the Ultralight, on a kayak. The equivalent of a 1-hp motor, the Ultralight would drive the kayak at an impressive 4 ¼ knots and an exciting 5 ½ knots after I added a foil-shaped fairing to the tubular shaft.

The two Travel motors are the smallest of the Torqeedo outboards. The Travel 503 is rated as the equivalent of a 1.5-hp gas motor; the Travel 1003, the equivalent of a 3-hp. I tried the Travel 1003S (S for short shaft) on three different boats: the Caledonia yawl, a Whitehall, and an Escargot canal boat. Torqeedo lists the shaft length for the Travel 1003S at 62.5 cm (24 5/8″), a measurement from the bearing surface of the mounting bracket to the center of the prop. On gas outboards the shaft length is commonly measured to the anti-ventilation plate, not the propeller axis; the Travel 1003 has no anti-ventilation plate, but I measured 46.5 cm (18 ¼″) to where one would be. That’s roughly the maximum span between the bottom of the hull and the site for the mounting bracket. The shaft length for the Travel 1003L is listed as 75cm/29.5″.)

Disassembling the motor makes it much easier to stow out of the way when it's not needed. The long pin locks the battery pack in place.

Disassembling the motor makes it much easier to stow out of the way when it’s not needed. The long pin locks the battery pack in place.

The Travel 1003 weighs 30 lbs, 7 lbs less than my Yamaha, and it separates into three pieces—the tiller and its computer just shy of 2 lbs, the battery at 12 lbs, and the lower unit about 16 lbs—making it a whole lot easier to move around, mount, and stow.

Set in the motor well of a Caledonia yawl, the Travel 1003 S reached a maximum speed of 5 knots. The orange pin on the bench looks the shaft when the boat's rudder is used for steering. The orange tab on the tiller is a magnetic kill switch.

Set in the motor well of a Caledonia yawl, the Travel 1003 S reached a maximum speed of 5 knots. The orange pin on the bench locks the shaft when the boat’s rudder is used for steering. The orange tab on the tiller is a magnetic kill switch.

I used the Travel 1003 first on my Caledonia yawl, a 19′ 6″ x 6′ 2″ double-ender. With the motor at full throttle, the yawl peaked at 5.0 knots. My Yamaha logged a top speed of 5.8 knots. (I have an electric trolling motor rated at 40 lbs of thrust, but it falls so far short of the Travel 1003 that I don’t bother including it in these trials.)  A built-in computer with GPS shows the percentage of battery charge and the distance it will take you at the speed indicated. At full speed a full charge had a cruising range of 2.4 nm. At 4 knots that range increased to 6.3 nm, at 3 knots 9.5nm, and at 2 knots 15.6 nm. The speeds and ranges I recorded were consistent with Torqeedo’s data for the Travel 1003.

Ranges predicted by the Travel 1003 for a full battery charge with three boats at various speeds

Ranges predicted by the Travel 1003 for a full battery charge with three boats at various speeds

There is a slight lag in the response to the throttle, and the motor will ramp up to the selected speed rather than apply full power immediately. That keeps the boat from lurching about, and, I imagine, prolongs the life of the motor and the boat. Even with the lag and ramp-up, I was impressed with how quickly the Travel 1003 could bring the yawl from 5 knots at full speed ahead to a dead stop: just 3 seconds and less than two boat-lengths.

The Travel 1003 operates in reverse, and a latch keeps the shaft locked down to prevent the prop from climbing. The yawl made 3.5 knots with the Travel 1003 in reverse at full throttle. (The Yamaha does not have reverse but rotates through 360 degrees, as does the Travel 1003.) Releasing the latch allows the motor to kick up over obstructions while moving forward and to be raised to reduce the drag while rowing or sailing. A removable pin will lock the Travel 1003 facing straight ahead for steering with a boat’s rudder.

The Travel 1003 is quiet but not completely silent. It has a whine that rises in pitch and volume as the throttle gets cranked up, but even at its loudest it is neither an impediment to a conversation nor anywhere near as loud as my gas outboard. It doesn’t vibrate either, so there’s no rattling anywhere on the boat. Its relatively quiet operation at low-to-moderate speeds is great for dinner cruises. I’m used to gauging speed by the racket my gas motor makes when moving along at a good clip, but even at full throttle, the sound the Travel 1003 makes belies how fast the boat is moving; it’s more like sailing than motoring.

On my 14′ lapstrake Whitehall the Travel 1003 peaked at 5.5 knots. (I didn’t—and wouldn’t—try to mount the heavier Yamaha on the transom—there’s little buoyancy in the stern.) I also did trials with my son’s 19′ 6″ x 6′ Escargot canal boat, weighing over a half ton with gear and two of us aboard. It brought the canal boat up to 4.4 knots, just slightly slower than the Yamaha at 4.7 knots.

Torqueedo claims on its website that the Travel 1003 “can do everything a 3-hp petrol outboard can, plus it’s environmentally friendlier, quieter, lighter, and more convenient.” The latter half of that is certainly true, but I’d suggest the former isn’t a good comparison to make. According to the owner’s manual, my Yamaha has a maximum output of 2.5 horsepower or 1.8 kW at 5,500 rpm, while the Travel 1003 display reads 1,000 watts (1.0 kW) at full throttle with  maximum propeller speed listed by Torqeedo at 1,200 rpm. Going by the numbers gets murky. The Yamaha rating is for propeller-shaft horsepower, and the Torqeedo rating is for input power with propulsive power at 480 watts; static thrust is listed as 68 lbs, but that’s not calculated the same way as it is for trolling motors. Torqeedo offers some clarification on the terms and their equivalence with gas outboards, but my sea trials for top speed didn’t bear that out for the Travel 1003, even up against a 2.5-hp instead of a 3-hp gas outboard.

I haven’t made precise mileage calculations for my gas outboard, but one measurement I made on Google Earth for a passage on a full tank of gas (0.24 gallon) was 6 miles, running at about two-thirds throttle. That’s 25 miles per gallon. At a comparable speed the Travel 1003 will cover about the same distance. To extend the range of my gas outboard, I’ll carry two 2.5-gallon gas cans for a range of 125 miles. For the Travel 1003, an extra battery, at $650, brings the range to 16 miles. For charging away from home, Torqeedo offers a 50-watt solar charger for the Travel 1003, and it is possible to recharge its battery from an in-board 12-volt system. In my experience recharging was an overnight process, only slightly more than the 14 hours listed by Torqeedo; the latest models have cut that time  in half. While I don’t have to think much about my range with my gas outboard, the Travel 1003 would require some thoughtful planning to achieve the same range for an extended cruise. If your outings with the Travel 1003 aren’t pushing the limits of its range, you can use the energy for other purposes: its battery has a port you can use to charge electronic devices.

While Torqeedo notes that the Travel 1003 is the equivalent of a 3-hp gas motor, focusing only on range and maximum speed is to overlook their product’s best features and to suggest poorly suited applications. My gas outboard allows me to take five-day island-hopping cruises, but I don’t take it on the vast majority of my outings. For day trips I’m content to row, paddle, or sail short distances in peace and quiet, and with the Travel 1003 I’d be tempted to motor too. I enjoy taking friends and family out on the water for dinners, but my Yamaha is noisy and its fuel messy and smelly; it would be great to be underway with the Travel 1003 during the evening when the sun sets and the city lights come on. I don’t fish, but having an electric motor with the oomph to get to the fishing hole and the quiet operation for trolling would be a boon. I’d also feel much better knowing that my boating under power didn’t add to the burden borne by the waters that carry me and by the air that I breathe. To that end, the Travel 1003 has the clear advantage.

Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats Monthly.

Torqeedo distributes its products through a network of dealers and offers the Travel 1003 for $1,999 with a two-year warrantee.

Thanks to reader Elliot Arons for suggesting this review.

 

 

SAOIRSE

The sail SAOIRSE carries is easily furled and the rig dropped to allow passage under a low bridge on the way home. Chris Chapman

The sail SAOIRSE carries is easily furled and the rig dropped to allow passage under a low bridge on the way home.

Kevin Moroney grew up in South Salem, New York, not quite 10 miles south-southwest of Danbury, Connecticut; his home was near Truesdale Lake, a finger of water just shy of a mile long. He watched rowing and sailing boats plying the lake and longed to have a boat of his own, but only the homeowners with lakefront property were allowed to have them. He carried a dream of building a boat for himself for half a century.

Kevin takes to the oars on his way out to sail the waters around Cape Coral, FloridaChris Chapman

Kevin takes to the oars on his way out to sail the waters around Cape Coral, Florida

Kevin watched as his lifelong friend Robert Greco built a 16′ Glen-L runabout with his father and another smaller runabout for his grandkids, and seeing that it was possible to build a boat, he decided it was finally time to start. He and his wife Jennifer live on Florida’s west coast where the waters are fringed with shallow bays and dotted with oyster beds and islets, so he needed a shallow-draft boat. Their home is on one of the many canals in Cape Coral, and to get to the Caloosahatchee River and out to open water the boat would have to pass under a low fixed bridge. It had to have a mast he could easily step and unstep by himself.

His search for a suitable boat led him to sharpies. Like Kevin, sharpies got their start in the Connecticut and New York area and made their way south to Florida. He read about Commodore Ralph Munroe and the two New Haven–style sharpies he had built on Staten Island and brought to Florida: KINGFISH in 1881 and EGRET in 1886. Kevin then read Reuel Parker’s The Sharpie Book. In it he found a Modified Sharpie Skiff. At 17′10″ by 5′6″, it was the largest boat in the book that would fit in his 20′ garage. The skiff is unusual among sharpies as it has a V-bottom for its entire waterline length. Similar boats appear in Chapelle’s American Small Sailing Craft and are categorized as (Chesapeake) Bay skiffs: “The one-sail skiffs were single-handers and were very frequently smart sailers, though not heavily canvased.” Kevin knew he would build only one boat in his lifetime and wanted it to be the right one. The Sharpie Skiff had a rich history and tradition behind it and was well suited for his home waters.

The bulkheads show the shallow V in the bottom of the sharpie.Jennifer Moroney

The bulkheads show the shallow V in the bottom of the sharpie.

Starting a boatbuilding project in earnest is often the hardest part, but Kevin found a solution for that: “Just order the lumber and when it shows up at the front of your house, you’ll look like an idiot if you don’t start building.” When his pile of plywood arrived, he set to work. The sharpie’s hull is marine-grade Douglas-fir plywood (½″ on the bottom, 3/8″ on the sides), the deck ¼″ okoume plywood, all sheathed in 6-oz fiberglass cloth and epoxy. The centerboard trunk and stern sheets are sapele; the laminated mast is southern yellow pine. He built the boat mostly by himself, but Jennifer and a few friends pitched in when two hands weren’t enough for the tasks. His friend Patrick, from Ireland, “helped me fit the stern on the strong back, rip some wood, and described what a good beer should taste like. He also helped me understand my Irish wife.”

the Thomas Edison and Henry Ford Wooden Boat Festival here in Fort Myers, FL.Kevin Moroney

After finishing the boat, Kevin showed it at a the Thomas Edison and Henry Ford Wooden Boat Festival in Fort Myers, Florida. He launched for the first time a few days later.

After working on the boat off and on for 26 months, it was ready to launch. He christened the boat SAOIRSE. Pronounced seer-sha, it’s an Irish feminine given name meaning freedom.

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.

Saajuu 470

In Finland and much of the eastern Baltic region, networks of interlocking lakes were once the only links between settlements and farms; boats were the only form of transportation. The endless miles of lake shore are littered with rocks and navigating these waters has always required a wary eye and a responsive boat. For centuries fishermen-farmers tending nets and traps had double-ended working boats with a broad beam and plenty of space for handling cargo as well as good maneuverability. They often rowed with one person amidships at the oars and another seated in the stern facing forward and using a single-bladed paddle. The paddler augmented propulsion and did the tight maneuvering needed to attend nets and navigate through rocks. In days gone by, the husband of a rural household would steer and handle the heavy hauling work while his wife sat amidships and took care of the rowing. A similar type of traditional working boat, the keluvene, was used to manage logs brought in rafts to lakeside lumber and paper mills. Assembling the logs at the forest and later sorting them at the mill required maneuverability and durability. In a church I visited near the mills I found a 1:2 scale model of a keluvene; located amidships was a large hand-operated windlass for managing logs, leaving space for a single oarsman on the front bench.

Ruud van Veelen combined elements of these traditional Finnish boat designs with modern technology to create the Saajuu 470, a lightweight and versatile lapstrake skiff. Ruud, a transplanted Dutchman doing business as Puuvenepiste, (Wood Boat Center), lives in Sulkava, a village in eastern Finland just 50 miles from the Russian border and famous for hosting the Sulkava Rowing Race, Finland’s largest annual gathering of wooden rowboats. The race has as a many as 7,000 rowers and courses ranging from 2,000 meters to 70 kilometers. Ruud developed a reputation among local competitive rowers by building an arguably revolutionary design of a racing Churchboat, a modern version of a kirkkovene, the type of long lapstrake boat once used to ferry congregation members to and from church. Ruud’s 12-meter, five-chine, plywood boat for 14 rowers and a coxswain was nearly 440 lbs (200kg) lighter than other boats in the long-boat racing class. He later used the same transition to plywood, epoxy, and computer-aided design to create the Saajuu 470, a multipurpose skiff based on the region’s traditional general utility boats.

The Saajuu 470 is 4.7 meters (15′ 5″) in length with a beam of 1,385 mm (53 ½″). The five strakes of glued-lap planking are 9mm okoume plywood; the stems and laminated frames are pine or spruce. The woodwork is bonded with epoxy and finished in either five layers of varnish or two layers of epoxy primer and three coats of high-gloss paint. Optional expanded polystyrene blocks secured under each of the three benches provide flotation (and meet the requirements of the European Recreational Craft Directive, category D, for sheltered waters). The interior has nothing extra, and isn’t burdened by the unnecessary weight of floorboards, risers, or inwales. In a departure from the traditional double-ended form, Ruud added a narrow transom to take a small gas or electric outboard.

Traditional Finnish rowing boats had closely spaced steam-bent frames. The Saajuu's glued-plywood lapstrake construction allows the use of widely spaced laminated frames. The folding tholes set the oars on the gunwales when not in use.all photographs by Simon Allston

Traditional Finnish rowing boats had closely spaced steam-bent frames. The Saajuu’s glued-plywood lapstrake construction allows the use of widely spaced laminated frames. The folding tholes set the oars on the gunwales when not in use.

The Saajuu 470 is outfitted with two pairs of Puuvenepiste’s Sarana oarlocks, folding stainless-steel thole pins. The pins are bent in an L shape, with the vertical leg going through a hole in the oar and the horizontal leg pivoting in a sleeve that’s welded to a bracket fixed to the gunwale. A flange on the vertical leg keeps the oar from wearing on the gunwale and a hole at the top for an R pin keeps the oar from slipping off unintentionally. The hole in the oar fixes the blade angle and has a nylon bushing to reduce friction and wear. Like most Finnish oarlocks, the Sarana locks don’t let you feather the oars. Racing boats are not allowed by Finnish Wooden Boat Rowing Association rules to have feathering oars and their most common fitting is a fixed upright metal thole that fits a cleat through-bolted on the aft-facing side of the oar shaft. The top of the thole pin is curved aft to prevent the oar from accidentally unshipping. The folding Sarana locks, also favored by racers, have the advantage of rotating the blades flat and bringing the looms inboard to rest the oars on the gunwales.

With a single rower aboard, the Saajuu is perfectly trimmed. The rocks in the distance are common along Finnish lake shores and require boats like the Saajuu to be easily and quickly steered.

With a single rower aboard, the Saajuu is perfectly trimmed. The rocks in the distance are common along Finnish lake shores and require boats like the Saajuu to be easily and quickly steered.

 

The lakes in this region of Finland are many and often expansive; waves reaching 5′ to 6′ are not uncommon. The upswept sheer at the bow helps the Saajuu ride high over waves rather than cutting through them, as the Puuvenepiste racing skiffs are designed to do. The Saajuu has rowing stations at the center thwart and the bow thwart and there’s space enough between them for rowing double. With a single 176 lb (80kg) rower at the center thwart the Saajuu sits perfectly trimmed and handles easily even with a passenger/paddler in the stern.

Without a passenger or a load aboard the Saajuu is very lively and easy to maneuver. The boat is so light, just 132 lbs (60kg) including oars and paddle, that the addition of a passenger feels like a dramatic increase in weight. When I rowed as the only occupant in the front position, the trim of the Saajuu was off with my weight so far forward, but even so it handled and tracked well. On the beach, the boat was not too heavy to handle on my own, and with a second pair of hands it can be lifted easily and carried to and from the water. The light weight and the 54 ⅜″ (1,385 mm) beam make the Saajuu quite convenient for cartop transport on a standard family-size sedan.

A paddler seated aft can contribute power and a high degree of maneuverability. The traditional paddle is long and has a grip like that of an oar.

A paddler seated aft can contribute power and a high degree of maneuverability. The traditional paddle is long and has a grip like that of an oar.

When I sat in the stern seat with the paddle while my photographer Simon was rowing, the boat was remarkably easy to maneuver from the stern with the 5′-long paddle. The paddle, typical of those used in racing, had a grip like an oar rather than a T-shaped grip common on canoe paddles. Facing forward, of course, I had a good view of what was ahead so Simon didn’t have to twist around to see over the bow. Paddling in synch with the rower keeps the boat moving smoothly and shares the load at the catch. Switching sides while paddling forward makes gentle course corrections without slowing the boat or putting a strain on the rower; ruddering and braking with the paddle is an option when quick maneuvering is required. While the Saajuu 470 has a fair curve to its sheer, racing shift or switch boats have gunwales that run absolutely straight over the rear 5’ or 6’, and the narrowed beam makes it easier to reach the water and paddle more powerfully. In the popular Finnish shift- or switch-rowing racing class, the two-person crews deftly swap positions on the fly every few minutes: Rowing and paddling use different sets of muscles and, as the saying goes, the change is as good as a rest.

The Saajuu's plywood construction and minimal interior outfitting keep its weight low.

The Saajuu’s plywood construction and minimal interior outfitting keep its weight low.

The paddle stows easily between the benches in the aft working area, where there is plenty of storage space for cruising cargo as well as fishing equipment, though it needs to be secured to keep it from getting in the way of the rower’s legs. While I was rowing I braced my feet against one of the spruce ribs. This wasn’t a problem during the short trial journey I undertook but I would have preferred an adjustable foot brace to save wear from shoes resting on the ribs of the hull and to provide a firm platform for the balls of my feet. Puuvenepiste offers sliding seats and while installing a sliding seat in a Saajuu would make it quite a competitive racing craft, this would require removing the central thwart and a little compensatory carpentry; not too difficult, but the alteration would compromise the flexibility of the craft’s general-purpose design. Puuvenepiste’s Savo 650 and Savo 575 are specifically designed for sliding-seat rowing whether for racing or cruising.

The Saajuu’s transom is wide enough to take a 3- or 4-hp outboard. The owner of my test boat used a small electric motor for trolling silently at slow speeds, although the same motor can propel the Saajuu forward at up to 4 miles an hour.

The Saajuu 470 is a very attractive craft, combining visual appeal with traditional lines and admirable handling features. At present it’s only available as a finished boat built in Finland, but Ruud promises that a kit package will be available from Puuvenepiste soon.

Anthony Shaw is a former school rower who has rediscovered the pleasures of “slightly competitive” rowing after a hiatus of nearly 40 years. He has lived half his life in Finland.

Saajuu 470 Particulars

[table]

LOA/15′5″
Beam/54.5″

Depth/23.9″
Weight, equipped/132 lbs
Recommended outboard engine/up to 4 hp

[/table]

Saajuu470C - Copy

 

A Finnish TV program video provides a good look the Sulkava Rowing Race with a shift-boat race start at 4:24 and a team trading places at 3:00. During the switch the boat loses less than a boat length to other racers. A church boat races starts at 6:00.

Scenes filmed in 1938 show a rural couple getting aboard a skiff (1:09) equipped with horned rowlocks, but the man doesn’t feather his blades. The woman sits with a paddle resting across the gunwales. A church boat (3:10) is equipped with 20 oars held by lanyards against single flat tholes.  The helmsman steers with a paddle.

Finished boats (but not plans) are available through Ruud Van Veelen of Suomen Puuvenepiste Oy. An authorized builder of Van Veelen boats in the United States is Walter Baron of Old Wharf Dory Company

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!

The E.M. White Guide Canoe

Not long after our first wedding anniversary—celebrated with an overnight canoe trip on the Narraguagus River in Maine—Sharon and I acquired our first boat, an 18′ Grumman aluminum canoe, complete with transom mount and matching wooden paddles. We are now happily approaching our 40th anniversary and after a lifetime of boating and camping, we felt the urge to semi-retire the old Grumman for a new and special canoe: a long-desired 18′ 6″ wood-and-canvas E.M. White Guide model.

Early wood-and-canvas canoes evolved from Native American birchbark canoes that were in common use in northern New England. Bark canoes were popular, so much so that Maine builders were eventually forced to range farther afield in their search for usable birchbark. The experimental use of readily available, cheaper, and more durable canvas marked the beginnings of a sea change in canoe construction. Early Maine canoe builders developed forms with metal straps where the ribs would be placed. After the ribs were steamed and bent over the form, the planks were applied and then secured with brass tacks. The metal straps on the form clenched the tack points, turning them back into the ribs. The new forms allowed consistent mass-production of canoes at low cost. In the late 1800s, a number of small canoe-building companies formed in and around Old Town, Maine. One of the early successful builders was E.M. White, who modeled his signature canoes after Native Penobscot birchbark designs.

The E.M. White Guide canoe that Sharon and I built is 18′6″ in length overall and has a beam of 37 1⁄4″ and a depth amidships of 13″. Unlike our old Grumman, the symmetrical Guide has a finer entry, making things much easier for the bow paddler. The canoe is slender, with a gorgeous sheerline that distinguishes this canoe from its modern fiberglass or plastic cousins. By omitting intermediate half-ribs but using a keel, floorboards, and lightweight canvas, we brought the overall weight down to just 83 lbs. We wanted to use locally sourced materials as much as possible in our canoe’s construction. The ribs and planking are of northern white cedar. The outwales, handles, and decks are cherry; the inwales are of red spruce, and the seats and thwarts are fashioned of white ash.

Building this “anniversary” canoe ourselves would make it more special. With some past boatbuilding experience, I knew that building a one-off wood-and-canvas canoe could be difficult in part because of the need to first fabricate a rather involved building form. Unless you plan to build a lot of canoes, it is hard to justify the investment of time and money in such a form, which perhaps explains why strip-built canoes are a more popular amateur project.

Fortunately for us, Island Falls Canoe Shop in Atkinson is located less than 15 miles from our home. Island Falls had the forms and jigs we needed to build a White Guide—in fact, Island Falls has many of the original White forms on site, some more than 120 years old. Equally important, Jerry Stelmok and his crew, Keith Stockley and Andrea Myers, have deep experience in building, documenting, and restoring these and other wood-and-canvas craft. We were fortunate to have them as our suppliers and mentors. I began construction, as their student, in November 2014. The project would turn out to be a great way to pass the historically cold and snowy Maine winter of 2014–15.

The definitive book on the construction of the E.M White Guide is Stelmok’s 1980 book, Building the Maine Guide Canoe. I followed this book step-by-step, and began the project in the milling room shaping and sanding ribs, decks, inwales, and stem blanks, creating a “kit” of parts to use in subsequent assemblies. Jerry sawed out the thin (5⁄32″) cedar planking, and together we ran the planking through the thickness sander.

Assembly of the canoe began with bending the ribs—a warming job on a cold winter’s day. The shop was filled with pleasant smells as the ribs steamed. Then ribs were bent on over the form and nailed to inwales previously clamped to the form. When we finished, I had my first peek at what our canoe was going to look like. After fairing the ribs, planking was the next step, and it too was an enjoyable task. Unlike the boatbuilding that I was familiar with, it was a delight to work with such light and easily shaped materials.

The partially built canoe has just been removed from the form. The ends are left unfastened to allow the canoe body to be spread out slightly to ease its removal from the formPaul LaBrie

The partially built canoe has just been removed from the form. The ends are left unfastened to allow the canoe body to be spread out slightly to ease its removal from the form.

After removing the canoe from the form, it was on to finishing the rest of the hull, including resetting every tack—over 2,000 of them—with hammer and clenching iron. We then installed cant ribs—the small ribs in the extreme bow and stern of the canoe—and the single-piece, breasthook-like decks. We installed temporary thwarts so the canoe would keep its shape during the remaining phases of construction. After getting a few coats of varnish applied to the interior and a coating of oil on the exterior, the canoe moves on to canvasing.

The first base coat of thinned varnish provided good preview of what the finished canoe was going to look like.Paul LaBrie

The first base coat of thinned varnish provided good preview of what the finished canoe was going to look like.

A long piece of canvas folded in half lengthwise and stretched between a wall and a post created a tight “hammock” into which we placed the canoe. With specialized pliers we stretched the fabric over the sheer and stems, and tacked it along the edges. After a once-over with a torch to singe the fuzz from the canvas, we applied three hand-rubbed coats of a special filler that waterproofs the canvas and fills its weave to produce a smooth surface. We left the canoe to let the filler dry. That takes at least one month, and in our case this cure time conveniently coincided with the holiday season.

When we returned to the project, the final installation was a straightforward process of fitting finished seats, thwarts, and handles, as well as the construction and fitting of the floorboards. Bringing all of the woodwork to a fine finish required a great deal of sanding and multiple coats of varnish. Over the filled canvas we applied several coats of burgundy-colored paint. We were delighted with the results.

The final step in canoe construction is adding the shop badge to the deck of the canoe. The folks at Island Falls Canoe say this step is optional, but I thought the badge was a necessary addition. It will always remind me of the project and of the guidance and camaraderie I enjoyed there.Rosemary Wyman

The final step in canoe construction is adding the shop badge to the deck of the canoe. The folks at Island Falls Canoe say this step is optional, but I thought the badge was a necessary addition. It will always remind me of the project and of the guidance and camaraderie I enjoyed there.

We first launched our new canoe at the Downeast Chapter of the Traditional Small Craft Association spring 2015 gathering on the New Meadows River in Bath, Maine. Spring is a wonderful time to show off a winter’s project to good friends and it helps having knowledgeable folk around to assist with the maiden voyage of any new craft.

First getting into the newly launched canoe, I noticed it was really quite stable—not as stable as our flat-bottomed Grumman, but not tippy either. The gentle roll was to be expected of the semi-oval bottom shape of the White Guide, but I credited the otherwise good nature of the canoe to its length. A shorter canoe would not have been as stable.

The White Guide is a great solo paddling canoe. White Guides can be built with or without a keel. Those built without keels are more maneuverable and typically used in quick or white water. Our canoe has a keel as my wife, Sharon, and I tend more to flatwater paddling.Rosemary Wyman

The White Guide is a great solo paddling canoe. White Guides can be built with or without a keel. Those built without keels are more maneuverable and typically used in quick or white water. Our canoe has a keel as my wife Sharon and I tend more to flatwater paddling.

Paddling solo from a kneeling position slightly forward of amidships and with my weight cheated to the side I was paddling on, I was able to make headway into the freshening breeze coming from downriver. The keel enabled the canoe to track well. In short order, however, my 62-year-old knees and legs—not helped by a winter of inactivity—rebelled against my kneeling position. This was not the canoe’s fault. After I took a brief tow from Dave and Rosemary Wyman in their Doug Hylan-designed Beach Pea, experienced paddler Betsy Miller Minott offered her help. With a mid-cove transfer from boat to canoe, Betsy was aboard to paddle the bow position, allowing me to move to the stern seat and paddle from that comfortable perch.

The White Guide is at its best with two paddlers. I’m paddling with fellow Downeast TSCA member Betsy Miller MinottRosemary Wyman

The White Guide is at its best with two paddlers. I’m paddling with fellow Downeast TSCA member Betsy Miller Minott

With two paddlers aboard, the White Guide flew with easy effort on our part, and we soon passed all of the boats in our Saturday fleet. Windage wasn’t an issue, and the White Guide showed good potential. We quickly reached our island destination, beached the canoe, and settled down for a group lunch.

The tide went out quite a ways during lunch, and our boats were left high and dry. The canoe, thanks to its light weight, was easy for us to carry to the water’s edge. Later in the day, we had an opportunity to save ourselves a lot of paddling by portaging the canoe over a patch of interisland clam flats. Lightness pays dividends at times.

When I arrived back home, I gave the canoe a quick rinse with fresh water and put it safely back in the garage. It’s often been said that simple boats are used more often than larger, more complex ones. For Sharon and me, our experience is that versatile canoes get the most use of all.

After a career in academic technology management, Paul LaBrie operated LaBrie Small Craft, a small boat design, build and restoration company, as a hobby business for 9 years. Paul is currently Treasurer of the Small Reach Regatta and is a member of the Traditional Small Craft Association.

White Guide Canoe ParticularsLOA:   18′ 6″
Beam:   36″
Depth:   12 1⁄2″
Weight:   80lbs

WhiteGuideLinesPS

 

Island Falls Canoe in Atkinson Maine, builds, repairs, and restores wood-and-canvas canoes. The shop also conducts classes for those interested in building their own canoes. The White Guide is one of many canoes they have molds for.

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!

Made in Vermont

I have always loved wooden boats of all kinds, but especially dories, for their elegant simplicity of design, the way they look upon the water, the way they handle in a heavy sea, and their rich and rugged history. I had known some in my youth on Cape Cod—tender, unadorned, straight-sided workboats with pine planks hammered together with clenched nails. They were appealing to me who, in a boyhood self-delusion of becoming a fisherman, saw a kind of beauty in old, scarred skiffs that was quite apart from gleaming hulls of thoroughbreds trimmed in teak and mahogany.

I never became a fisherman, but a lifetime later I awakened the long-dormant dream of building a boat of my own. I enrolled in a Greg Rössel course at WoodenBoat School to begin acquiring the necessary skills. There I saw, in an open shed and resting quietly among other boats in various stages of construction, a dory of a different sort. Compared to the working dories I’d known, it had a more refined, even genteel, look, gracefully bellied, the flat bottom narrow and lanceolate. The strake laps were studded with neatly peened copper rivets. The gunwales, thwarts, and tombstone transom were mahogany, lustrous even though awaiting the glow of varnish. I was smitten.

 

John Gardner, legendary small boat designer, builder, and author, was similarly smitten. He wrote in The Dory Book: “…the dories I had rowed and sailed on the upper reaches of Maine’s Passamaquoddy Bay were not the dories I found on the Lynn and Swampscott beaches, along the shores of Marblehead, Salem, and Beverly, and at the Cape Ann towns of Gloucester and Rockport. The round-sided dories … were a choicer breed than the straight-sided Bank dories used by fishermen elsewhere on the New England coast. The sweet lines of some of them all but took my breath when I saw them for the first time, out of the water in all their naked elegance. I reveled in their good looks and desired them as much for their beauty as for their use.”

John Gardner wrote: “These Swampscott boats are the aristocrats of the dory clan. Here is a Swampscott dory that is not too large for one man, or even a strong boy, to handle, yet large enough to retain all of the excellent qualities for which the type is noted.” While Gardner’s plans called for a sprit rig, I substituted this standing lug rig so that in an emergency while sailing alone I could drop the sail quickly while still at the tiller. The spars are all of solid red spruce (Picea rubens) and the tanbark sail is Dacron. Stephan Syz

John Gardner wrote: “These Swampscott boats are the aristocrats of the dory clan. Here is a Swampscott dory that is not too large for one man, or even a strong boy, to handle, yet large enough to retain all of the excellent qualities for which the type is noted.” While Gardner’s plans called for a sprit rig, I substituted this standing lug rig so that in an emergency while sailing alone I could drop the sail quickly while still at the tiller. The spars are all of solid red spruce (Picea rubens) and the tanbark sail is Dacron.

Upon first sight, this specimen of a Swampscott dory at the school, a cross between workhorse and thoroughbred, was what I wanted. I read books about these dories and their history, looked at photos online, and studied plans. Then, fortuitously, WoodenBoat School offered a weeklong course, “Building a Dory.” I signed up immediately.

Our instructor, Robert Elliott, had worked for years in Lowell’s Boat Shop in Amesbury, Massachusetts, where they have been turning out dories continuously since 1793. In class, Robert was sharp-eyed but soft-spoken, endlessly patient, deliberate without seeming so. He was also a philosopher—a requisite, it seems, for wooden boat builders in general. For example, when we were struggling mightily to make a joint fit absolutely perfectly, he stopped us and said, “You know, there are two kinds of ‘perfect.’ One, you see a flawless inlay, and say ‘perfect.’ Or, you’re in a boat that’s sprung a leak and is sinking and you don’t have a bailer, and someone hands you a battered bucket; ‘perfect’ you say, relieved. So, you have to decide which ‘perfect’ you want or need.”

As much as possible, Robert used hand tools—he had made many—and local materials to carry on Yankee traditions of thrift, practicality, and pride of workmanship. As I listened to him and watched him, his philosophy became my own, and I hatched my plan to build a dory: I would use native wood from my home state of Vermont, from trees I harvested and milled myself; I would use hand tools whenever I could; and I would make the sail myself, from traditional fabric. These were all things, of course, that New England boatmen used to do by necessity.

 

I would work close to home and close to the bone, and demonstrate that a beautiful and seaworthy boat (assuming it would turn out to be both) could be fashioned from wood of our own land, instead of exotic species that came from god-knows-where, with god-knows-what environmental impacts. I preferred to add “build a boat locally” to mantras of our times—“eat locally,” “buy locally”—for the same considerations of economy, ecology, community, and pride. When I eat game I have killed myself, or eat vegetables from my garden, I have an attachment to the food; it means something beyond that which merely tastes good or fills the stomach. I become aware of a shared history and feel the living on the same land. So too, building a boat this way would connect me to my home and feed my soul. Robert understood, of course, gave his blessing, and advised me on which woods to use and which not to.

In John Gardner’s Building Classic Small Craft, I chose the turn-of-the-20th-century Modified Swampscott Dory for its pleasing lines, the “certain minor modifications…to adapt it for amateur construction and to permit the use of materials currently to be had at most retail lumber dealers,” and an “overall length…not so great as to require building space in excess of what is available to most home workshops.” In addition to lines and offsets, there were also scantlings for everything, patterns for planks, and detailed drawings of the stems, transom, centerboard trunk, spars, and sail—all reassuring for someone who had never lofted or built a boat on his own.

Bill Manning fells a tamarack (Larix laricina), for use in the stem, frames, gussets, transom knee, and centerboard trunk bedlog, in locations where the species’ rot-resistance and durability are vital.Charles Johnson

Landowner Bill Manning fells a tamarack (Larix laricina), for use in the stem, frames, gussets, transom knee, and centerboard trunk bedlog, in locations where the species’ rot-resistance and durability are vital.

 

I had no suitable timber on my own land, and none of the big machinery nor the skills to harvest, haul, and process logs into lumber. Just as Robert Elliott had appeared just at the right time, Bill Manning was there when I needed his help. Bill and I have been close friends for decades, brought together through our work in conservation, he in the private sector and I in the public. He has lived and worked close to the land and sea most of his life: as a boy on his family tree nursery in Massachusetts (his great-grandfather brought the Colorado blue spruce to the East and was the first to propagate the Concord grape), in college by the coast of Wales, and later running outdoor programs at various institutions, even a couple he created himself, overseeing natural resources in Vermont. Bill, as rugged as he is slender, is vision-driven and his hands are always busy at or near the ground while his eyes are always on some project in the distant future. In the guise of north-country logger, he is an entrepreneur of rustic and rural enterprises. There is a common denominator to all his ventures (some would call them adventures): Provide the kind of ethics, education and training that allow people to conserve their land while being able to make a living on it and from it. He, like Robert, lives his philosophy.

Landowner Bill Manning with northern white cedar (Thuja occidentalis) harvested for the planking. These 12’ logs will be milled and planed, then scarfed to attain adequate length for the planks.Charles Johnson

Northern white cedar (Thuja occidentalis) harvested for the planking. These 12’ logs will be milled and planed, then scarfed to attain adequate length for the planks.

Bill owns 700 acres of timberland, from which he harvested and processed all the lumber for his home, barn, outbuildings, and the big central building of his self-started natural-resources education enterprise, the Vermont Leadership Center in East Charleston. Not one to dawdle, he readily offered his trees, equipment, and himself in my service. “What better way,” he said, “to demonstrate what you and I believe in.” He added, with a wry smile I knew well, “We’ll get to spend more time together, too.” Meaning: “You can help me later with some projects I have in mind.”

Bill Manning skids tamarack logs to his portable sawmill site, in preparation for milling into lumber.Charles Johnson

Bill skids tamarack logs to his portable sawmill site, in preparation for milling into lumber.

In 2003 Bill and I went out to get the trees, cutting plenty of extras to make up for unseen defects or mistakes I would no doubt make later in construction. We felled northern white cedar, as tall, wide, and clear as we could find for the planking, and tamarack for the stem, frames, and stern knee. Tamarack cut green would twist impossibly as it dried, so we cut dead ones after we made sure that they were not the home of any cavity-dwelling birds or mammals. Black cherry heartwood mimics the color of mahogany and would serve for the gunwales, transom, thwarts and rudder. Bill had plenty of air-dried and milled cherry in his barn, so what we cut would replace the wood we pulled from his stockpile. We limbed the logs and with his skidder dragged them to his portable Wood-Mizer sawmill. Bill taught me how to operate the gas-powered horizontal bandsaw and after I practiced on several low-quality logs, butchering a few of them, I milled 5/4 planks and Bill moved them with his tractor into the drying shed. The cedar would need only six months to dry enough for planing.

Bill Manning operates his Wood Mizer portable sawmill, milling out planks of white cedar. The rough planks are milled at 5/4”, to be planed later to final strake thickness of 9/16”.Charles Johnson

A Wood Mizer portable sawmill mills planks of white cedar. The rough planks are milled at 5/4”, to be planed later to final strake thickness of 9/16”.

Bill’s northern forest property did not have the right species for certain components, so I went off in pursuit of other quarry. I wanted apple crooks for the knees and found them in Montpelier. Another old friend, Warren Kitzmiller, and his wife had planted a crabapple in their front yard years ago when they moved into their house, and over the years it had grown large. Decades later, the apple was dying, a sad reminder of the wife he had lost earlier to cancer. With a heavy heart he cut it down. As he gave me the wood, he said, “It will be a fitting memorial.” At home I made a jig to hold the crooks and with my chainsaw cut them into slabs—thick pages of a precious memory book, they seemed—and lay them to dry atop the firewood pile in my shed.

Another friend in my town, forester-logger Paul Cate, took an interest in my project. He too loved wood, from standing trees to raw wood ready to be worked, and had the hand tools to fashion it. Among his admirable collection of carefully stickered boards of different species was the black locust I sought for oarlock pads, boom jaws, and little blocks for the running gear. It’s a very hard, dense, and rot-resistant wood that finishes to a beautiful, dark, butter-yellow. On his property Paul also had a grove of straight, medium-sized red spruce trees suitable for the spars; we cut several, thinning his stand in the process. At home I peeled the bark with a drawknife and set the naked poles under cover to dry.

For the tiller I wanted to use hophornbeam. It’s a tough and flexible wood used for axe and pump handles, befitting of its other names, ironwood and leverwood. I knew hophornbeam grew on a neighbor’s property where some logging was taking place, and asked the logger if he could put a piece aside for me. One morning there was a plank of it, roughed out by chainsaw, outside our front door.

I cut and carved a pair of oars from rough-cut white ash I bought at a local sawmill. For the centerboard I found white oak at a local woodworker’s shop, and for the centerboard trunk I salvaged wide white pine boards from the scrap pile of another neighbor’s house undergoing renovation. I was almost done scrounging for my mongrel collection, but had one more item to find. For sentimental reasons, I made an exception to my rule about using only Vermont-grown wood for one piece, the breasthook. It would be black walnut from a giant tree cut down a half century ago in the back yard of my boyhood home in Illinois. Decades later, a furniture-making friend in Montpelier designed and built a desk of that walnut, and gave me the leftover pieces, one of which became the breasthook, a little keystone holding together not just the boat but my past and present. I’m glad I didn’t know then that black walnut is considered bad luck in a wooden boat—it’s said to attract lightning.

 

Six months passed while my lumber dried. Bill and I loaded the cedar, cherry, and tamarack planks on a flatbed trailer and I towed the load to the Vermont Outdoor Furniture shop in Barre, a few miles from home. The owner, Bruce Gratz, had been building a magnificent oak and cypress catboat in a shed attached to the shop. I had stopped by several times to see his boat in progress, and he’d offered to run my planks through his industrial-sized planers when the time came. The time had come, and within a couple of hours, amid the whirr of machinery and the scent of cherry, cedar, and tamarack sawdust, we were done, and off I drove with my precious cargo to the next destination—the shop where I would put all the pieces together.

Lori Barg lives in the hills outside Plainfield, 8 miles from my home, in an old Vermont farmhouse she had renovated herself, including an attached building she had turned into boat shop. I had worked in that shop before, fumbling with a Shellback dinghy kit and making oars, using bandsaw, drawknives, and spokeshaves under her direction. A statuesque, earthy woman, she had worked many professions, sometimes all at once: woodworker, house builder, innovator of small hydroelectric generation, gardener, pick-your-own commercial berry grower, and builder and sailor of boats, canoes, and kayaks. Now I was taking my wood to her shop again.

With strakes copper-riveted together, planking is complete. Next steps: fit the false stem, outwales, and inwales. I added through-riveted spacers at regular intervals between the outwales and inwales to help stiffen the hull. I bored out loose black knots, and plugged the holes; I left the solid green knots. I built the boat right-side up instead of the traditional upside-down, so I could rivet the strakes by myself, using a leg to support the bucking iron.Lori Barg

With strakes copper-riveted together, planking is complete. Next steps: fit the false stem, outwales, and inwales. I added through-riveted spacers at regular intervals between the outwales and inwales to help stiffen the hull. I bored out loose black knots, and plugged the holes; I left the solid green knots. I built the boat right-side up instead of the traditional upside-down, so I could rivet the strakes by myself, using a leg to support the bucking iron.

For the next three years, off and on, Lori and I worked side by side: I lofting my dory on newsprint paper; she re-canvassing a canoe and building a lightweight sailboat without plans. (She had once lived in Bolivia, where she admired boatbuilders on a beach using only a few hand tools to construct beautiful craft, from memory, using techniques passed down through generations.) In summer, the big doors of Lori’s shop were open to the scents and sounds and views outside, across broad meadows to distant hills. We listened to music or talk shows on the radio; we mused about our lives and about wooden boats. In winter, we would start the woodstove in the morning, and work in coats and hats and sometimes gloves until the room warmed up. Neighborhood dogs would stop by and lie next the stove, and once in a while someone would drop in to see what we were doing, or just to chat.

The centerboard trunk has a black cherry (Prunus serotina) cap, white pine (Pinus strobus) sides, tamarack bedlog, and apple (Malus spp.) knees. The bedlog is affixed to bottom with silicon-bronze carriage bolts.Charles Johnson

The centerboard trunk has a black cherry (Prunus serotina) cap, white pine (Pinus strobus) sides, tamarack bedlog, and apple (Malus spp.) knees. The bedlog is affixed to bottom with silicon-bronze carriage bolts.

My boat slowly took shape, the pile of lumber and odd chunks of wood metamorphosing into recognizable structures, then the structures into a whole. Progress was halting and mistakes were common: Sometimes a day’s work would have to be undone the next, then redone the day after. I found myself often saying, “Thank God for epoxy.” It fixed errors that in earlier times might have meant tossing long-labored-over pieces into the firewood pile. I kept a list of all the mistakes I made, thinking that someday I might turn it into an amusing story. Lori lent a hand to position awkward pieces, looked on with experienced eyes to solve problems, gave a kind or corrective word, and lifted flagging spirits.

Ready for the water. Gleaming under the varnish is cherry (false stem, thwarts, gunwales), black walnut (Juglans nigra) (breasthook), black locust (Robinia pseudoacacia) (oarlock pads), and apple (knees). Note the two holes at the mast-partners – the mast can be shifted fore or aft depending on the boat load.Charles Johnson

Ready for the water. Gleaming under the varnish is cherry (false stem, thwarts, gunwales), black walnut (Juglans nigra, breasthook), black locust (Robinia pseudoacacia, oarlock pads), and apple (knees). Note the two holes at the mast-partners—the mast can be shifted fore or aft depending on the boat’s load.

Four years after I began, my dory was done, gleaming with its new coats of paint and varnish. On the inside top of the transom I tacked on an oval bronze nameplate etched with the name I had given her, NONA BELLE, to honor my wife, Nona née Bell.

Family and friends joined me on launch day at Wrightsville Reservoir, central Vermont. At right, in the green shirt, is my wife Nona, after whom the boat is named.Warren Kitzmiller

Family and friends joined me on launch day at Wrightsville Reservoir, central Vermont. At far right, wearing the orange flower, is my wife Nona, after whom the boat is named.

 

The day we launched NONA BELLE at a local reservoir was sunny and warm after the rain the day before, and many family members, friends, and onlookers were at the ramp as my wife christened the boat with soda water from a plastic bottle, avoiding broken glass and wasted champagne. I backed the trailer into the water and NONA BELLE glided out to the cheers of the crowd. She rocked gently in her new world, the painter like an umbilicus reaching to the shore. A birth indeed.

On launch day, I was a happy builder aboard Nona Belle. The oars are solid (not laminated) white ash (Fraxinus americana), and fashioned from two rough-cut, full 2” x 8’ planks. I sewed the leathers and buttons together with sail twine—no brass tacks used—to avoid putting holes in the wood.John Lazenby

On launch day, I was a happy builder aboard NONA BELLE. The oars are solid (not laminated) white ash (Fraxinus americana), and fashioned from two 8′ rough-cut, full 2”-thick planks. I sewed the leathers and buttons together with sail twine—no brass tacks used—to avoid putting holes in the wood.

As I watched the water-light dappling over her sides, I hardly believed that such a thing had come to pass. NONA BELLE had attained both of Robert Elliott’s kinds of perfection: perfectly beautiful and perfectly functional. But she was not my creation alone. She had come from many others: John Gardner, his wisdom and inspiration; Robert Elliott, his craft and tradition; Bill Manning, his land and trees; Lori Barg, her advice and companionship; Bruce Gratz, his careful finishing of the lumber; Paul Cate, his spruce for spars; the leverwood logger; my wife Nona, her spirit and her energy; Vermont’s enduring forests, their giving of the raw materials. All were there in NONA BELLE, floating on the water, waiting for me.

Epilogue: A concession to the modern age

 With the help of an expert, I made a compact solar array for recharging my hand-held VHF radio and batteries for other devices (hand-held GPS, AM/FM radio, flashlights) and for running an automatic bilge pump.

NONA BELLE's electrical system conceal most of its elements under the aft thwart and behind sealed covers. Charles Johnson

NONA BELLE’s electrical system conceals most of its elements under the aft thwart and behind sealed covers.

When in place, the frame holding the small photovoltaic panel sits across the gunwales near the transom. The panel sends DC power to a controller (to prevent overcharging), then to a 12V DC deep-cycle marine battery (not seen, under thwart forward of fuse/breaker box). The battery delivers power, via the fuse/breaker box, to two outlets (black caps) where the devices are plugged in. Though small, the battery can produce adequate power up to seven days without sunshine. To waterproof the box openings, I fitted the doors with rubber gaskets made from old inner tubes, and plugged the through-fittings for the wires with silicone sealant. The diminutive mast step and partners are for a post that supports the boom as a ridgepole for a tent-like cover I set up if I have to sleep aboard.—CWJ

Charles W. Johnson is the former Vermont State Naturalist, a 20-year veteran of the U.S. Coast Guard, and author of The Nature of Vermont, Bogs of the Northeast, and most recently Ice Ship: The Epic Voyages of the Polar Adventurer Fram. He is co-author of The Vermont Life Book of Fall Foliage and In Season: A Natural History of the New England Year. He has rowed and sailed on the coast of Maine and Cape Cod, and in Lake Champlain, Adirondack lakes, and Vermont lakes and ponds. He lives in East Montpelier, Vermont.

If you have an interesting story to tell about your adventures with a small wooden boat, please email us a brief outline and a few photos.

Steam-Cleaning Cured Epoxy

The C-clamps I’ve been using for a few decades now have seen more than their fair share of epoxy, either dripping out of the joints or dabbed on by the gloves I wear for gluing up. The accumulation of cured epoxy has coated the screws and the handles, limiting their range of motion if not seizing them up altogether. I’ve used a heat gun to soften up epoxy for removal, but that method creates a lot of unhealthy fumes and handling clamps individually takes quite a bit of time. Cured epoxy softens at around 200°F, but with a heat gun I have no way of knowing if I’m applying too little heat or too much, and while I’m heating up one spot, the rest of the clamp is cooling off.

A batch of clamps going into my foam steam box will be ready for cleaning in about 5 minutes.photographs and videos by the author

A batch of epoxy-fouled clamps going into my foam steam box will be ready for cleaning in about 10 minutes.

The temperature of steam and boiling water is 212°F, just on the high side of the temperature required to soften epoxy, so I’ve boiled my clamps in a rectangular stainless-steel cake pan on the stovetop and heated them up in my steambox.

Poached clamps: a cake pan full of water will heat several clamps quickly and uniformly.When the water comes to a vigorous boil, the epoxy is hot enough for removal.

Poached clamps: A cake pan full of water will heat several clamps quickly and uniformly. When the water comes to a vigorous boil, the epoxy is hot enough for removal.

Both methods work equally well, and neither produces the strong smell of epoxy that a heat gun does. After a few minutes steaming or boiling, the entire clamp comes up to a uniform 212° and holds that heat long enough to remove a lot of gunk.

A cheap plug cutter and a cordless drill make it easy to spin the screw quickly to strip the epoxy from the threads.

A cheap plug cutter and a cordless drill make it easy to spin the screw to strip the epoxy from the threads.

I don’t bother much with cleaning the body of the clamp. The moving parts—the screw and the sliding handle—are the only pieces that need to be free of glue to operate properly. I wear a rubber glove on my left hand to hold the clamp and with the other hand tap the handle back and forth with a mallet or hammer, and the glue strips away. The threads clean themselves when the screw is run back and forth a few times. Turning the screws by hand gets tedious, and the epoxy requires occasional reheating as the clamp cools.

A cheap plug cutter chucked in my cordless drill fits over the head of the screws on smaller clamps and straddles the handles, allowing me to spin the screw back and forth quickly. On larger clamps, the plug cutter doesn’t fit over the head of the screw, but it can straddle the handle; I can spin the screw easily, albeit with a manageable amount of wobbling. With the clamp reheated, a wire brush takes care of any remaining epoxy.

Before cleaning, this clamp had lost its full range and its smooth action.

Before cleaning, this clamp had lost its full range and its smooth action.

After cleaning, the clamp is fully functional.

After cleaning, the clamp is fully functional.

After cleaning, the clamps hold enough heat to dry themselves. Shifting the screw takes care of the water trapped inside the clamp’s threads, and a squirt of a spray lubricant finishes the job. Any other tools that you use when gluing up can be cleaned up quickly as long as they can tolerate the moisture and the heat. The next time you’re steaming wood for bending, throw some of your gummed-up clamps into the steambox and get them back in working order.

Speed clamping

With my clamps working smoothly I can use my cordless drill to spin clamps onto work I’m gluing up. To spin the bigger clamps smoothly I made a device that fits over the screws of all but my two largest clamps.

A 5/8" socket with grooves cut in it will fit over most clamp screws and engage the handle.

A 5/8″ socket with grooves cut in it will fit over most clamp screws and engage the handle.

I took an angle grinder to a 5/8″ wrench socket and cut slots to engage the clamp handles. A hex-drive bit with a ½″ socket driver connects the modified socket to my cordless drill. I can adjust the clutch on the drill to take the clamps uniformly up to the right pressure.

Manufacturers of architectural laminated wood beams use pneumatic drivers to spin clamping screws and the screws have square ends for that purpose; with a modified socket it’s possible to apply power to common C clamps too for speedier work.

 

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.