The Rescue Laser Flare Magnum (top) and the Green Rescue Laser Flare (bottom) project a beam that will be seen by your targets as a bright and distinctive flash of light but won’t cause temporary loss of vision or injury.
There are many tools you can use to call for help when you’re on the water: VHF radios, handheld or aerial flares, mirrors, flags, horns, smoke, and dyes. They all have their advantages and shortcomings; in an emergency you’ll want the tool best suited to the job at hand.
Greatland Laser’s Rescue Flares are effective visual distress signals. While pyrotechnic flares can be seen from any direction, they are short-lived and dangerous to handle. A laser has to be aimed, but lasts for hours if not days and is safe when used properly. Greatland’s lasers are available in red and green signals, both of which are the size of small flashlights. The red Magnum uses two common AA alkaline batteries for 72 hours of continuous use, and the Green Rescue Laser Flare has a single CR123 lithium battery good for 5 hours. The life of the flare is virtually unlimited: The laser diodes for the red light are rated for 10,000 hours, the green for 5,000 hours.
Both flares have rugged anodized aluminum housings, vinyl color-coded caps to protect the lens, and available nylon holsters with a webbing belt loop. To use the flare, remove the vinyl cap and simply twist the unit on. A sight ring aids in signaling a target; with the ring at the top, the fan of laser light is oriented vertically. Unlike simple laser pointers, which project a single dot of light, the flares produce a line of light that increases in length moving away from the flare. The green flare projects a beam covering 3°, the red 5°. At 8 miles, the red projects a beam 3,000′ long, and a 6,000′ beam at 16 miles. The spread of the light not only provides compensates for aiming errors, but also makes it safer for those who catch sight of it.
Eddie Breeden
The rescue flares have an integral sighting tube, but it can be difficult to see properly in the dark. To aim the laser without it, hold the flare next to your eye and hold out two fingers with your target in between them. Sweep the beam of light back and forth across your fingers and you’ll hit your target.
Which brings us to a caveat: Greatland Laser warns against viewing the laser at a distance less than 13 feet. Beyond that distance the power of the laser is below the level that can cause injury to eyes. Unlike laser flares, pointer lasers do not fan the light out, and their intensity isn’t radically diminished over distance: The flash of the single beam can temporarily disrupt the vision of pilots and even do permanent damage to their eyes. The light from the laser flares is much less powerful than that of many laser pointers, and yet still distinctive and visible at long distances.
How long? Greatland claims that in normal night conditions the Magnum flare is visible from 20 miles, the Green from 30. As a comparison, typical handheld signal flares offer just 5-mile visibility. Obviously, best distances are given at night, but daylight use is possible too, with a reduction in range, 3 miles for the Magnum, 3 to 5 for the Green.
To make sure there was no chance of the lasers being taken for signaling an actual emergency, we tested the visibility of the flares in broad daylight over a 3-mile distance in an area where the laser wouldn’t be noticed. The 3-mile distance is the maximum rated daylight range for the Magnum and the low end of the Green’s daylight range. When the flares’ beams fanned across us, we saw very brilliant flashes. The green did appear brighter. We were impressed. At night the flashes are even more brilliant.
Greatland rates the Laser Rescue Flares as waterproof to 80′. I tied the flares to a line, turned them on, and lowered them to a depth of 25’ for 15 minutes. I also left the lights, turned off, submerged in a bucket of water overnight. The flares survived both dunkings in good working order.
With the protective caps over the lenses, both of the flares provide a diffuse low-level light for close tasks without degrading night vision. The flares are very effective in locating objects such as buoys, markers, or clothing that are equipped with retroreflective material but be very careful when using the lasers for non-emergency use. While the laser flares produce a brilliant return from retroreflective materials, a bright white flashlight should be your first option for locating markers. Flashlights cast a much wider beam, and you’re likely to find what you’re looking for much more quickly; but, more importantly, a white flashlight is also much less likely to be mistaken for a distress signal and won’t put you at odds with the many and varied local laws restricting the use of lasers.
Keeping a Rescue Laser Flare tethered to your life jacket and at the ready would provide a brilliant, distinctive, and long-lasting emergency signal, a great addition to your survival gear.
Eddie Breeden grew up racing Moths and Lasers and has a bit of offshore sailing— Bermuda and Block Island—to his credit. A native Virginian, he’s an architect, married with four children. As an amateur boatbuilder he has built a Sooty Tern, an Eastport Pram, a cedar-strip kayak and a couple of skin-on-frame kayaks, all described on his blog, Lingering Lunacy.
The Rescue Laser Flare Magnum, $124.95, and the Green Rescue Laser Flare, $299.95, are available from Greatland Laser and their US and international dealers. (When this issue of Small Boats Monthly went live on January 1, the prices listed were for 2014. On January 6 we received word that Greatland Laser had to increase prices for the first time in eight years. The updated prices for 2015 are listed here. —Ed.)
Update, 4/2/19: The price of the Green Rescue Laser Flare has been reduced to $224.94.
Thanks to reader Michael Vetsch for suggesting this review of laser flares. Is there a product for boatbuilding, cruising or shore-side camping that you’d like us to review? Please email your suggestions.
Last April, Tom Potrykus launched his center-console outboard skiff, TRADEOFFS, in the shallow inshore salt water near Beaufort, South Carolina. When the hull touched the water for the first time, it was already 15 years old.
Tom had started building the boat in 1998 shortly after retiring. At that time, he and his wife, Sue, lived in Illinois. Tom found the plans for the 16′ by 6′ Shoestring skiff advertised in WoodenBoat magazine. It was designed by Karl Stambaugh for Gary Clements of GFC Boats in New Jersey. Tom bought the plans, a book on how to build a plywood boat, 13 sheets of marine ply, fiberglass cloth, epoxy, and the tablesaw and belt sander he had always wanted.
all photographs by Tom Potrykus
The outboard’s fuel tank is housed in the console to keep the weight more evenly distributed.
He got off to a good start, and in five months he’d finished the hull and given it a coat of primer. Winter brought a halt to the project, and he covered the hull and put out in the yard. It soon lay buried in the snow, but only briefly. Tom and Sue bought a house on an inshore island near Beaufort, South Carolina, so the hull was pulled out of a snowdrift and moved to their new home. Tom was eager to take up saltwater fishing and bought a used fiberglass boat. The unfinished skiff sat gathering dust under the house for 13 years and got to be a bit of a joke in the neighborhood. So last year Tom decided it was time to finish the project.
Tom and the hard-won fruits of his labors
This wasn’t Tom’s first boat. He had built and repaired several small wooden boats for power and sail over the years, so he had more than enough experience to take on building a Shoestring. It’s designed for easy construction. The plans include full-sized patterns for the frames, so lofting isn’t required. The ½″ plywood bottom and 3/8″ plywood sides are tacked and taped along the chines. Tom used deck screws to quicken the rough assembly and later replaced them with bronze to finish the construction. He modified the hull slightly by lowering the sheer about 6″. “I think the original design was for rougher water than I like to fish in,” he said. That lightened the boat, and Tom cut more weight by reducing seat console sizes. That reduced TRADEOFFS’ draft to accommodate South Carolina’s ubiquitous oyster bars. Moving the gas tank from the stern to the console leveled the boat and further reduced the draft.
TRADEOFFS, Tom says, “runs straight, true, and fast. The 50-hp Yamaha is all this 650-lb boat needs. It uses only as much water as a skiff, and handles the rough chop just fine, much to the delight of my wife.”
Tom reports that TRADEOFFS turns heads wherever she is launched or docked. “While I see room for improvement in my craftsmanship, people seem to appreciate looking at something other than yet another white fiberglass boat—a little brightwork goes a long way.” TRADEOFFS’ name, he says, “reflects what she is and what a lot of life is.”
Study and construction plans for the Shoestring skiff are available from Chesapeake Marine Design.
Have you recently launched a boat? Please email us. We’d like to hear about it and share it with other Small Boats Monthly readers.
BUNDUKI is a sport boat built to Australian John Georgalas’s Deep V 16′ design. Initially, the design was to be a one-off for an American friend, but the drawings have since been made available through John’s company, Classic Wooden Boat Plans (CWBP). For this design, John was inspired by the 17′ WYNN-MILL II, designed by Jim Wynn in the early 1960s. That boat was raced with great success, including a victory in the six-hour Paris Race. Wynn subsequently collaborated with Walt Walters and Don Aronow on a production version, the Ski Sporter, which was later dubbed, and became much better known as, the Sweet 16. That was the first boat built by Aronow’s company, Donzi Marine, after it was formed in 1964.
The Sweet 16 was about a foot shorter than WYNN-MILL II, and it lacked the original boat’s pronounced tumblehome aft, presumably because of the practicalities of molding it in fiberglass. At the height of production, 20 of these boats were produced each month. President Lyndon Johnson owned one, and the Israeli armed forces had a dozen of them, some of which saw action in the 1967 Six Day War.
The original brochure for the Sweet 16 described it as the “softest riding, driest high-speed sports boat ever built.” The 24-degree deadrise would have contributed to those characteristics, and this has been retained in the Deep V design, as has WYNN-MILL II’s tumblehome, which John and his American friend particularly admired.
all photographs by the author
Brian Reford, a student at Lyme Regis Boatbuilding Academy, built BUNDUKI with an eye toward wake-boarding and water-skiing. He was particularly drawn to the design’s pronounced tumblehome at the transom.
In March 2013, Brian Reford enrolled in the nine-month Boat Building, Maintenance and Support course at the Lyme Regis Boat Building Academy, where he had an opportunity to build a boat for himself. He wanted one that could be used for water-skiing and wake-boarding and, after looking at “masses of designs” on the Internet, he found the Deep V and ordered a set of plans from CWBP.
Having printed the drawings full size, Brian decided there was no real need to carry out any lofting, although he later came to regret that decision. His starting point was to make the eight permanent frames—mostly ring frames to include the deckbeams, but with three hull frames in the open cockpit area, which needed temporary braces across them. The way he decided to construct them—from ¾″ red cedar, 8″ deep in the keel area but much narrower in the topsides and across the deck, and with halving joints between their various components—was quite different from the detail in the CWBP drawings. He made those changes with the guidance of his course tutors, and from then on he gradually came to rely less on the plans and more on his own instincts and the tutors’ advice, a course of action which, he later realized, allowed him to learn much more than he would otherwise have done.
BUNDUKI, built to John Georgalas’s Deep V 16’ design, is a descendant of WYNN-MILL II, a legendary raceboat that gave rise to the speedboat company Donzi Marine.
The various fore-and aft components came next: the 3″ x 2″ mahogany keel, with four laminations along the majority of its length and twelve around the stem; the spruce chine logs, which started off at 1 ¾″ x 1″ before they were beveled; and three 1 ¼″ x ½″ red cedar stringers each side on the bottom and one at the sheer. The bottom was then cold-molded with three layers of 3/16″ Robbins Elite plywood, all in the same diagonal orientation but with their joints staggered. Brian decided to turn the hull the right way up to fit the stringers and the two layers of 3/16″ ply to the topsides, not because it would be any easier to do so—although it would be in the tumblehome area aft it would be harder at the flared bow—but because it gave him the chance to first check the fairness of the chine in the forward sections by eye and make small adjustments to it.
BUNDUKI is built of three 3⁄16” layers of cold-molded plywood laid over stringers set into notched frames. The angles of the deadrise and transom almost exactly matched those of the jet ski that provided the engine.
Now it was time for Brian to turn his attention to the power unit. He could, of course, have fitted a similar type of engine to the one originally specified for the Sweet 16—a 110-hp Volvo Penta with an outdrive—but he had other ideas. Primarily for safety reasons when water-skiing, he wanted to fit a jet drive, and he decided the best way to acquire one would be to take one out of an old jet ski. He managed to find a suitable one—a Kawasaki STX 3-Person Cruiser with a three-cylinder, two-stroke 130-hp engine—on eBay. Having removed its important parts, he cut a hole in the underside of his boat, rabbeted the outside of the hull around the hole, fitted the jet unit’s flange (which had been part of the jet ski’s hull) into the rabbet, and bolted it in. Fortunately the angles of his boat’s deadrise and transom almost exactly matched those of the jet ski. He could have kept the engine and jet as one unit and fitted them into the boat together—and his course tutors encouraged him to do so—but he wanted “the engine to be part of the boat and not the jet ski,” so he fitted conventional engine beds for it.
The bottom was reinforced with 15-oz biaxial cloth, and the entire hull was then sheathed in 6-oz cloth before being filled, faired, and painted.
But before installing the engine itself, he had more work to do on the bottom. After fitting a ¼″ plywood sub-deck and machining a 2″-wide rabbet around its perimeter, he turned the hull upside down again to allow the outside of it to be fiberglassed with 15-oz biaxial cloth over the bottom panels and then a 6-oz plain-weave cloth over the whole of the outside, around the sheer, and into the rabbet. The hull was filled, faired, and painted, and then turned the right way up again.
The visible deck is an overlay applied to a ¼” subdeck. It consists of a khaya kingplank and covering boards, and spruce planks caulked with black polysulfide.
A 3mm-thick decorative deck was then fitted. This consisted of a khaya kingplank and margins, and fore-and-aft-laid spruce planks caulked with Sikaflex and then varnished: three coats of two-pack followed by seven coats of single-pack. The dashboard and engine box top are both veneered with ash, with khaya trims and inlays. After every piece of plywood was epoxy-coated, the visible areas of the cockpit—the seat fronts, the inside of the hull, and the cockpit—were all lined with a polypropylene carpet.
The “gear shift” lever of the controls operates a bucket that diverts the jet drive’s water either forward or astern. The controls take some getting used to, for the shift’s neutral position directs the water straight down, causing the boat to move slightly.
On the Lyme Regis Launch Day, which is the culmination of the course, Brian christened his boat BUNDUKI, which is Swahili for “rifle,” in memory of his father, who once ran a gunsmith shop in Nairobi and who had recently died. BUNDUKI managed to get up to 38 knots that day, but when I met up with Brian six months later on a small lake adjacent to the River Thames at Pangbourne, environmental considerations would have restricted us to about 5 knots even if local by-laws didn’t.
Power is supplied by a two-stroke, 130-hp engine harvested from a Kawasaki Jet Ski.
The principle of a jet drive is that the engine, which is always in gear, drives a large impeller, which draws water through an intake in the bottom of the boat and discharges it at high velocity through a nozzle at the stern. The “gear lever” controls a bucket which diverts the water to drive the boat forward or astern, but when the lever is in neutral the flow is downward; this often results in a very slow, somewhat disconcerting, movement of the boat. With no rudder, the wheel turns the discharge nozzle to port or starboard.
BUNDUKI’s steering system allows about one-and-a-half turns hard-over to hard-over. This differs from jet skis, which have bike-type handlebars. At very slow forward speeds, BUNDUKI is difficult to steer in a straight line. However, steering became noticeably easier at about 5 knots, and Brian told me that at higher speeds it isn’t an issue at all. She is very easy to turn: At slow speeds with the wheel held hard over she will just keep going round in a circle in her own length, and Brian said that she “banks massively” when turning at top speed. When going astern, however, she takes a long time to respond to any turn of the wheel. The engine sounds a bit rough when it’s ticking over, but at slightly higher rpm it is much smoother, albeit with a deep throaty roar. With the whole timber hull acting like an acoustic musical instrument, it sounds very different from a jet ski. Brian thinks that the 55-liter fuel tank located under the foredeck will provide “just a few hours’ playing and that’s it; it isn’t very economical, but it’s a toy, so you’ve got to look past that.” He advances a similar argument to justify his tolerance to the high-speed noise levels.
When I rode with him, Brian had yet to use BUNDUKI for water-skiing or wake-boarding. In fact he still hadn’t fitted a ski pole, but he wants to take some care with this to make sure it is removable so as not to spoil the look of the boat. He will then be ready to take her to one of the several lakes near his home on the Thames. “But really the ideal place would be one of those lakes in America,” he told me. “A bit far away, but maybe one day.”
Nigel Sharp is a lifelong sailor and a freelance marine writer and photographer. He spent 35 years in managerial roles in the boat building and repair industry and has logged thousands of miles in boats big and small, from dinghies to schooners.
You can see BUNDUKI at speed in a video posted on the Boat Building Academy’s Facebook page.
BUNDUKI Particulars
[table]
LOA/16′ 4″
LWL/14′
Max Beam/6′ 9″
Draft (est.)/1′
[/table]
The Deep V 16’ is similar to the legendary Donzi Sweet 16 model, which in turn was a development of WYNN-MILL II. The Sweet 16, however, did away with the alluring tumblehome—presumably to ease production. Designer John Georgalas has revived the shapely hull in the Deep V 16’.
Plans for the Deep V 16 are available from Classic Wooden Boat Plans. The cost for the set is US $195. Plans are supplied as PDF files, which buyers must have printed.
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!
Joe Youcha wants to build boats. A lot of boats. Not only does he want to build boats, but he wants you to build one as well. Back in the 1990s, Joe was head of the Alexandria Seaport Foundation’s community boatbuilding program. He and his shop crew had built “a hundred different boats” with members of the community, but none that he considered perfect for introducing the public to the joy of building, and the math that goes along with it. He wanted a boat that not only could be built anywhere by anyone, but one that would be worth building as well, and one he could teach with. In his mind, the boat would be simple to build, with no single step in the building process taking longer than 45 minutes. The boat should maximize materials, and finally, the boat should be a stable and safe platform for its builders to use, together, to learn the basics of boating once complete.
all photographs by Matthew P. Murphy
Bevin’s Skiff is versatile. With the rig removed, it makes a handy yacht tender. A few rocks in the stern will keep the bow from rooting when the boat is being towed.
He decided on the most unassuming of American traditional small craft forms, the humble flat-bottomed skiff. Taking inspiration from Uncle Gabe’s skiff, a Chesapeake Flattie skiff described by Sam Rabl, in his book Boatbuilding in Your Own Backyard, and the Westport Skiff, as described by Bob Baker, Joe and his crew built a couple of prototypes before settling on a design he liked. What stood proud on the sawhorses was a 12′ plywood skiff for oar and sail. Joe wanted to name the boat UBIQUITOUS, but the shop crew shot him down on that one immediately, insisting that the boat be named after the Shop Supervisor: Joe’s dog, Bevin. Thus Bevin’s Skiff was born.
Hull number one was completed in the Foundation’s shop in 1997. Since that time, more than a thousand have been built by numerous programs, family boatbuilding events, and individuals. The boat has been built in almost all 50 states and in at least 12 countries around the world. Those are the boats that Joe knows of, anyway. In his travels as the head of Building To Teach, and The Teaching With Small Boats Alliance, Joe is constantly running into examples of Bevin’s Skiff. “Its like running into children I never knew I had,” he says. Most are simple, some are fancy, and one, from the Midwest, even has a mahogany runabout-style deck.
Bevin’s skiff is offered both in kit and plan form from the Alexandria Seaport Foundation. The basic plans for the rowing version are very detailed and include a 26-page step-by-step construction guide that leaves nothing to the imagination. A complete list of tools and materials is included, as well. Plans for a leg-o’-mutton spritsail rig are available separately. Although it is possible to add a rig to an existing Bevin’s, it is highly recommended that both sets be purchased at the same time, as later modification would require undoing some of the prior work to the foredeck.
The mast step and partners are simple pieces of joinery and form a solid support for the unstayed spar.
The boat is built using traditional plywood construction methods. No jig or strongback is necessary, although several sawhorses will make the job go more easily. The boat is fastened with ring nails, and all seams are payed with marine adhesive sealant before assembly to ensure against leaks. The two scarfed plywood side panels are fastened to a rabbeted oak stem, bent over one central frame made of fir with plywood gussets, and fastened to a transom fabricated from clear “two-by” lumberyard stock. The chine logs are then set in with more goop and ring nails before using the same technique to install the oversized plywood bottom. The bottom is then taken down to meet the side planks and the boat completed by the addition of a plank keel, skeg, gunwales, frames, seat rail, foredeck, and seats—all of which are fastened using the same method.
This is a boat that goes together in weeks of part-time work, not months, and many are assembled from kits over a weekend during family boatbuilding events. A more experienced builder with a little gumption could possibly bang one out in a week of nights. In my experience, the sailing rig doubles the average construction time, but adding the trunk, daggerboard, rudder, and spars is well covered in the plan; for the most part, it’s a simple operation. Shaping the round-sectioned tapered mast requires the most diligence to get right but, with a little patience, it is not beyond the average first-time builder.
I have supervised the building of four boats to this design as part of a fledgling after-school boatbuilding program for junior high and high school students. The materials list plainly states that only clear-grained stock and marine-grade plywood are to be used, but, faced with cheap boat or no boat, we constructed our first from exterior-grade fir plywood, and the best 2x6s I could pick from the pile, all glued with PL Premium construction adhesive and fastened with stainless-steel ring nails. The boat went together fine, and is still going strong five years later as a trailer-sailer. However, one should always strive to use the best materials available, and I would not recommend those materials for a boat that will spend summers floating at the dinghy dock. We then built two rowing models, one of which utilized 1/4″ marine plywood, with a plywood transom framed in fir, for a significant savings in weight. This “cartopper” model proved itself to be as capable a rowboat as the one built to the specifications, although I doubt the lighter construction could handle the stresses involved in adding the sailing rig.
Bevin’s Skiff is a fine sailer, stable and predictable. Although best as a singlehander, one may carry a passenger as live ballast on the center thwart without too much loss of performance.
And, finally, there’s UNDERDOG, pictured here in this article. She received a high-aspect-ratio centerboard lodged in a trunk underneath the center thwart, along with a low sprit rig. These modifications were made to make the boat more suitable to the high winds and rocky shores of Buzzards Bay. In addition, 1″ was added to her freeboard, as suggested by Joe Youcha. As the boat is designed, three sheets of plywood will produce all the needed planking for one boat, along with one extra side plank. That’s a boon when constructing multiple boats, but if you are building only one, the boat benefits from the higher freeboard.
In its barest form, Bevin’s Skiff has proved itself to be very capable under oar. As designed, the boat can carry 460 lbs, and I have rowed comfortably with two adult passengers in calm water without undue concern or incident. The flat bottom, combined with subtle rocker, makes for a very stable little boat—one perfect for beginners. But speed does suffer from the immersed transom when carrying a passenger aft. A second pair of oarlocks forward would help keep Bevin’s closer to her lines when carrying a friend. The boat will tow well as a tender, but care must be taken to locate the towing eye as low as possible through the stem, or the bow will have a tendency to root.
Setting up the Bevin’s Skiff for sailing is fast and simple. The rig of UNDERDOG, shown here, stows in a single bag with the sails laced on. Simply unpackage it, step the mast, and run the sheet.
Bevin’s Skiff is a fine sailer, too. It’s stable and predictable, sailing best while the occupants are sitting on the cockpit sole. If sailing will be the boat’s primary use, Joe recommends removing the aft thwart entirely in favor of more room for the skipper. Although best as a singlehander, one may carry a passenger as live ballast on the center thwart without too much loss of performance. As with many flat-bottomed boats, it is necessary to bring the weight down to leeward in light air. This allows the chine some extra bite, as the board alone proves itself insufficient for windward work at low speeds. When the wind pipes up, it is best to forgo cleating the mainsheet, as gusts will require a quick ease to keep everything right-side up.
Although there is no mention made of outboard power in the plans, it is a question I have heard from many. The transom and quarter knees are robust, and one should be able to mount a motor of less than 5 hp. A third knee between keel and transom would also be a worthy consideration. But remember: Bevin’s Skiff is no planing craft, and any more power would do little good and more than its share of bad for the structure of the boat and safety of the crew.
Bevin’s Skiff is not built for speed, but it can be speedily built. This little boat is the epitome of simplicity and utility. Few boats to be used in May can be started in April, or May, for that matter, and the hull is as forgiving to build as it is on the water. As intended, this is a boat for first-timers, but although simple, or perhaps because of it, Bevin’s Skiff will remain fun and useful well beyond the beginner stages. Given a little upkeep along the way, she will provide years of service to her owner. If you’ve never built a boat, build Bevin’s Skiff. If you have built a boat or two, find someone who hasn’t, and share the experience. You’ll be glad you did. So will Joe.
Christian Smith is a third-generation boatbuilder, and a circumnavigator, chainsaw artist, and general Renaissance man who classifies himself a “new old school Yankee.” He founded the New Bedford, Massachusetts-based youth boatbuilding program Greenfleet, and he cures his own bacon.
Bevin’s Skiff Particulars
[table]
LOA/11′ 8″
Beam/4′ 4″
Draft at 240 lb displacement
(board up)/ 3″
(board down)/2′ 4″
Sail area (as shown)/52 sq ft
Capacity/450 lbs
[/table]
Bevin’s Skiff is chine-built, which is to say that longitudinal framing members join the topsides to the bottom. It can be built without epoxy—a big plus if one is building the boat with children or young adults who lack the protective gear and skill to work safely with this glue.
At Cathedral Park in Portland, Oregon, the Willamette River was flowing gently, leaving barely discernible eddies around submerged pilings a few yards from the beach. Skamakowa was 75 miles downstream, and I had five days to get there, relying on the current and a pair of oars. My boat, named MAC after my father, is the first of the four dories I’ve built. A narrower and more elegant version of a traditional Gloucester working dory, MAC is outfitted with a drop-in sliding seat and outriggers. As I swung into the Willamette’s current under the long shadow of St. Johns Bridge, I pulled hard to get away from diesel and car exhaust, ski boats, and boom boxes, and headed to the other side of the river looking for the southern entrance to Multnomah Channel.
Barely 1/4 mile downstream I rowed past a line of berthed tugboats, and a deckhand on one watched me glide by. I hollered, “How far is Multnomah Channel, and where I can buy food once I’m on it?” He yelled back, “Two-and-a-half miles, make the turn, you’ll see Fred’s Marina!” I gave him a thumbs-up and then kept a steady cadence close to shore as yachts, ski boats, and fishing boats motored midchannel into Portland proper at the end of a warm weekend.
Sliding-seat rowing efficiently transfers my energy to the oars and keeps me moving and flexible. I tried kayaking, but my back couldn’t tolerate the sitting position: My legs went numb. The rear-view bicycle mirror clipped to the visor of my hat is my front-view mirror for rowing.
The usual afternoon northwesterly was in a kerfuffle with the river, and I rowed into a mild chop. In the bicycle mirror clipped on the bill of my baseball cap, I saw the entrance to Multnomah Channel begin to widen; over my transom the white summit of Mount Hood stood sentinel over the Cascade Range. Floating homes were packed along a mile and a quarter of the mainland shore of the channel, with Fred’s Marina anchoring the neighborhood’s southern end. The store had pints of milk, a dizzying array of sodas, coolers full of beer, smokie sticks, jerky, chips, cookies, V-belts, fuel filters, and gas. No fruit or veggies. I bought a package of jerky and a bottle of water and left, rowing past houseboat after houseboat, most with docks for porches, kayaks stored next to lounge chairs and ski, sail, and cruising boats tied alongside.
The concrete fixtures of some pipes used for flood control on Sauvie Island create a harbor just the right size for MAC.
A muscle boat blasted heavy-metal music, and I was eager to get to the farmlands and forests beyond this clutter of pleasure boaters still reveling in the weekend’s last hours. Although this was a no-wake zone, few boaters seemed not to know or care about that, and I hoped I would encounter less traffic farther up the channel. After an hour and a half of gliding northwesterly, the channel turned north into a lee and the water turned silky flat. I searched for someplace to eat, and asked a teenager hand-lining from a dock if there was a restaurant up the channel. He said “Yes, Mark’s, about 4 miles.” It was two hours to sunset, and I had another hour of rowing to get to the restaurant. Soon I smelled food coming from a kitchen, still a mile ahead. Mark’s turned out to be a floating restaurant in the middle of a neighborhood of floating homes, and the food was better than I hoped for—made from scratch with organic produce from the local farms. The advice was good, too: The staff warned me of pile dikes, submerged pilings, and the sudden opposing currents at the confluence of Multnomah Channel and the Columbia. The most valuable information was about the marine park on Coon Island, 5 miles downstream: The mosquitoes there were very bad. That wasn’t good news, for I sometimes have allergic reactions to mosquito bites. And besides, I didn’t relish being trapped in my tent listening to the incessant hum of flying bugs wanting a taste of me. I needed to camp where there was a breeze.
Fatigue set in as I got back aboard MAC. I had been on the water since five a.m., had traveled 23 miles, and needed to find a campsite soon. (I’d begun the day escorting a friend on the Bridge Swim on the Willamette, an 11-mile swimming endurance event through the heart of Portland.) The sun would set in an hour. Two standup paddleboarders quietly glided past me in sharp contrast to the floating party I’d experienced at the outset. The weekend was settling down, and despite my exhaustion, my hopes for serenity on the river rose.
The last three miles of Multnomah Channel offer quiet and solitude between wooded banks. Beyond the paper mill in the distance lies the Columbia River.
The dogleg in the channel ahead promised a gentle evening breeze on its northerly stretches, and as soon as the channel turned north, I found my campsite just out of view of a nearby farmhouse. MAC’s bow nosed into a flat muddy shingle, and I pulled on my rubber boots and carried dry bags to a grassy flat area. The tide would rise overnight, but I wasn’t sure how much, so I trailed a line from MAC to the tent. I’d sleep with it tied to my wrist. If MAC floated and drifted, I’d know it. I zipped the tent’s mosquito netting door down snug to the rope and, finally, stretched out to sleep. In the darkness, distant thunder rumbled while a gentle rain sharpened the smells of grass and earth.
A bend in the river surrounded by farmland and forests provided me a place to camp. With little current and minor tides in the Mutlnomah Channel I could leave MAC overnight only slightly aground. A line from her bow to my wrist as I slept was all I needed to assure me that she’d not leave without me.
I slept soundly and woke at 5 a.m., checking the weather forecast on my VHF with the volume very low to keep from betraying my presence. After spending 45 minutes quietly repacking and stowing gear, I pushed off and floated along on flat water with a gray ceiling above. As I leisurely ate granola and nuts that I’d soaked overnight in a ziplock bag with water and some powdered milk, cows slowly made their way along the roadway up on the bank. I had about another 10 miles—a little over two hours of rowing on the ebb—to reach the town of St. Helens and the possibility of a hot meal.
A river tug pushed a gravel barge by me. I rowed through the right-angle bends in the channel, and for long stretches silence surrounded me except for the rhythmic sound of rowing, the lowing of cows, and the chip-chip call of ospreys. On this stretch of the channel were the remnants of a fishing industry that fueled growth in this region until 40 years ago: Ships rusted in disuse, some sank in place. Rotting stumps of pilings with bushy green tops of volunteer grasses slid aft. An osprey hovered over the water in the distance. For almost three hours, I took in the pastoral quiet of the channel, watching the busyness of birds while the oar blades drifted aft and the current gently carried me downstream.
Ospreys, like this female in a nest on top of a dolphin by a paper mill, are often mistaken for immature eagles but adult osprey are two-thirds the size of bald eagles and have half the wingspan. Still, it’s impressive to see an osprey hover fifty feet above the water, fold its wings, plummet, and dive as much as three feet into the water, then emerge with a fish in its talons.
As I passed a paper mill an osprey with brown wing tops, gleaming white chest, underwings, and crown alit on its nest on top of a mooring dolphin. Fledglings tested their wings, flapping furiously while their talons gripped the edges of the large nest. As I rowed toward the base of the dolphin, the adult female osprey loudly admonished me with a sharp, descending skreeee. Forty years ago, DDT had driven ospreys to the brink of extinction. Now their nests are on the top of practically every mooring dolphin and navigation marker. The Army Corps of Engineers has accommodated the osprey by constructing nest platforms away from lights and markers on the Columbia River.
Pile dikes extend from both sides the Columbia’s shoreline. A “king” pile, the tall bundle of piles, marks the end of the pile dike for better visibility. These dikes are meant to keep the river banks from eroding and sediment from settling in the channel. Some argue that they do just the opposite. Either way they can cause small craft a lot of grief if trapped against them by the current. The river current during an ebb can exceed five knots and on many of the older pile dikes that kind of hydraulic scouring action wears each pile in a dike thin and the flow can pull floating objects against the dike. I avoided all of them.
The northern tip of Sauvie Island finally slipped by to starboard where Multnomah Channel flows into the Columbia. Off my port bow an 80-yard-long pile dike angled out from the St. Helens shoreline, forcing me into the middle of the river and closer to another dike, one extending 450 yards from Sand Island. In the ¼-mile-wide gap between the dikes, the current suddenly accelerated away from the marina entrance. I struggled to round the tall king pile and had to pull hard to get to the St. Helens marina.
At the long dock paralleling the river I secured MAC and walked up the ramp and into town. It was just 11 a.m., and I had to wait half an hour for the restaurants to open. After lunch, and feeling recharged, I ambled back to MAC. Mount St. Helens, the volcano that erupted in a 1980, was visible to the northeast.
When I rowed out into the Columbia, MAC began to drift upriver. I had dawdled through the late-morning slack tide and now I’d have to work against the flood, pulling down the river channel past sandy beaches and private and commercial docks. Three quarters of an hour later I pulled MAC onto the sandy north end of Goat Island to have a cup of tea and rest for a few hours. Anticipating a breeze, I set up my tent, curled up on my sleeping pad in front of it, and fell fast asleep.
Cargo ships crossed paths in mid channel while I rested on Goat Island. I am always awed by how ships as large as Panamax freighters can navigate so close to the shoreline as they cut their wakes upriver and down. With such close quarters on the river I use a smart-phone app to keep tabs on river traffic while I’m underway.
When I awoke, an otter at the water’s edge was staring at me. I lifted myself onto my elbow, and it ducked into the water and swam upstream along the shoreline. I lumbered up and checked MAC to see if anything had been chewed up by the otter. All was in order. I went back to my camp stove for a wake-up cup of tea while watching two freighters approach from opposite directions. Safe on the island, I opened the marine traffic app on my smartphone to get the names of the ships. This app has proven quite useful for checking on river traffic. Before I had it, I would call Vessel Traffic Services (VTS) on my VHF ship traffic advisories; now I can simply look at my phone to avoid the big boats headed my way.
The wind had increased while I slept, so I dragged my tent higher on the beach and waited for the wind to abate before heading to Kalama, a protected boat basin about 5 miles downriver. It was dark when I set out in a mild breeze. I checked my phone for river traffic, and found no ships in my area. I switched on MAC’s running lights, scanned the river for fishing and pleasure boats that wouldn’t shown on the app, and then pulled hard for 10 minutes to get to the Washington side. Then I turned downstream to Kalama. I rowed past a line of seven grain-elevator silos so brightly lit they ruined my night vision. Two miles farther downriver was the entrance to the Kalama marina. To my dismay, a freeway and a railway blocked me from town. It was almost 10 p.m., and I fretted about having to sleep on the dock. A security officer patrolling the boat basin got out of his car and asked me what I was doing. Upon hearing my plight, he called a motel, drove me to it, and said he’d keep an eye on MAC. I trusted him; he was the retired Chief of Police of Kalama, after all.
In the morning, after a shower and large breakfast, I called for a cab. Back at the marina MAC was right where I left her with everything intact, and in just 10 minutes I was back on the river. In the daylight I got a good look at Kalama and admonished myself for not checking access on my phone before stopping there. Its waterfront is industrial, and the marina is the only riverside accommodation for pleasure craft. There is a pedestrian bridge over the railway to an underpass under the freeway to get to town, but it’s a half-mile walk to get to it, and another half mile to the only motel in town. However, I could have made camp on Sandy Island, a 1½-mile-long wooded island directly across from the marina.
The morning was overcast as I rowed away from the noise of the freeway on the Washington side and pulled past Trojan, once the site of a nuclear power plant. Its 500’-tall cooling tower was an Oregon landmark until it was spectacularly brought down with an implosion in 2006. Heading northwest toward the Cowlitz River’s confluence with the Columbia at Longview, I stayed in the river rather than endure the noise of the freeway and railway along Carrolls Channel on the other side of Cottonwood Island. While following the 3-mile-long inside curve of the island, I felt a slight drizzle and pulled on my rowing jacket and snugged down my rowing cap. High slack at the confluence was still a couple of hours away. Longview was hidden behind Cottonwood Island, but I could see the steel lattice of the 1½-mile-long Lewis and Clark Bridge arching high over the Columbia. As I drew closer to the entrance to the mouth of the Cowlitz River, I began to feel the gathering countercurrent close to the island. The flood tide was still slowing the flow of the rivers, although not for long. I was apprehensive about the strength of the two rivers coming together.
At the north end of Cottonwood I pulled hard around the tip against the current and worked my way upstream 1/4 mile into the Cowlitz. There were several sportfishing boats anchored along the river’s ½-mile-wide mouth. I got my camera out to take pictures and let the current carry me out to the Columbia. While looking through the viewfinder, I heard a loud “Heads up!” I was drifting between a fisherman’s anchored boat and his fishing line. I lunged to the bow, lifted the fishing line over my running lights, an oarlock, my head and the stern light, and fended off the fisherman’s bow with my foot. Drifting away in the 5-knot current I apologized to the fisherman. Feeling foolish, I scurried into the Columbia and pointed MAC’s bow toward the gray fog downstream.
Green Point on the Oregon side of the river is appropriately named. It’s an expanse of granite wall covered with moss and topped with tenacious trees.
I moved quickly along the 5 miles of Longview’s working waterfront: gantries, conveyors, and cranes for containers, steel, lumber, logs, pulp, and paper. A bulk carrier was approaching on its way upstream, so I rowed closer to the Oregon side, waved to the GIOVANNA as it passed me at a stately 8 knots. While its wake rolled under me, I checked my phone for other traffic. There wasn’t any, so I turned downstream and pulled steadily for another half hour. The fog lifted and the breeze that had brought it upriver softened, and the sun peeked through holes in the gray. I approached Lord Island and turned into the protected channel behind Lord and Walker Islands. It was a quiet green passage, just water and trees, with not a boat on it. The sun sparkled on water rippled by an afternoon westerly. Egrets, seagulls, and Caspian terns called as I rowed toward Green Point, an expansive granite wall covered with moss and topped with tenacious trees. Riding an ebb that would last until about 6 p.m., I was averaging just under 5 knots.
An abandoned fish-procesing plant and net-drying shed at Mayger still stands on on the Oregon shoreline though the pilings holding them are all tilting upstream in a very slow collapse. In a few years it would all come tumbling down.
The afternoon wind created a mild chop, so I pulled to find protection behind Wallace Island. I saw calmer water between Wallace and Cooper Islands, but the slough there turned directly into the west wind. There MAC yawed between every stroke. My speed decreased to 2 knots, and my energy was draining fast. I looked for a place to beach MAC and make camp. I spotted an abandoned dock with a large clump of weeds at its end. There were no houses or barns in view, so I decided that no one would be alarmed if I tied up there for the evening. With MAC tethered, I wolfed down dehydrated pear and apple slices and made some tea. The effect on my demeanor was wondrous. The wind rose to a steady 15 knots and MAC tugged on her bowline. Her outriggers were banging hard against the dock. With five lines I finally secured MAC firmly away from the dock. I sat again on the dock, my spirits sagging as the wind buffeted me. Just up the ramp was a flat strip of mowed pasture grass with a tall hedgerow running parallel to the river. I set my tent where there was least wind and positioned its door toward the dock to keep an eye on MAC. The dock buckled and jerked in the waves. I’d have to use earplugs to get any sleep.
With the wind at a steady 15 knots MAC bucked and tug on her lines. I had to reposition her after the outrigged oarlocks started banging hard into the vertical edge of the dock. I could see gouges. Not good for the dock, not good for Mac.
It was a fitful night with a dog barking nearby, cows mooing, cars driving by on the other side of the hedgerow into the wee hours. I was awake at 5 a.m. The wind had softened and I quietly broke camp, loaded MAC, and shoved off, drifting happily while munching on crackers, cheese, and a bit of jerky—enough sustenance to get me back into rowing. In the morning stillness the overcast thinned as the sun rose. I headed for the Oregon side of Puget Island, thinking that if the wind did come up I’d find more protection there. I rowed around the island to its downstream end. There I found a B&B owned by Carol Carver and George Exum. They invited me to breakfast, and I would have stayed there that night had there been room. But Carol called another B&B and arranged for the proprietress to meet me in Skamakowa, another 5 miles down river, and the end of my voyage. George recommended I take a backwater slough through the Julia Butler Hansen Wildlife Preserve, so I headed for the Elochoman Slough.
I passed through the narrowest part of the 3-mile-long slough at high tide, the only time a boat with a 16’ wingspan would have rowing room. The passage was filled with great blue herons, northern harriers, geese, mallards, and Columbian white-tailed deer. I was startled by a four-point buck at the edge of the sedge grass, and we both jumped. The downstream end of the slough joins the Columbia and I rowed another mile along the river’s edge to Steamboat Slough, the quiet channel that would take me directly into Skamakowa. I rowed slowly, knowing I’d soon be leaving the river. There was a whole archipelago downstream from Skamakowa that I wanted to explore. I didn’t know when, but I knew I’d be back to wend my way to the Pacific, 33 miles downstream.
Dale McKinnon began rowing in 2002 at the age of 57 and in 2004 rowed solo from Ketchikan, Alaska, to Bellingham, Washington. In 2005 she rowed from Ketchikan to Juneau. The Salish Sea of Washington and British Columbia is her playground. She lives in Bellingham near her grandkids, with her partner, Berns, and chocolate Lab, Thea, and builds the Oarling for other rowers.
Building and Outfitting the Oarling
MAC is an Oarling, a Sam Devlin stitch-and-glue design that I built in 2002. She is 17′3″, with a beam of 3′10½″. At about 80 lbs, MAC’s not too heavy for me, at 143 lbs, to slide onto my car’s roof racks. The hull is built of 3/8″ okoume plywood sheathed with fiberglass and trimmed with mahogany gunwales.
The boat is outfitted with a Piantedosi RowWing, a drop-in sliding seat/outrigger device with a 5′ spread between the Concept II gated oarlocks. I row with 9½′ Concept II carbon-fiber oars called Big Blades, a style of racing oar from the 1990s. These hatchet blades are more efficient than standard tulip blades, and the carbon fiber oars are lighter and can withstand more abuse than wooden oars. The oars sleeves have one flat surface that sets the blades either squared or feathered in the oarlocks during the stroke. Collars attached to the sleeves prevent the oars from sliding through the locks.
At MAC’s launching, she’s ready to row with a Piantedosi drop-in rowing unit. Some builders of the Devlin Oarling put rowlocks directly on the gunwale or on short outriggers and row from a fixed thwart. I use a sliding seat not just for the more powerful stroke it provides but for the therapeutic exercise I can get in spite of a serious tele-skiing injury to my left knee and skydiving injury to my back.
MAC has plenty of room for gallon jugs of water, a tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, cart, handheld VHF radio, GPS, ice chest, espresso maker, anchor, 400′ of rode, tool kit, and dry bags filled with food, clothing, and toiletries. For this row MAC was relatively spacious. For a longer and more remote trip along the Inside Passage in 2004 I built Devlin’s Fairhaven Flyer, a 20′ version of the Oarling with more cargo capacity. When setting my gear bags aboard I trim the boat as best I can, but wind and sea conditions usually change during a day of rowing. I keep two or three gallon jugs of water near my seat and reposition them to keep MAC trimmed to a neutral “helm,” allowing me to row with even pressure on each oar. I usually row at 15 to 20 strokes per minute, a leisurely, efficient pace that takes advantage of MAC’s long glide. In rough conditions, a pulling boat is only under control when blades are in the water, so I shorten my stroke to reduce the amount of time my blades are out of the water. —DMcK
The Willamette and Columbia Rivers
This was a short trip with B&Bs, marinas, motels, and campgrounds accessible along both Washington and Oregon sides of the river. I looked forward to spending at least one night, if not all of them, in a bed with shower facilities. Although I prepare for all possibilities, as I age a bed and a shower are a necessity by about the third day of a rowing trip. The Lower Columbia must be rowed or paddled with a constant awareness of both wind and tide, particularly downstream from Puget Island. If the winds are easterly, the Columbia can be almost flat, regardless of flood or ebb tide, until one reaches Little Cape Horn. But past Little Cape Horn, an ebbing tide in a westerly can be dispiriting at best and dangerous at worst. While boating on the river it’s wise to have access to the information provided by the Automatic Identification System (AIS). The Marine Traffic app on my iPhone shows me the location, direction, speed, vessel names and call signs of all large marine traffic in the river. This allows me to keep clear of ships and anticipate and prepare for their wakes.—DMcK
This inner tube has more than enough length to get water out of a boat with 6′ beam. The hose is set up without twists to assure the unimpeded flow of the water.
The manual bilge pump that I use for my kayak isn’t very useful aboard my other boats. Without a hose it can’t get the water from the centerline some 3′ to the gunwale and overboard. My other pump, the one with a hose attached, went missing one day and I came up with a way to add a nice long hose to my kayak pump using an old inner tube for a 26″x 2.125″ bicycle tire. I cut away the section of tube with the inflation valve and had a 6’ hose that was just the right diameter to stretch over the spout of the pump. It worked like a charm. Used as a discharge hose, it doesn’t need to be reinforced the way an intake hose does. It works instead just like a fire hose, expanding only when the water fills it.
The inner-tube end has a keyhole-like cut to create a band to slip over the top of the pump. The short section is cut to form a strap between loops that fit over the other end of the inner tube to keep it in place during pumping.
I made a few refinements to keep the hose where it belongs when water is surging through it. To keep the hose from slipping off the spout if a kink stops the flow of water, I cut partway through the inner tube about ½” from the end. This creates a rubber band, still attached to the hose, that slips over the pump handle and around the top of the pump just above the spout. To keep the cut from tearing further, I cut a small circle at the end. To keep the other end of the hose from flying around I cut 6″ from the end and cut away most of the middle, leaving a strap between two loops. The loops fit over the hose and when snugged together give the strap enough slack to fit over a tholepin or oarlock and keep the hose aimed overboard.
The inner tube wraps flat around the pump, making a compact, easily stowed package. The integral band at the top of the pump keeps the hose from slipping off if you pump hard when there’s a bad kink in the hose.
I jury-rigged this hose just to get some rainwater out of a boat I have parked on a trailer at home, but I’ve come to prefer it to the hose-equipped pump that went missing. The inner tube had plenty of length to reach well over the side from any point in the boat and being flat when not in use, wraps snugly around the pump, making it much easier to stow. I happened to have an old inner tube on hand—I keep all of my old inner tubes to use for laminating spars—but I’d spend $5 for a new one and be well ahead of the cost of the reinforced hose.
Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats Monthly
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Elevated and contained by the Pack & Carry Fireplace, this campfire leaves no trace.
By the time I graduated from high school I had studied Latin for five years. There wasn’t much call for it as a spoken language, but I was fascinated by what it revealed about English words. One that I found particularly telling was “focus.” It’s the Latin word for fireplace. When we stare into a fire, it is easy to focus on the flickering flames to the exclusion of everything else around us. At a fireplace we can easily drift into an almost meditative state of relaxed concentration. In the out-of-doors, campfires are an integral part of the restorative quality of the wilderness experience but unfortunately they can scar the landscape. I stopped making wilderness campfires years ago—I’d seen too many campsites spoiled by half-burned logs and black scars on the ground.
SnowPeak’s Pack & Carry Fireplace offers us a way to enjoy the benefits of a campfire and leave the land as we found it. It folds up for easy storage and transport and, made of heavy-duty stainless steel, it’s built to last. It has a heft that won’t appeal to backpackers but the durability that comes with its stout construction is well suited to coastal camp-cruising.
The sloped sides of the Fireplace make it self tending: Wood slips downward into the heart of the fire.
Folded, the fireplace is ¾″ thick; opened it’s an inverted pyramid propped up on four sturdy legs of 3/16″ stainless rod. There are rows of holes along the upper edges of the sides for airflow. The spaces along the hinged edges also allow for airflow without being so large that coals and ash readily fall through. If the wood used is broken, chopped, or sawn to fit the fireplace, the fire is self-tending—as the wood burns it gathers in the center. (I usually carry a hand-operated survival chainsaw. It makes quick work of wood too thick to break.) Left to burn itself out, the fire leaves behind just a handful of charcoal, easy to pack out or carry to another campsite for the next fire.
When the Fireplace is folded, none of its sooty surfaces are exposed so you can handle it and still keep your hands clean. The carrying case adds an extra measure of tidiness.
The fireplace comes with a nylon carrying case that keeps ash and soot separated from your other camping gear. There are two accessories for the stove that I didn’t have for review: a flat steel base and a cooking grill and a support for it. The base plate is meant to reflect radiant heat from the fireplace and keep it from damaging the ground. I used the stove, less the base, over dry grass and leaves and the ground directly under the stove was merely warm to the touch. The base would be quite useful for supporting the fireplace on sand, and perhaps even snow; the legs sink in and don’t provide much stability. The grill can be set at different levels to suit the cooking job.
The fireplace I tested is the smallest of three sizes offered by SnowPeak. It’s 11″ square, stands 8″ high, and weighs 4 lbs. The medium fireplace opens to 13 ¾″ and the large to 17 ¾″. The fire in the small fireplace burns in an area just under a square foot, so it’s a small fire, but it brought a pot of water to a boil, dried a pair of wet socks, cast a warm glow, and took the chill off the 45° night air. It didn’t throw off heat the way a campfire burning large chunks of wood does—the fireplace’s cluster of glowing embers is contained in a small area and radiates warmth rather than scorching heat. I could sit right by the fire and be pleasantly warm and, yes, sitting there I could not help but focus on the flickering flames. The Pack & Carry Fireplace could return me to an element of camping that I’ve often missed.
Christopher Cunningham is the digital editor of Small Boats Monthly.
The small, medium, and large Pack & Carry Fireplaces area available from SnowPeak for $109.95, $149.95, and $189.95 respectively.
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.
The Navlite includes port and starboard lights secured in a case that can be folded to provide a baffle between the lights. It also minimizes the glare for a kayaker looking over the foredeck.
On the water, you may know who, what, and where you are, but after dusk, that may not be apparent to other boaters. Illuminating your presence becomes not only prudent, but US Coast Guard required. Small sailboats under 23′ “shall, if practicable,” display running lights to make your boat’s position and direction known. Small sail, row, and paddle boats must have “a white light that shall be exhibited in time to prevent collision.” I’d rather have running lights indicate my presence long before that time, especially in populous areas where an encounter at night with a speedboat is likely. Large vessels have lighting and electrical systems built in, but lighting for small craft is often hampered by short battery life, difficulty adapting to your boat’s configuration, lack of waterproofing, and impaired night vision.
The red and green lights can be removed from the case and displayed separately. The white light has a split ring secured to the webbing loop to provide an easier way to secure the light to a halyard or other line.
Tektite has addressed all these issues. The Navlite system is a well-made, rugged, and easy-to-operate set of side lights. The red/green lights are housed in a sturdy Cordura pouch with Velcro straps. Grommets and a webbing attachment point make the system quick to secure to kayak deck lines. The fabric housing is designed primarily for kayakers and rowing shells but the strap fittings on each light broaden the lights’ use on other small boats. An O-ring between lens and housing seals out water and a firm twist of the lens illuminates the lamp. Power is supplied by three AA alkaline batteries, offering a listed burn time of over 50 hours. The LED bulbs have a 10,000-hour life and use about one tenth the power of an incandescent bulb. A pair of LEDs in each light illuminate a 2″-long white plastic insert in the lens that radiates the light in all directions. The red light has white LEDs, the green light has green LEDs.
Each light has loops for 1″ webbing. The red port light here has been removed from the fabric case and set on the gunwale.
The Navlite’s brightness was quite good 100 yards down our dark driveway. I lashed the red lamp to a telephone pole on a straight country road, drove away about ¾ mile, and could still make out its glow. I took the Navlite and Tektite’s white Mark III 1-LED Chemical Lightstick Alternative along on a short cruise in my newly built 20′ open sailboat, UNA. When the sun set on our first day of sailing we were 2.5 hours from our anchorage. I tied the white light from the mizzen boom. I took the red and green lights out of the fabric housing and with 1″ webbing passed through the lights’ loops and secured them forward under the gunwales. The lights shone steadily and glistened across the water. After dusk, a tug pushing upriver was headed our way. I hailed him on the VHF and learned that he could make out our lights at a distance of 1.25 nautical miles. The wind died with the daylight and the oars came out. It was a comfort knowing that with my back turned to the bow these lights showed my presence. At anchor for the night I put the white light aloft on the main halyard. The light was still strong at daybreak.
That old adage, you get what you pay for, certainly applies here. The quality of the Navlite and the Mark III 1-LED make them well worth the price. Flexibility of use and adaptability from boat to boat make this a fantastic setup.
Eddie Breeden grew up racing Moths and Lasers and has a bit of offshore sailing— Bermuda and Block Island—to his credit. A native Virginian, he’s an architect, married with 4 children. As an amateur boatbuilder he has built a Sooty Tern, an Eastport Pram, a cedar-strip kayak and a couple of skin-on-frame kayaks, all described on his blog, Lingering Lunacy. His yawl, UNA, is the subject of the Reader Built Boat in this issue.
The Navlite, retailing for $59.95 and the Mark III 1-LED, for $19.95, are manufactured by Tektite.
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.
UNA is a double-ended yawl built by Eddie Breeden in his garage in Midlothian, Virginia. The project took him 10 months, and after he launched UNA in mid-July this year at Mattaponi River at West Point, Virginia, he was often asked: “How long did it take you to build it?” He’d logged his time so had a precise answer—567 hours—but he often felt the question was really “Where did you find the time?” He had an answer, of sorts, for that too: “How much television do you watch each week?” Average Americans watch between 24 and 50 hours of TV per week, so he has a good point: Not watching TV adds up to enough time in 10 months to build two or three boats like UNA.
Iain Oughtred estimates 600 hours for building his Sooty Tern design, the most recent development in a line of sail/oar faerings that includes the Ness yawl, Caledonia yawl, Whilly Tern, Tirrik, and Arctic Tern. These designs have options for sloop or yawl, gunter or lug rigs; UNA carries a balance-lug main and Bermudan mizzen.
all photos by Leney Breeden, agirlnamedleney.com
Here the main mast is set in its forward position for use along with the mizzen. It’s stepped in a box that guides the mast to its step and keeps the forward compartment watertight. When the mizzen is not raised, the main mast is set just aft of the foredeck .
The Sooty Tern has a length of 19′8″, a beam of 5′4 ½″, and a depth of 21″. The hull weighs around 300 lbs, 400 lbs fully rigged. The planking is 8mm okoume marine plywood, the gunwales ash. The thwarts and knees are white oak; the spars, floors, floorboards, foils, and side seats Douglas-fir; and the rudderhead, centerboard case cap, and deck hatches are cherry. Eddie built everything from scratch except for a few chandlery items such as blocks and deck cleats. His sails were made by Douglas Fowler Sailmakers of Ithaca, New York.
The rudder is controlled by a push-pull tiller that isn’t obstructed by the mizzen mast and easily shifts position along with the helmsman when tacking.
Eddie didn’t log the time he spent pondering: “Thinking through the boat’s systems became a compulsion. There were times I had to walk away from the project, either out of frustration or other life demands, but I can attest that the process and resulting boat were more than worth it.” His “obsessive daydreaming” led to a multitude of details that make his Sooty Tern like no other. While he was building UNA he documented his progress on his blog and found valuable support by participating in the WoodenBoat Forum. He has taken UNA on a couple of overnight cruises and won some informal races. “She has simply performed wonderfully. I’m enchanted by Iain’s designs, and hooked on boatbuilding.”
Have you recently launched a boat? Please email us. We’d like to hear about it and share it with other Small Boats Monthly readers.
In boating circles, the word friendship brings to mind the classic Maine-built sloop from which pre-internal-combustion lobstermen tended their traps. For Richard Armstrong, however, the word conjures up a different image—a small catboat designed for the burgeoning summer community of Friendship, Maine, in the beginning of the 20th century.
In 1925 Friendship summer resident, artist, and sailor Bill Kirkpatrick (“Billy Kirk” to his friends) set about designing a small boat that would satisfy the needs of his community. He wanted a simple, inexpensive craft that could serve as a sail trainer and family daysailer, but also provide spirited performance around the buoys. The Friendship Catboat was the result.
Early last fall, Richard Armstrong asked Buzzards Bay Yacht Services, the shop I work for, to build a pair of Friendship Cats. The plans arrived in my inbox shortly thereafter in the form of a single JPEG file that printed out to a scale of ½″ to the foot, along with a handwritten table of offsets. A quick trip to Staples resulted in a more workable copy, representing 1″ to the foot.
The lines showed a simple, two-chined hull with a flat bottom and measuring 16′1″ overall. The hull draws a little more than 4″ with the board up, and a beam of 5’8″, which is narrow in comparison to a Cape Cod catboat of that size. The boats also differ from a Cape-style cat in the pronounced rake of stem and transom. The plan shows a traditional gaff rig, somewhat high-peaked, with a boom that overhangs the transom slightly. The sail area is roughly 130 sq ft—more than ample to deal with the often light breezes of Maine and provide spirited performance when the wind pipes up. My first impression was of a handsome little boat that, while being easy to build, was also pleasing to the eye.
this and opening photo by John Robson
Buzzards Bay Yacht Services of Rochester, Massachusetts, launched two new Friendship Catboats last summer for longtime Friendship summer resident Richard Armstrong, who gave the boats to his daughters.
The summer residents around Friendship evidently agreed, and eight boats were built over the next few years for $100 each. Archie Thompson and Gene Brown of the Friendship Boatshop were in charge of the construction. The boats were a hit; families used them to explore the area’s rocky coastline, a competitive racing series was quickly developed, and many a boy and girl learned the fundamentals of sailing in the cockpit of the Friendship Cat.
One of those boys was Richard Armstrong, who first took the helm at the tender age of nine. Richard’s family had been involved with the boats since the beginning. His grandparents received one of the original five Friendship Cats, as did his great-aunt and -uncle. Some of the boats were passed through generations, while additional boats were acquired by his extended family over the years.
A resurgence of interest in the class began in 1979 with a boat built by the Apprenticeshop, which was then in Rockland, Maine. Six more were built in 1983 and 1984 by Doug and Paul Lash of the Lash Brothers Boat Yard in Friendship. One of these boats, HARLEQUIN, was built for Richard, and was on hand in our shop during construction of the new boats. Another, ANDIAMO, was built for Richard’s sister, Amy.
In all, 17 Friendship Cats have been built over the years, and most are still sailing today. Seven of those have ties to the Armstrong family. The older boats are mostly original, although all that are still sailing have been updated with ’glassed-over plywood bottoms, a modification that Richard himself introduced.
Jeremey Burnard
Richard Armstrong tows a line of Friendship cats home from the racecourse.
The original boats were built upside down, with heavy 3/4″ pine planking sprung over molds to meet the equally heavy oak stem and transom. The topside planks were riveted to the upper and lower chines every 4″, while the bottom was cross-planked with 1″ pine over a robust 8″ x 1 ¼″ oak keelson and fastened with ring nails to the 1″ x 3″ oak chine logs. The transverse oak framing was somewhat minimal, with three sawn pairs located at high-load areas. The trunk sides were also 1″ oak, screw-fastened without benefit of logs from below; the trunk housed a heavy oak centerboard. The trunk’s forward post tied into the aftermost full deckbeam, while its aft end is braced by a thwart that captures the after trunk post. Decking was 5/8″ pine over heavy oak beams.
By now you may have noticed that the word “heavy” is showing up a lot in this description. I believe this was as much a result of readily available lumberyard stock as it was the Friendship Boatshop’s familiarity with building workboats. Richard wanted his two new boats to be lighter and stiffer than the originals, and so chose plywood for the topsides and bottom.
We lofted the stations full size and built the pine molds directly on this lofting; we then stood the molds upside down on a strongback, notching them to receive the keelson and chine logs. A 2″-sided oak stem, faithful to the original, was added, as well as a ¾″ plywood transom, framed with ¾″ fir. To these, the ¾″ fir keelson and chines were bent, glued with epoxy, and fastened before planking. Plank patterns were taken off the mold using strips of 1/4″ plywood doorskin glued together with hot glue. These shapes were traced directly onto 3/8″ marine plywood that had been previously scarfed to length. Rather than stitching with wire to be removed later, the planks were epoxy-glued and permanently fastened with stainless-steel screws at chine, knuckle, stem, and transom. The plywood bottom was fastened to the keelson and chines using the same method, then sheathed in two layers of bidirectional fiberglass cloth set in epoxy.
At this point, the hulls were removed and braced to the correct shape while the decks were framed with ¾” fir, which in turn was stiffened by a series of plywood knee-like frames. The centerboard trunks were built of ½″ plywood over posts and logs of oak, and fastened using the same technique, before being through-bolted into place. The centerboards were cut from ½″ G-10 fiberglass sheet, while the rudders are ½″ plywood wrapped in ’glass, with copper-riveted oak cheeks.
The decks are 1/4″ plywood covered with Dynel set in epoxy, which added a little stiffness, along with providing a durable nonskid surface.The entire boat was sealed with epoxy before painting. Mahogany coamings were added, and the rubrails, cleats, and tiller are all of black locust. The boats are often sailed from the cockpit sole, like a Beetle Cat, so teak grating was fitted to keep the captain and crew’s bottoms dry. The spars are of solid spruce.
John Robson
Author Christian Smith revels in the simple joy of sailing a Friendship Cat.
The result is a stiff and rugged boat able to withstand years of use with a minimum of upkeep, while being lighter than the originals. The cockpit is capacious, and the volume sufficient to carry a family of four and a dog, if the pooch behaves itself. The teak grates make for comfortable, dry lounging, while the addition of two removable seat backs that brace against the forward coaming offer an extra level of comfort for passengers.
The flat bottom, long shallow rudder, and free hanging centerboard make for a great boat to explore the rocky marshes of the Westport River in Massachusetts, where Richard now lives. When faced with a calm, a captain of one of the original boats could row the Friendship Cat seated on the thwart aft of the trunk. On the new boats, this thwart was replaced with a wineglass-shaped knee at the aft end of the trunk, in favor of more room in the cockpit. A pair of long paddles live under the foredeck, and it is where they will stay if anything close to a breath of wind presents itself, as these new boats have shown themselves to be quite the light-air performers. The afterdeck supplies a wonderful space for the helmsman to sit—although, while sailing solo, I often found myself hiking my cheeks over the coaming onto the side deck in even modest puffs to keep the boat flat, where she sails best.
John Robson
Annabelle Armstrong skippers the catboat her father had built for her.
Let the boat heel, and the generous flare amidships helps keep everything right-side up. I did manage to dip the rail once or twice upwind, but everything remained smooth and fluid, with no sudden panic-inducing lurches; a subtle ease of the sheet or feather of the rudder brings everything back to rights. The boats exhibit excellent upwind performance for a cat, and easing the sheets only adds to the excitement, as even the heavier originals are known to get up on a plane when sailing off the wind.
This boat combines good looks, simplicity, and exciting performance. Still, every boat has its limits, and on an evening sail last summer I had to remind myself that this cat was designed for Maine’s light breezes and island-protected coast. I’d consider adding a second reef before calling it a sail trainer. It’s not a boat in which to conquer the heavy wind and steep chop of Buzzards Bay. Even a stiff breeze in the harbor will have the captain wanting a reef, or crew, or both. But, as the name “Friendship” suggests, this is a boat that invites company to enjoy in the fun. Whether on a Saturday family excursion to the beach down harbor, an evening cocktail cruise through the marshes with a sweetheart, or a wet windy afternoon around the buoys, the Friendship Cat will supply no shortage of fun and simple joy.
Christian Smith is a third-generation boatbuilder, and a circumnavigator, chainsaw artist, and general Renaissance man who classifies himself a “new old school Yankee.” He founded the New Bedford, Massachusetts-based youth boatbuilding program Greenfleet, and he cures his own bacon.
Friendship Catboat Particulars
[table]
Length/16’1″
Length on waterline/13’9″
Beam/5’10”
Draft/6″ (board up)
/2’4″ (board down)
Sail area/122 sq ft
[/table]
The Friendship cat, as measured by the Maine Maritime Museum in 1979.
The Pinguino 145 is a stitch-and-glue plywood sea kayak that comes as a kit from Pygmy Boats in Port Townsend, Washington. [The company closed in 2020. —Ed.] An alternate version, the 145 4PD (it has a four-panel deck), has a lower deck than the 145, on an identical multichined hull. With a beam of 25.5˝, the Pinguino isn’t as svelte as most of Pygmy’s other single kayaks, but its ample midsection offers good cargo capacity for a 14´6˝ kayak and very comfortable stability. Epoxy and 6-oz fiberglass give the 4mm, three-ply marine mahogany plywood strength and durability while keeping the weight down to an easily shouldered 36 lbs.
all photographs by the author
The cockpit in the top photograph is of the Pinguino 145 PD; the lower one is of the 145.
The 145 I paddled had an optional large cockpit opening that makes it very easy to get in and out. If having your legs tucked under a kayak deck makes you anxious, the 19˝ x 36˝ opening should put you at ease. I had plenty of room to pull my knees up for working out the kinks out and lounging about while afloat. The aft deck and the backrest on the 145 came to about mid-back on me. That limited layback for rolling but didn’t interfere with torso rotation while I was paddling. The 145 4PD has Pygmy’s standard 17˝ x 33˝ cockpit opening with flanges to accept adjustable and easily modified foam thigh braces. The fit of the 145 4PD was ideal for rolling and advanced boat control.
The seat is a simple affair: a self-inflating Therm-a-Rest pad Velcroed in place. With just the right amount of air bled out through its twist valve, I could float my sit bones just above the hull and have comfortable, evenly distributed support. The optional molded foam seat with integral hip pads would make the connection to the boat more solid, especially for paddlers with hips narrower than mine.
The Keepers foot braces are an industry standard. Their plastic pedals slide on aluminum tracks bolted to the hull. The pedals have locking levers that are easily operated by foot. Hook a toe on the far side of the pedal and pull, and you’ll trip the lever and move the pedal back. Hook a toe to trip the lever with one foot and push the pedal with the other, and it will slide forward. The foot room provided by the beveled edges of both the 145 and 145 4PD decks offered enough clearance even for my size-13 neoprene booties.
Hatch covers are cut from the deck after fiberglassing; they are held in place with straps and sealed with foam-rubber gaskets.
The hatch covers are cut from the deck after it has been glued and ‘glassed. Three straps with cam levers press each hatch tight against the foam rubber gaskets and flush with the deck. The levers have jogged edges to keep the straps from releasing accidentally. Earlier versions of these levers were smooth-sided, and the plastic loops that held them against the webbing could be disengaged by an errant sweep of a paddle or a kayaker climbing back aboard after a capsize. These more recent levers are secure without being difficult to disengage by hand. The hatches are as watertight as you make them. The straps must be adjusted to provide proper tension, and the gasket must be intact and clean to provide a good seal. Don’t be tempted to use the hatch cover straps for securing paddle shafts or deck cargo; they have a more important job to do. Rigging the hatch covers with internal tethers is always a good idea.
The deck lines are anchored with a combination of plastic pad-eyes and bolted loops of nylon webbing. Both of the Pinguino models I paddled had bungee patterns for holding gear both forward and aft of the cockpit and safety grab lines around the decks. I like to keep a backup take-apart paddle on deck, so I’d add lines to hold the shaft ends. As a builder you could easily modify or add to the arrangement. Thickened epoxy poured into each end while the kayak is stood upright allows you to drill holes through the stems for bombproof grab loops.
The Pinguino’s initial stability is exceptionally high. Angle your hips just a few degrees, and you’ll get nudged back upright, well before you start to feel twitchy. It’s quite well suited to relaxed paddling, fishing, and photography, or just hangin’ out, pursuits where you’re expecting the kayak to take care of itself and you. For more aggressive paddling, the Pinguino’s secondary stability provided me with solid support for edged turns. The righting force stayed quite strong with the sheer just submerged, and began to soften up as the coaming touched the water, but by then I was at the limit of my flexibility.
The 145 4PD sacrifices a bit of cargo capacity for a lower profile in the wind and a more compact fit. Its cockpit coaming rests on a deeply recessed deck panel, and a nicely sculpted piece provides a graceful transition to the peaked deck. The coaming and the backrest are significantly lower than in the 145; the layback clearance was excellent. Only the padding on my PFD kept me from getting my head to the aft deck. That position was not only great for rolling, but quite restful as I looked up at the sky.
On both versions, the Pinguino hull held a straight course while underway. The bow yawed perhaps 3˝ between strokes at a slow pace, about half that at speed, and had no tendency to stray off course. There wasn’t a rudder on either Pinguino, and while one is available as an option, I didn’t feel the need for one. The Pinguinos went where I pointed them, and almost any kayak can make tighter turns without one. The Pinguino turned quite nicely when edged. It continued to carve between strokes and even when I stopped paddling. When I put a strong edging on the kayak, the turning radius tightened but the stern didn’t skid around. While having the stern skid can be handy for maneuvering in tight quarters, it kills speed. By favoring carved turns, the Pinguino carries momentum well.
The Pinguino turns nicely when heeled to one side, or “edged”; in this position, it will continue to turn even when the paddling stops.
I did some speed trials in the still waters of a marina, and with a GPS I logged 4 knots at a relaxed all-day pace, fast enough to match the average pace of a group of average kayakers. I could hold 4 ¾ knots at a fast sustainable aerobic effort, and peaked at 5 ¾ knots. Those aren’t racing numbers, but that’s not the sort of kayak it’s meant to be.
All of my paddling in the 145 and the 145 4PD has been during the summer “doldrums,” so I haven’t had much wind for my sea trials, but I have yet to paddle a Pygmy kayak that can’t manage a crosswind without making a fuss. Pygmy designer John Lockwood seems to have found the sweet spot of boat trim where the lateral resistance above and below the waterline are in balance, and his kayaks aren’t plagued by a tendency to weathercock.
For rolling and self-rescue drills, I much preferred the 145 4PD for its lower aft deck and snugger cockpit. Rolling was a cinch, especially when I used a layback rolling technique. A long sweep of the paddle brought me up on the aft deck with minimal effort. Wet-exiting after a capsize wasn’t hampered by the standard cockpit’s shorter and narrower opening. The Pinguino’s light weight made it easy to empty water from the cockpit. I could lift the bow of the capsized kayak and hold it high while the water drained out. After I let the kayak roll itself upright, only a couple of pints of water remained in the cockpit. To reenter from the water I was able to get up on the aft deck with a single kick and lunge. The opening of the standard cockpit was long enough for me to get back aboard seat-first, then feet—a quicker and more stable method than having to slide feet-first into a shorter cockpit. The reenter and roll was also easy. I could slip into the capsized kayak by setting it on edge; then as I submerged, I could quickly lock myself in and roll up.
The Pinguino 145 and 145 4PD are versatile kayaks, even though they are a couple of feet shorter than most standard touring kayaks. It’s a well-mannered design with a respectable cruising speed and a good amount of cargo space for carrying several days’ worth of camping and cooking supplies. Its high stability makes it a platform well suited to a variety of non-paddling activities. If you’d like to develop your skills as a kayaker, I’d highly recommend the 145 4PD for its lower profile. It doesn’t sacrifice much carrying capacity for the other advantages it offers.
Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats Monthly. He has been building kayaks and other small boat since 1978.
Pinguino 145 and 145 4PD Particulars
[table]
LOA/14′6″
Beam/2′ 1½″
Depth 145/13″
Depth145 4PD/11½″
Weight/36 lbs
[/table]
Pygmy Boats has been closed since the outbreak of the pandemic and isn’t filling orders. The review is now presented here as archival material.
In September 2013 I was perusing the Internet and stumbled onto a forum about an adventure race called the Everglades Challenge (EC). Intrigued, I found the homepage of an organization called the Watertribe where it described a grueling race that would test even the hardiest adventurers.
It begins at Florida’s Fort Desoto State Park in Tampa Bay and runs roughly 300 miles south to the Sunset Cove Hotel in Key Largo. How boats get there is up to their crews as long as they sign in at each of the three checkpoints along the way within the allotted deadlines. The boats are all small because each solo racer or team of two must drag their boats from the high-water mark to the water’s edge without assistance. The EC is unsupported; you’re on your own.
Thomas Head collection
After the quick build we christened the dory JESS and set her in the water for the fist time.
The EC was in March, only six months away, and if I were to do it, I needed a boat. A man named Neil Calore had won the event in 2012 in some very tough conditions in a kit boat, the 17′ Northeaster Dory. I ordered the kit with a balance-lug rig, and it arrived in mid-December. It would be a challenge itself to finish by the end of January and have enough time for sea trials, but by mid-January I had a hull and spent the rest of the month making the seats, centerboard, and spars.
On February 3, 2014, we christened the dory JESS, after my oldest daughter. Sea trials followed. The dory rowed quite easily, and the lugsail proved to be a good choice, as it was simple and easy to handle, and moved the boat nicely—especially on a reach.
Thomas Head collection
The starting line of the EC is an impressive array of small boats stretched out across the beach.
Thomas Head collection
I arrived at Fort Desoto one day prior to the race for last-minute preparations and race briefings. Just making it to the starting line is half the battle. The half yoke on the rudder and the push-pull tiller provide full control of the rudder without having to shift my position in the boat.
They say the hardest part of the EC is making it to the starting line, but on March 1 I stood there proudly with my boat and family, ready to embark. Shortly after the bagpipes played, the whistle was blown. The kayakers flew off the beach first, followed by the catamarans, then the larger sailing vessels. With most of the crowd away, I eased JESS into the water and was off.
Do I take the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW) or the Gulf of Mexico for a more direct route? Winds were forecast at 5 to 10 knots from the northwest that first day. Ideal sailing winds and a calm Gulf made the decision easy. I rounded Passage Key and entered the Gulf. The winds were mild and I tried a little “motorsailing”—which is to say, rowing with sails up. I averaged over 3.5 knots. After I rowed for an hour, the wind picked up and I was making 4.5 knots under sail on a course to Stump Pass.
Thomas Head collection
The adventure begins under clear skies. A steady NW wind was perfect weather for sailing. Minutes after the start, JESS trails the sailing fleet.
The sea breeze kicked in that afternoon and I was surfing with a nice 2′ chop. The winds quickly picked up to a steady 15 knots and the Gulf built into steep, closely spaced seas. I was suddenly surfing white-capped 2′ waves doing almost 8 knots. I should have reefed, and I wanted to, but I had to keep the dory on a straight course and if I left tiller, I’d broach. I held on and ran with full sail.
But I needed to get out of these conditions. Running Stump Pass at night in big breakers was not an option. The GPS showed Venice Inlet 5 nautical miles away. It has long breakwaters that extend out 120 yards; I would have to jibe to sail down between them. As I crested a wave I made the jibe and was in the trough when the sail whipped over. A wave broke on the stern and the rudder came off. Luckily, I had tethered the rudder to the boat. The boat broached violently, and I sprang forward to drop the sail. It came down quickly, landing half in the water. With my sail and rudder both dragging in the water, I grabbed the oars and rowed hard to avoid the rapidly approaching rocks. My port oar was hitting the lugsail yard, limiting my stroke. I managed to get the boat to the middle of the channel, but the tide was ripping out against incoming rollers and I was stuck there and making no progress. I eased into the lee of the barrier rocks on the side of the channel, pulled the sail aboard, and rehung the rudder.
As I continued south along the Intracoastal, I berated myself for not following the rule of reefing early.
A little after 1 a.m., I made Checkpoint 1 at Cape Haze Marina, just south of Stump Pass. After getting into dry clothes, it was time to set up camp. I preferred sleeping in my hammock, but there were no trees available to string it to, so I arranged the boat for the sleeping bag. It was a short, restless night, but I woke around 6 a.m. in high spirits. Craving strong coffee and hot oatmeal, I set up my stove and made breakfast. After eating I felt strong and eager to get going.
It was 85 miles to Chokoloskee, the second checkpoint, and there are many different routes to it. I chose to take the ICW to Gasparilla Pass, and then move outside. This would allow me to avoid some bridges, channels, and boat traffic. I rejoined the ICW at Boca Grande, made good time, and arrived in San Carlos Bay early in the evening. I camped on Picnic Island rather than attempt Sanibel Pass at night and avoid running Big Carlos Pass, the next practical camp area, in the wee hours. I had covered only 35 miles, but I’d make up for this by getting an early start on day three. The hammock worked great, and I was asleep by 11.
I was up by sunrise and made it through Sanibel Pass to the Gulf. Winds were light but favorable; however by afternoon they picked up and I was reaching at a steady 4 knots. I arrived outside Big Marco Pass just after dark and ran Big Marco River rather than round Cape Romano. I coasted through the river and entered the Everglades in the wee hours Monday morning.
It was a dark, moonless night and there wasn’t an ounce of wind as I rowed through the small outer islands and back into the Gulf. Seeing the reflected night sky was like peering into another universe. Bioluminescence stirred around my oar tips and mixed with the starlight.
I rowed a few more miles and decided it was time to camp. No longer among the long barrier islands with sandy beaches, I was surrounded by clusters of mangrove islets. I approached several, shining my spotlight as I looked for a sandy spot to land. Roosting birds squawked loudly and hundreds of mullet jumped in the shallows. I eventually found a campsite.
I had been moving nonstop for 22 hours, covered 55 nautical miles, and rowed the last 12. I needed sleep.
The low-hanging sea grape trees and mangroves were not ideal for the hammock—their skinny limbs bowed under the strain. The hammock had mosquito netting, but in the time it took to climb in and rezip, 50 mosquitoes had made it in with me. I was too tired to care and quickly fell asleep to their steady whine. JESS, tied to a mangrove stump, rested on a patch of sand.
I woke around 7 a.m. and peered out at my little dory, high and dry about 30 yards from the water’s edge. It was dead low tide. The sand was littered with rocks and shells. I cleared out a path the best I could and tried to move the boat, but it was firmly suctioned to wet sand and wouldn’t budge. I finally managed to wrench it free and get it afloat.
Thomas Head collection
I arrived at Checkpoint three, Chokoloskee, in the early afternoon. It was too early to stop for the day, so after a quick resupply of water I set out again for New Turn Key.
I hoisted sails and reached to Indian Key, the entrance to Chokoloskee, and arrived at Checkpoint 3 early in the afternoon. I cleaned up with a hose at a fish-cleaning station and refilled my water jugs. Refreshed, I headed out through a maze of mangroves toward the outer islands. It was a hard row against the tide, and I didn’t reach the outside until sunset.
I had a challenging night of sailing on a reach with 2’ seas. The wind eventually died, and I rowed the last 3 miles in a choppy Gulf and made it to New Turn Key around midnight. As I rounded the tip of the island, I aimed the spotlight on a wide beach that had a very shallow slope, but it was covered with large rocks and shells. The tide was dead low and there was about 30 yards of exposed rocky beach. I would normally set up a clothesline loop on the anchor to pull the boat out to deep water, but I was exhausted. I found shrubs to hang the hammock on and tried to get some rest. I didn’t manage much sleep; I could hear the dory getting beat up on the rocks as the tide eased in. I woke several times and pulled her as far out of the water as I could. The mosquitoes filled the hammock each time I opened it.
At sunrise I gave up trying to sleep and pressed on. The weather channel was chattering about a frontal system a couple days out and approaching South Florida. I could continue inside along the Wilderness Waterway to Flamingo, Checkpoint 3, or remain outside around Point Sable and enter from Florida Bay. My plan was to take the outside, weather permitting.
The winds were forecast as south at 5 to 10 knots, so I opted for Point Sable. The wind was light and I “motorsailed” with the oars. By afternoon the winds was a steady 15 knots. The waves were a steep 2’ and closely spaced–so much for the 5–10-knot forecast.
On a beat the dory, light and lug-rigged, couldn’t make progress south toward Point Sable. She didn’t carry the momentum needed to punch through the waves. I was 5 miles out and 38 miles north of Point Sable. Darkness would descend in six hours, and I was in a rough sea forecast for 6’ to 8’ the next day. I was very concerned. I needed a new plan.
Unable to sail, I decided to try rowing toward Point Sable. I rowed hard into the chop, but at my average of 1.5 knots, it would take 20 hours to row to Point Sable. Needless to say, I was daunted by the thought of spending the night getting tossed around on the Gulf. It was time to scrap Point Sable. Ponce De Leon Bay was 6.85 miles away, and from there I could pick up the last of the Wilderness Waterway.
I plugged the coordinates for the bay into the GPS and started rowing hard—really hard, still averaging a knot and a half. If I maintained this pace, I’d make the entrance by sunset. Failure was not an option. I took it one mile at a time.
I neared the bay entrance just before sunset. The closer I got to the shoreline, the shallower the water became. The wind started ripping and the waves turned into breakers. The dory made a cracking sound as it slammed into the backs of the largest waves. The last mile was the worst. Once again, I was spent and had to dig deep.
Rounding the last point at the northern edge of the bay and entering Shark River, I was thrown a real treat: a favorable tidal current. For an hour I rowed the twisted river, making 5 knots over the bottom. I tore into a can of smoked oysters and chased them with sardines, then entered Whitewater Bay just as the sun set.
Thomas Head collection
After spending most of the day in rough, windy conditions my hands were quite waterlogged.
I rowed what seemed like an eternity through the canal that leads to Flamingo. I arrived at Checkpoint 3 shortly after 2 a.m., having covered 50 miles, 15 of them rowed. I had a bad blister on my lower back from leaning into the centerboard trunk on the pull stroke. My sleep-deprived brain seemed to be operating in slow motion, and simple tasks were a challenge.
Fantasizing that Flamingo was a luxurious resort, I imagined indulging in a hot bath, a four-course meal, and a good night’s sleep. What I got was a horde of mosquitoes, a cold sink in a muddy bathroom, and dehydrated beef stroganoff. Several kayakers were already snug in their tents when I arrived, and by the time I set up the hammock it was after 3 a.m. I was giddy at the thought of a good night’s rest.
The skies appeared clear, so I didn’t set up the rain fly. The usual mob of mosquitoes joined me inside the hammock. I fell asleep quickly but was awakened about 30 minutes later to the rumble of thunder and gusty winds. I rolled out of the hammock as the rain began to fall, and retrieved the rain fly from the boat about 100 yards away. I set it up as quickly as I could in the rain, with the mosquitoes attacking me.
Thomas Head collection
In the predawn light I made a last check of my gear. We’d been warned not leave any food stored in boats overnight. Raccoons would have raided the stores. I was glad I covered the boat with a tarp because it also kept everything from getting soaked from a heavy dew.
So much for a good rest. Around 5:30 I woke and peeked outside. All the kayakers were gone. Feeling like I’d overslept and was late to work, I jumped into action. The wind was forecast to blow 20–25 all day, and I was glad I wasn’t on the Gulf. A little reorganizing of the dory, and I was rowing Flamingo Channel out to Florida Bay.
I had studied the charts of the bay for many hours in preparation for the Everglades Challenge and had a good plan to get across. The winds were very strong, out of the SSW at 20 knots. I rowed up to the last channel marker, put in a double reef, and raised the sail. Off I went with a ripping wind.
The channels were well marked, and I flew along on a broad reach averaging 5.5 knots. I could be at the finish line by early afternoon. I exited Twisted Mile and popped out into a very steep, nasty chop. Sheeting in the main, I tried to point to Jimmie Channel. Waves washed over the rail filling the dory, and I sailed with one hand and bailed with the other. There were rocks to leeward and I couldn’t ease off. I steered a few degrees downwind of the channel entrance—the best I could do—and ran aground in muck just shy of the entrance. Hopping out, I sank to my thighs, leaned on the boat, and trudged to deeper water. Afloat again and with the oars ready, I jumped back in. I was soon back on a reach making good time.
A quick jog through Manatee Pass, and I was back in a protected bay heading toward the Intracoastal Waterway and very close to the end of the race. I sailed by a fellow competitor in a kayak and we exchanged greetings. As I approached the Intracoastal, I paused to put Sunset Cove in the GPS. The kayaker passed me, paddling very casually. With the numbers entered, off I went. Glancing astern, I couldn’t believe what I saw.
Dana Clark
This storm hit when I was about two miles from the finish line and packed high winds. Weather can be big challenge and the EC officials emphasize that you are the captain of your ship and should not venture out in conditions that you’re not confident that you can manage safely.
The sky was black from one end to the other and a roll of clouds was closing fast. There weren’t any islands close enough to provide a lee. I was smack in the middle of a bay. I’d just have to deal with the storm when it hit. I passed the kayaker and pointed astern. He looked, whipped around and took off at an Olympic pace.
I was a half a mile from shore—I could see the houses and docks clearly—when the front hit with a sudden gust. I dropped the sail. A wall of rain sped toward me and when it hit I lost sight of land. It was blowing from the west, gusting over 40. The dory didn’t seem to care and ran with the wind under a bare pole. I simply sat and waited. I knew I was rapidly approaching shore, but couldn’t see it. If I washed up on rocks, JESS would take a horrible beating. I hoped for a rare sandy beach. Suddenly I saw a green marker and started to make out the shoreline. I steered to starboard and a red marker appeared. I was going to make it.
I coasted into the marina of Buttonwood Bay Condos. People on their balconies watched the storm, and I waved to them as I coasted into a nicely protected slip. They looked a little puzzled.
Dana Clark
Having sailed through high winds and driving rain, I approached the finish with a deep reef in the sail.
The storm let up after about 30 minutes, and with a light rain and strong but steady wind again I raised a reefed sail and headed out. The looks from the condo dwellers went from puzzled to stunned as I left marina. I was 5 miles from the finish.
Dana Clark
I arrived at the finish smiling at the sight of my three girls waiting for me. It was the first time I’d seen them since the race started. One of the great gifts of the EC is a fresh perspective on what truly matters.
Rounding the point into Sunset Cove, I looked for a crowded dock. I snaked through anchored boats and then saw people jumping up and down waving and cheering. It was the finish line. The whole scene was a little overwhelming. My brain was foggy and processing very slowly, and I stopped the boat just short of the dock to allow my mind to catch up. Then I spotted my family in the crowd.
Dana Clark
Finishing the EC requires a steady if not grueling pace. The final days of the EC are the toughest, your brain is foggy and your body is worn from working the last few days in a saltwater environment.
It was over. The Everglades Challenge had lived up to its reputation. Both my body and mind had been tested, and both were, at last, relieved.
Thomas Head collection
After the race I posed with the T shirt bearing my Watertribe name. In my left hand is the award for the win in my class and in my right the coveted shark’s tooth awarded to all finishers.
A native Floridian, Thomas Head grew up working on his father’s home-built stone crab boat in the small coastal town of Inglis. He has 19 years of service in the U.S. Navy. Thomas ranks his boatbuilding and sailing skills as novice at best, but he loves wooden boats. His review of a handheld depth finder also appears in this issue.
Building and outfitting the Northeaster dory
Building the Chesapeake Light Craft Northeaster dory was as straightforward as a kit build gets. CLC’s LapStitch stitch-and-glue method is simple and the machine-cut rabbets make aligning planks much less fussy than ordinary stitch-and-glue where panels fit edge to edge and are susceptible to drifting out of alignment.
I stuck to the building plans with the exception of making the mast partners permanent (they’re normally removable to allow tandem rowing) and leaving out the forward thwart. Two rigs are offered for the dory: sloop and balanced lug. The lug is a simpler sail to handle and did exceptionally well running and reaching. The extra reefs I added to the sail came in handy during the race.
I built my boat on a tight timeline and had my share of unexpected delays but no major goofs. I built the dory in my backyard with a circular saw, a belt sander and an assortment of homemade clamps made from PVC pipe. Don’t let a lack of tools keep you from building a boat.
The Northeaster proved itself seaworthy in previous Challenges and consistently performed well in EC’s monohull sail class. I had no significant problems dragging the dory unassisted across beaches, navigating winding mangrove channels or sailing open water in rough conditions. It draws mere inches, an advantage in shallow Florida waters. I had plenty of freeboard with my racing gear aboard and I would confidently carry a much heavier load for cruising at a more relaxed pace.
Outfitting the boat for the EC was both fun and challenging. Food, shelter and safety were the three main areas I had to address. With two days as my longest planned time between check points, I was confident five gallons of water would be enough. For energy during the day I ate a variety of energy bars and snacks and each night I used a MSR Reactor stove to boil water for a Mountain House camp meal. Sleeping in a small, tender dory is difficult, so I chose a Hennessy Hammock for my primary sleep system and slept ashore whenever possible. It worked great in a variety of terrain. My safety and contingency equipment included a hypothermia kit, safety signaling devices and additional flotation. The most important piece of gear was my life jacket, It had to be comfortable, hold some safety gear and be reliable. I used a Ronny Fisher by the Astral Buoyancy Company. Designed as a PFD for kayak fishing it provided plenty of places to attach and store necessities. The Watertribe website has a list of required equipment and tips for packing light that would be useful for anyone planning to do some wilderness cruising in a small boat. —TH
The Everglades Challenge
The Watertribe‘s Everglades Challenge is a tough seven-day adventure race with a few rules that make it unique and challenging. The primary rule is that racers are on their own from start to finish and entirely responsible for their own wellbeing. Self sufficiency is very important because the course goes through some very remote areas; you may go a couple of days and not even see another racer or have cell-phone coverage. Racers should not expect any assistance unless they activate an ELB in an emergency.
Boats may only be human or wind powered and must be dragged by the racers without any assistance, if only at the start at the start—about a dozen yards from the high tide mark to water’s edge. This requirement keeps the boats small. There are four classes of boats: kayaks, sailing catamarans, monohull sailboats, and experimental craft. The starting line of the EC is an awesome sight of cool boats outfitted to the gills for a serious expedition.
Each racer must sign in at all three checkpoints by a set deadline. The time allotted between points requires racers to keep moving. It is about 60 nautical miles from the start to the first checkpoint and racers are given 29 hours to complete that first leg. That’s an average of two knots without stopping. Factor in stops for sleep, weather or other contingencies and the result is a pretty aggressive timeline. Subsequent checkpoints are farther apart and are given more time, but a steady pace is still required. Most racers will complete the 300-nautical miles in four to five days.
Just making it to the start of the EC is no easy task and requires a lot of preparation and commitment. When the whistle blows, racers drag, push, and even roll their boats to the water’s edge. They will tackle a wide range of coastal conditions, headwinds, storms, ripping tidal currents, exposure and fatigue. Racers must have a measure of mental toughness just to keep moving forward. Those who attempt the EC are guaranteed a fresh perspective on what is hard and meaningful in life and for those who finish, a great sense of accomplishment and confidence. —TH
I prefer to anchor out when we are camp-cruising, but with Alaska’s 20′ tide range that isn’t always an option in some of the shallower coves. Boats with flat bottoms wide enough to keep them upright will ground comfortably on a falling tide, but our Caledonia yawl, with its narrow keel, will come to rest heeled over. This is where beaching legs, also known as sheer legs, come in handy. This decidedly low-tech gear is just the thing to keep your boat upright on the beach, allowing the continued use of your boat as a base camp between tides.
Without her beaching legs, this Caledonia yawl would be resting on her planking and heeled at about 10°, the angle of her deadrise. With the legs she’s level, supported by her keel and gunwales and fit for habitation.
Captain Ahab’s spares? The author’s yellow cedar beaching legs were a driftwood solution to the problem of sleeping aboard on a falling tide that would leave the boat high and dry in the middle of the night.
Although it would be tempting to make an adjustable set of legs, the sort used on larger boats, this isn’t necessary. I made a simple set from an Alaskan yellow cedar pole I salvaged from the beach on one of our camping trips when it became obvious that we were going to spend the night high and dry. They worked so well, I brought them home and refined them a bit.
The length of the legs was determined by holding the boat level on a flat beach and measuring from the bottom of the outwale to the ground. To that I added 12″, so there would be enough above the rail to secure the legs to the boat. The legs are notched to tuck under the outwale, providing a good strong contact point with the boat. It is better to err on the short side from foot to notch, since you want the keel taking most of the weight. Mine are then tapered toward the foot, which was also left wide for a nice bearing surface on the ground. If the ground is especially soft, a flat rock or a slab of driftwood will keep the foot from sinking.
A thole pin serves as the simplest of attachments for a beaching leg. The pin pulls the notched leg in tight so the load can be taken by the outwale
The upper end of each leg has two Velcro straps, secured with screws and finish washers, which are wrapped tight around the tholepins (something that could easily be adapted to a more conventional oar lock). On big boats it was standard practice to through-bolt the legs to the hull and run guy lines fore and aft from the foot of the leg to the rail, but this doesn’t seem to be necessary on a small boat.
When the legs aren’t in use they’re easy to stow. Their simple attachment makes them easy to deploy while still afloat, for times when you’re going to dry out in the middle of the night. Just be sure you know what’s under you; it would be a shame to be surprised by a big rock in the wrong spot.
Beaching legs are simple to make and quite useful for those of us who camp-cruise in tidal waters. Make a pair and see for yourself.
Jim Danner is an IT manager for the state of Alaska. When he’s not working he’s spending time with his family or messing around with small boats. His article about cruising with his family appeared in our September 2014 issue.
Editor’s notes:
After reading Jim’s article I decided that my Whitehall needed a pair of beaching legs. Varnished inside and out, it wasn’t intended for rough handing on shore. While it has a narrow plank keel and will balance upright on its own, a pair of beaching legs would assure that it wouldn’t rest on its bright-finished Port Orford cedar planking.
Christopher Cunningham
The detachable foot of the beach leg keeps it from sinking into soft ground.
The Whitehall has oarlocks instead of thole pins so I followed up on Jim’s suggestion to fabricate a way of connecting the legs to the rowlocks. A ½″ rod fits perfectly into the rowlocks socket. I bought a 2′ length of mild steel rod at the hardware store for a few bucks. Brass or stainless steel might have been a better choice but not so easy to find nor as inexpensive. Aluminum would have worked well too but I am not familiar with heating and bending it.
The rod required a bend of about 80° to go from the nearly vertical hole in the rowlock to the horizontal hole through the beach leg. I made the bends before cutting the rod to length—the extra length gave me a lever cool to the touch. I heated the rod with an ordinary propane torch. It took about 4 or 5 minutes to get the steel to glow red. I kept the flame aimed at a single spot to focus the heat, and thus the bend, in a small section of the rod. Only an inch or so was glowing brightly when I turned off the torch and went to the vice to make the bend. After cooling the rod in water I cut the ends to length with a hacksaw. With a new blade the cuts don’t take long.
Christopher Cunningham
The block attached to the bottom of the steel rod transfers the load taken my the beaching leg to the inwale, a strong structural element.
For the rod to keep the beaching leg in place it has to be kept from sliding up. There was no easy way to use a cotter pin, so I made an oak block to attach to the rod. To make a groove to fit the side of the rod I clamped the two blocks together and drilled down the center with a ½” Forstner bit. Each top of each block would press against the bottom face of the inwale, keeping the rod in place and transferring any strain to a structural part of the boat. I drilled a 17/64″ hole in the block and drilled and tapped the rod for a ¼″ x 20 thumbscrew.
Christopher Cunningham
The straight side of a hairpin cotter pin rests in a kerf, keeping the beaching leg vertical.
The beach legs are ¾″ oak. A ½″ hole fits over the rod. On the tablesaw I cut a kerf through the hole to make a passageway for a hairpin cotterpin. The pin holds the beach leg against the outwale and the slot captures the pin to keep the leg pointed down.
At the bottom of each leg I cut a shouldered tenon and made a foot with a loose-fitting mortise. A bungee cord laced through the foot and leg keeps the foot in place. The loose fit adapts to uneven terrain and makes it easy to remove the foot when the beaching legs are stowed.
Christopher Cunningham
The parts of the beaching legs fit in a small fabric bag that’s easily stowed.
For about $20, and a mostly pleasant afternoon in the shop, I was in business. I did have one moment of despair: One of the holes I drilled for the cotter pin angled well away from the center of the rod. There was no way to drill a new hole and I thought I’d have to start over and make a new piece. Fortunately the hole was just the right size to drive a 16-penny nail through. I cut the ends flush, dabbed on a bit of flux, and hit it with the torch and a bit of silver solder. That saved the day. The new hole went in straight and true.
The Rocker Stoppers nest when not in use. Weight is provided by a homemade mesh bag loaded with beach rocks.
I enjoy sleeping at anchor. There’s something soothing about the gentle rocking of the hull. Gentle rocking. I don’t enjoy being jostled about when waves find their way into what had started out as a quiet anchorage.
On many nights I would have traded my favorite pillow for anything that could keep my boat from rocking and let me fall asleep. Rocker Stoppers look like they’ll do the job. They’re orange plastic gizmos that look like they could do double duty as sombreros for Chihuahuas. Hung in multiples from each side of a boat, their resistance to vertical movement will help hold a boat steady. For boats up to 26′ the manufacturer recommends using three from each side of the boat with a 5- to 10-lb weight at the end of the line running through them. A mushroom anchor is suggested as a handy weight—it will nest inside the Rocker Stoppers—but I’d rather not lug two more anchors around. I used some mesh bags filled with beach rocks.
In gentle waves, the kind I’d expect in a small, protected anchorage, the Rocker Stoppers, hung from the sheer, did dampen the roll. My inclinometer rolled through an arc of 10 to 12 degrees without them and about half that with them. After the Rocker Stoppers had some time in the water, the hitches capturing them on the line snugged up, widening the gap between knots and allowing more play. Getting the knots close together (solid braid line is easier to work with than three-strand line) more effectively restricts rocking motion.
The Rocker Stoppers were most effective when deployed well away from the gunwale. A pair of oars served as outrigger booms.
While deploying the Rocker Stoppers from the rail produced measurable results, there wasn’t quite the wow factor I was hoping for. The label on each Rocker Stopper says: “Sailboats can use the end of a boom or a spinnaker pole.” So I set a pair of oars up as outriggers, handles outboard and blades tucked under the opposite gunwale. The effect was dramatic. Getting the Rocker Stoppers another 5′ out from the rail all but eliminated rocking.
The inclinometer wavered through only 2 degrees (see video). I could see the looms of the oars flex, an indication of the amount of force going into stabilizing the boat. With a little adaptation my mainmast could be employed as a single stout outrigger for both sides. I didn’t try the Rocker Stoppers in anything but small waves and rolling boat wakes. If I had to spend a night where the water was going to be choppy, I might set the boat at anchor, but I wouldn’t sleep aboard.
Each Rocker Stopper is 14″ in diameter and 6″ tall. They nest compactly together when a line isn’t threaded through them, but the stack of six ready to deploy takes up some space that can be hard to find aboard a small boat. Be that as it may, I place a high value on a good night’s sleep, and the Rocker Stoppers would earn a place aboard.
Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats Monthly
Manufactured by Davis Instruments, Rocker Stoppers sell for $13.99 each.
The most common and useful electronic device aboard large boats is undoubtedly the depthfinder—it keeps them from running aground. With most small boats you can often see the bottom before you hit it, and if you do run aground you can usually shove off with an oar or get out and push, as I did in in Florida Bay during the Everglades Challenge (see my story in this issue). There are times where water depth is an important piece of information for small boats, particularly when anchoring in coves where a rising tide can diminish the scope of your anchor rode and a falling tide can set you on the rocks in the middle of the night. Knowing the depth can also help you find good fishing holes. The H22FX HawkEye Handheld Sonar System by NorCross Marine gives us a way to determine depth up to 200’ quickly and accurately.
No bigger than a flashlight, the H22FX is small enough to fit just about anywhere. Simply add four AA batteries and the unit is ready to go with a flip of a switch. All you have to do is place the front of the device in the water and get a reading on its backlit LCD screen. The sounder floats and is rated waterproof to 3′.
In my sea trials aboard my fishing skiff, the sounder accurately measured depths from 3′ up to 80′ on trial depths on a variety of bottoms, verified by my onboard depthfinder. The H22FX was also useful in checking my depths when I went spearfishing from my kayak.
In addition to measuring depth, the H22FX can also be aimed horizontally to find distances to shore or submerged obstructions. It has a built-in thermometer to provide air and water temperature and doubles as a 20-lumen LED flashlight with easily changed clear, red, blue, and green lenses. The LED can flash SOS, a nice nod to safety, but it is not a substitute for Coast Guard–approved distress-signaling devices.
The H22FX has a fish indicator feature to help locate fish, and it did display the fish symbol when fish were present. While that’s a nice-to-know bit of information, any experienced fisherman knows that even more sophisticated sounders that show you a picture of the bottom and the fish are primarily used to find underwater structures and contours where you are most likely to catch fish.
The H22FX is capable of shooting through aluminum or solid fiberglass hulls but not through wood. In a small boat the water is within reach.
The H22FX is a useful tool. Depths marked on charts don’t have the details in the shore-side waters frequented by small boats, and taking soundings with your anchor before setting it is clumsy and time-consuming. With the H22FX, determining depth is quick, easy and reliable.
A native Floridian, Thomas Head grew up working on his father’s home-built stone crab boat in the small coastal town of Inglis. He has 19 years of service in the U.S. Navy. His account of racing in the Everglades Challenge appears in this issue.
With 130 square feet of sail set, the Coquina slips along in light air.
Joe Brennan’s as-yet-unnamed Herreshoff Coquina is a cold-molded version of the lapstrake cat-ketch that Nathanael Herreshoff built for himself in 1889. This is Joe’s first boat, built to test the idea of a career as a boatbuilder: “So I had this silly idea . . . ,” he said.
He purchased plans from Doug Hylan of Brooklin, Maine. The plans for the 16’8” by 5′1″ Coquina, developed by Doug with Maynard Bray, include directions for Herreshoff’s original construction of white cedar on oak as well as for glued-lapstrake plywood. Joe enlisted the help of Terry Schuster, a craftsman in Pittsburgh who brought his knowledge and experience as a boatbuilder to the project.
They chose to build the Coquina in cold-molded red cedar. Using a CAD program they drew out full-sized patterns for the stations and all of the parts, except the planking. Western red cedar planking measuring 17′ x 5″ x 1/8″ came from Baird Brothers Fine Hardwoods of northeast Ohio.
Joe and Terry book-matched all the planks that would show inside and outside of the hull. The building of the hull was done one side at a time. The inner and outer layers were laid horizontally, and the middle layer diagonally. After each side was planked it was removed, sanded, and finished, then put back on the molds. A bead of 3M 5200 and silicon-bronze screws secured the hull halves to the keelson. The builders installed white oak mast steps and knees to hold the side decks and the seat cleats. The seats are white oak and mahogany. The decks are marine-grade plywood with highly figured African mahogany faces. The transom is sapele.
Ed Rombout Photography
The cold-molded construction provides a clean interior and a light but strong structure.
The masts, booms, and yards are Sitka spruce and were built by Max Peterson of Max’s Woodworks of Bethel Park, Pennsylvania. They were delivered ready for sanding and varnish. Tom Bell of Bell Sails in Washington, Pennsylvania, made the Dacron sails—an 83-sq-ft main and a 47-sq-ft mizzen. The centerboard is high-strength steel and the rudder is aircraft aluminum. Steering is as designed by Herreshoff: a rope through the transom and running around the perimeter of the interior. Joe, on his “crazy tangent,” worked nights and weekends in a rented shop for about three years. He launched the boat in the summer of 2013 on a small lake near the shop to see how she would row. “At the first stroke of the oars she took off like rabbit,” he said. Later, he took her out for a first sail. “She stood up to the wind, rain, and chop. She stayed dry for the most part and was a pleasure to sail—a dream come true.” The boat still awaits a christening, a name, and an owner. Joe is now working on a Rushton wooden canoe, a project that is much more manageable and less expensive.
The Golant Ketch is a 20′ hard-chined camp-cruiser designed by Roger Dongray. Dongray is perhaps best known for his Cornish Shrimper, which he designed in 1976 with the intention of building only one in plywood, for himself. But after various friends showed an interest, 10 more plywood boats were built, and in 1979 Cornish Crabbers started building them in fiberglass and have now delivered 1,132 of them. At first glance the Ketch and the Shrimper seem to have similar hull shapes, but this is perhaps only because the eye is distracted by their wide-plank clinker-effect construction. The Ketch is actually slightly longer and wider, and also has a finer bow, a fuller stern, and a less-raked transom.
In September 2013, after a 24-year career in the wine business, Keith McIlwain enrolled in the Lyme Regis Boat Building Academy’s nine-month Boat Building, Maintenance, and Support course, in which about half the students get the opportunity to build a boat for themselves. For some years Keith had admired the 18′9″ round-bilged Golant Gaffer—another Dongray design, from 1993—but was worried that her fixed keel and 2′9″ draft would make her difficult to road-trailer. So when he came across the Gaffer’s centerboard cousin, the Golant Ketch, of which just one had been built at that time, he knew that this was the boat for him.
all photographs by Nigel Sharp
The foredeck is recessed to keep lines and gear from going overboard.
It was by no means certain that he would be allowed to build one, however, because the Academy staff needs to ensure that the boats produced by each class will give the students a wide range of experience in terms of construction methods and materials, and that it will be possible to complete them all during the time available. In fact it is unusual for any boats longer than about 16’ to be built. What won the day for Keith was the Golant Ketch’s plywood construction—as opposed to the more time-consuming cold-molded or strip-plank options for the Golant Gaffer—and the fact that Dongray had produced particularly detailed drawings.
The construction began with five permanent transverse bulkheads and partial bulkheads, all of ½″ plywood, set up, upside down, on a temporary framework on the workshop floor. Longitudinal bulkheads defining the cockpit were then added, and glue-fastened with epoxy. The keel was then fitted, it being of 5”-thick Douglas-fir with the centerboard slot cut through it; it was fastened in place with silicon-bronze screws and epoxy.
Chines of 1¼″ x 1″ Douglas-fir—three per side—were notched into the bulkheads and beveled to provide suitable landings for the 3/8″ plywood hull planks. Once the hull was planked, its exterior was sheathed with two layers of 6-oz plain-weave cloth and epoxy resin before a capping, laminated from ten layers of 1/8″ khaya, was fitted to the stem and around the forefoot. The outside of the hull was then faired and painted with Coppercoat, the copper-filled epoxy resin said to negate the need for antifouling for at least 10 years, being applied below the waterline. The topsides were painted with a two-part polyurethane, and the transom and stem cap finished bright.
A cradle was then built over the hull with the corners cut away on one side to allow it to be easily turned over. As soon as that was done, all of the plywood intersections on the inside of the hull were epoxy-filleted and two coats of epoxy resin were applied to the entire inside of the boat.
For accessibility, most of the interior fitout was carried out before the deck went on. The foredeck well, coach roof, and cockpit were all constructed of 3/8″ plywood supported by a Douglas-fir structure. To avoid the need for a mast support post in the middle of the cabin, the mast and chainplate loads are taken by a substantial deckbeam made up of six 5/8″ x 3″ Douglas-fir laminations sandwiched between two layers of ½″ plywood. Most of deck was painted with Hempel Multicoat (a combined primer and topcoat) while various pieces of khaya, such as the gunwales, cappings for the cockpit coaming, the companionway hatch and trim, and the surround for the foredeck well, were coated with Rustin’s Danish Oil for easy maintenance.
This pulley and axle provide a mechanical advantage for raising the lead-weighted centerboard.
For ballast, 880 lbs of sheet lead was secured in the bilges adjacent to the centerboard, effectively by laminating it together with PU adhesive. The centerboard was made up of four layers of plywood totaling 1½″, with a large section of the two inner layers removed and replaced by 112 lbs of lead. The rudder is predominantly plywood but has a lifting stainless steel plate which limits its draft to no more than that of the fixed keel. It has two pintles on the transom and a third one on a stainless-steel tubular structure that is connected to the aft corner of the keel to provide some protection to the outboard motor.
Dongray’s drawings included the specification and position of every deck fitting, and also details of some parts that needed to be specially made, including the centerboard control system, tabernacle, and other mast fittings. Throughout the build Keith rarely strayed from any of the drawings and even then only in minor ways after consulting Dongray himself.
Keith built the spars of spruce. Jeckells Sailmakers made the sails; when they were complete, Keith managed to step the rig inside the workshop by maneuvering the boat under the highest point of the roof.
The course’s finale is Launch Day, when all the new boats are launched into Lyme Regis Harbour one after another, to great fanfare. This deadline accurately reflects the real world of commercial boatbuilding and the students cheerfully put in the hours to make sure their boats are ready. Keith’s latest night was quarter to one in the morning, but on a couple of other occasions he got up at 3 a.m. just to apply a coat of paint on part of the deck so it would be dry when he started work properly after breakfast.
The Golant ketch caries 235 square feet of sail.
The new boat was christened DAYDREAM as she slipped into the water for the first time on a glorious sunny day in June. Unfortunately, Launch Day also brought with it a great deal of wind, and so Keith had to make do with a short outing under reefed headsail alone. The next time he got to sail DAYDREAM was with me, one week later. The day was again sunny, but the breeze a gentle 4–6 knots. Despite the slightly disproportionate chop, DAYDREAM made her way effortlessly through the water. She had a reassuring small amount of weather helm and she tacked through about 90 degrees, albeit slowly. This was hardly surprising given her long keel and the sea state, but the plus side of that is that she tracked straight. All the sail controls are led back to the cockpit, and it will be possible to reef by reaching the main gooseneck when standing in the companionway. The mainsail didn’t come down very easily, but Keith thinks that is just a question of coordinating the easing of the throat and peak halyards more effectively. That will be important as Keith anticipates he will sail the boat with just the mizzen and jib in strong winds.
Stainless-steel tubing supports the rudder and protects the outboard.
DAYDREAM’s 6-hp Mariner outboard is mounted in a well—into which the cockpit drains—immediately forward of the rudder, and its controls can be reached comfortably. Although it is possible to steer by turning the outboard through almost 90 degrees, thanks to its prop-wash over the rudder it is unlikely that this will be necessary when going ahead.
The practical interior includes a V-berth forward with an infill to form a double, and a quarter berth to starboard; a small seat to port adjacent to a compact galley area containing a two-burner gas cooker; a chemical toilet below a hinged lid by the companionway; and a shelf outboard on each side. Most of the interior is painted, but varnished khaya shelf fiddles, centerboard trunk, and companionway trim provide a pleasing contrast.
Keith is planning to set up his own boat building and repair company, called Daydream Boats, near his home in Bristol. From there he plans to sail DAYDREAM in the Bristol Channel, where there is a massive tidal range of 43′. But he is also looking forward to putting her on her trailer and taking her to less-demanding estuaries in other parts of the West Country, to Ireland, and to the Continent.
Nigel Sharp is a lifelong sailor and a freelance marine writer and photographer. He spent 35 years in managerial roles in the boat building and repair industry and has logged thousands of miles in boats big and small, from dinghies to schooners.
The Penobscot Wherry from Cottrell Boatbuilding of Searsport, Maine, is based on the Lincolnville salmon wherry, a beamy high-volume boat used to remove salmon from weirs in the days when there was a commercial salmon run on Maine’s Penobscot River. “Wherry” is a nebulous term generally used to describe a relatively light rowboat. This particular wherry has a narrow, flat bottom with lapstrake sides, making it a specialized type of round-bottomed dory. “Bottom board” boats such as this one are found all along the Atlantic coast, both with transoms and pointed sterns; these boats include sea skiffs in New Jersey, tuckups and duckers on the Delaware, Staten Island skiffs, and Great South Bay’s Seaford skiffs. This general hull form is also found inland in Adirondack guideboats. The common element among all of these boats is a flat bottom board in place of a timber keel—a feature that allows the boat to sit upright when pulled up onto a beach or trailer.
all photographs by Matthew P. Murphy
The shapely wineglass transom tapers down to the garboards and the waterline of a double-ender.
Transom-sterned boats of this family have a narrow “boxed” stern with the garboards coming into the keel at almost 90 degrees, creating a hollow skeg at the stern below the water, and a wineglass shape above. For the Penobscot Wherry, builder Dale Cottrell had naval architect Richard Lagner work up the basic design. The resulting shape is elegant. At the waterline the hull is double ended. A raked, curved stern is both pleasing to the eye and useful in a following sea, lifting much more readily to waves than the squared-off stern of most rowing boats. The rake in the stern is complemented by an easy curved raking stem, a shape that makes it possible to work a little flare into the bow, which helps keep the boat dry when rowing to windward.
A nicely sculpted stem head punctuates the intersection of the curves of the sheer and the stem.
Dale Cottrell likes to build small rowing boats and dinghies. While he can do a fine job of plank-on-frame construction, his boats are primarily of glued lapstrake plywood, which makes them handier for people whose boats live on trailers, as the plywood planks do not shrink and swell with changes in moisture content. This construction also produces a lightweight boat as compared with a plank-on-frame hull. Like the products of most small boat shops, Dale’s boats need to go out the door to customers. The boat we trialed, however, is one of the rare ones he chose to keep for himself and his wife, Lynn. They call her OLIVE. OLIVE measures 15′ with a 52” beam. She is set up with two seats for pair rowing or single rowing with a passenger. The freeboard is relatively low so that 7’6” oars work well at the rowing stations. If someone wanted a single amidships thwart, 8-footers might be needed. Ten nicely lined-off planks per side make the complex shape of the stern and the bit of flare in the bow possible. She has an open interior that could be equipped with floorboards. The seats have a subtle pleasing curve when viewed from above—something I’d not seen before in small boats; they have a stiffener fastened to their undersides. OLIVE has fixed stretchers set up to catch the rowers’ heels. Amidships, the section is veed for about four planks going out from keel, then curves smoothly up to the gunwale. This provides stability when heeled but a lively feeling when rowing. The boat reminds you to sit in the middle, but provides plenty of stability when you slide to the gunwale. As with most fast rowing boats, stepping into the middle and grabbing the gunwales when boarding is a good idea. Fifteen feet is a great minimum length for a fixed-seat rowing boat. Any shorter and there is not much benefit rowing with a partner. Here two can have a fine row and there is nice power when there is wind. Customers have set up their Penobscot Wherries with a sliding seat for more leg power, but this is not ideal for this boat—it pitches with the rower’s weight moving back and forth. This is a fixed-seat boat, at heart.
The glued-plywood lapstrake construction creates an interior that is uncluttered and easy to maintain.
We’d planned for a still and clear early morning to test OLIVE, but got only some of that. It was a clear early July morning with great light, but we were served with a stiff northwesterly breeze running down the mile or so of harbor, kicking up a chop with the odd whitecap. It gave us a good chance to test the boat in conditions where many rowers might stay ashore, breezy enough for testing the reefing gear on a small sailboat. It was a great day to see how the boat handled in the wind.I first tried some laps with tight turns. This demonstrated how easily she spins—and indeed she spins quickly. She sits lightly on the water, so only a few strokes are required for a 180-degree turn (as compared to plumb-stemmed, straight-keeled Whitehalls which have a much wider turning circle). Dale then joined me, rowing stroke, to see how she behaved with two aboard. Which brings us to the matter of trim ballast. Small rowboats really benefit from trim ballast. The problem is that when a boat is set up to trim level for pair rowing, if rowing single the bow or stern is high depending on the seat chosen.
Reviewer Ben Fuller takes the Penobscot wherry out for a solo row with some ballast in the bow to keep the boat in trim.
For the trial Dale picked up a large beach boulder and put it in canvas bag. Not knowing that, I had a soft five-gallon water container with me, which is what I usually take along in my larger dory. When rowing single from the after seat, I’d slid the stone ahead of the forward seat. With Dale aboard, we tucked the rock under him, as I’m a bit bigger. Doubling the power with the same windage made pulling into 15 knots or so of wind seem like rowing into a light breeze. As expected, with two aboard, and the boat deeper in the water, some coordination was needed for a quick turn.
Matthew P. Murphy
With two at the oars, the wherry wasn’t significantly slowed by a 15-knot headwind.
Then I took her out for a solo spin around the harbor. Surreptitiously, I’d slid my GPS onto my rowing thwart. First I went downwind—the easy way—and was hardly working while running at an easy 4-plus knots, surfing wind waves. Thoughts of a couple of drybags of gear and Islesboro and an island campsite a dozen miles to leeward crossed my mind. With my weight in the stern seat and the ballast stone under the bow seat, she was quite well behaved going straight without wanting to turn up into the wind. Coming back was more work, but a steady pull into the teeth of the wind gave me better than 2 knots. I slid the ballast rock quite far forward to trim the bow down. Perhaps most interesting was rowing across the wind, which is where many rowing boats will misbehave. Three knots was easy, but what impressed me the most was the ability of the boat to stay on a straight line without needed hard pulls on the windward oar—something that is often the case. In big dark puffs, the boat just slid sideways a little. After I gave OLIVE back to Dan and Lynn, they jumped in, pulling well together upwind. My last sight of them that day was their turning around after a mile upwind to the head of the anchorage. If I were not overequipped with boats, I’d add this one to my to the fleet. She is great for anchorage and estuary cruising, poking up narrow coves, or heading across a broad harbor. Her flared bow and raking stern keep the water out if a sea is running. Her size is ideal: light enough to be easily maneuvered onto a beach or light trailer but capacious enough for two or three on a picnic. Dale could put a sailing rig in her, but I’d not bother with this as she slides along nicely without one under oars alone. While a competitive racer might seek a longer boat, this wherry is about as big as one might want for solo recreational rowing. A foot or so longer and narrower would be faster, but at her current size, the low wetted surface makes her an easy pull, a boat that you can row faster than you can walk, all day long.
Ben Fuller, curator of the Penobscot Marine Museum in Searsport, Maine, has been messing about in small boats for a very long time. He is owned by a dozen or more boats ranging from an International Canoe to a faering.
In early June in southern Montana the last light of day lingers for a long time. The mountains across the valley were still full of snow that would eventually melt and flow into the Missouri River. The day before the launch my friend Josh and I arrived at the Missouri Headwaters State Park in Three Forks where the Madison, Jefferson, and Gallatin rivers connect to form the Missouri. I was nervous, wondering how I’d maneuver my stand-up paddleboard with 100 lbs of gear, water, and food.
I secured my gear on deck. With my quick-dry pants rolled up and water shoes tied tight, I set a foot on the board, planted my paddle on deck for balance, and pulled my other foot out of the icy water and splashed it down on the deck pad. The water ahead was streaked with white. When a cowboy lingering outside the motel the night before said, “You know there are rapids on that river?” I’d brushed him off. Now I was fighting the urge to kneel on the board for balance. River rocks flew by as I gained speed. I took the rapids head on, hoping I wouldn’t slam into a submerged rock. Water crashed against my well-secured dry bags, as I flexed my knees to stay connected to the board. The water soon smoothed out, and I was still upright. My years-long dream was now my reality.
The first few small lakes were a much bigger challenge than I anticipated. After walking along shore I reached an area sheltered from some of the wind and was able to paddle to the last dam for about 240 miles.
After two days the fast water gave way to the first of nine lakes. During the late 19th century and the first half of the 20th century, 15 dams were built for flood control and electricity. This changed the river and made it harder to paddle. Canyon Ferry Lake is 44 miles from the headwaters, and at 25 miles long and as much as 5 miles across, was my first true test.
Huge white pelicans, surprisingly numerous, clamored on sandbars as I reached open water. It was dead calm, so I headed out, hoping to make the dam in a day.
The log I sat on to eat lunch was 30 vertical feet up the bank, evidence of how much the water level can fluctuate. Weekend fishermen headed back to the boat ramp as whitecaps rolled from the direction I needed to go. Within the next couple of hours headwinds had built to 30 mph. After covering only 8 miles, I wasn’t ready to call it a day and wanted to see if I could make progress walking the board. My feet twisted and slipped on softball-sized rocks as I pushed my board forward with my paddle and steered it with the bow line. I pushed forward at less than 2 mph.
After four hours, I headed for shore. I pitched my tent next to a dirt wall that looked like someone had sliced a hill in half with a knife; the hills surrounding the lake have been eroded in the 60 years since the dam was built. The sky went from pink to dark purple. My feet were in good shape for being submerged and pummeled on rocks all day, but I still had almost 700 miles of lakes still ahead.
My alarm jarred me awake at 4:55 a.m. There was enough light to see that the water was calm. I packed quickly, to get in some miles before the wind kicked up. Breakfast was bites of an energy bar between paddle strokes. The riverbanks were jagged yellow rocks, with coves fit for a seacoast. Fat carp darted everywhere. The Canyon Ferry Dam was just a couple hours away. My confidence had grown traversing the reservoir, and I’d learned to enjoy each day without worrying about what was ahead.
After watching an incredible sunrise fill the granite canyon I paddled downriver to a trailhead. A quick hike brought me to this lookout where Lewis and Clark had stood over 200 years before.
Meriwether Lewis wrote in July 1805, “This evening we entered much the most remarkable clifts that we have yet seen. These clifts rise from the waters edge on either side perpendicularly to the hight of 1200 feet… the river appears to have forced it’s way through this immence body of solid rock… from the singular appeaerance of this place I called it the gates of the rocky mountains.”
Here the sloped, green banks abruptly transition to walls of granite and the twisting river’s walls overlap, giving the appearance of stone gates. I paddled hard to enter these gates before nightfall in order to watch the sunrise fill the canyon the next morning. I set up camp on a rare flat spot on the inside bend of the river. The river didn’t flow fast enough here to produce a sound, and the birds were quiet as I lay tucked among the pines.
Fog hung over the river and moved toward me as clouds followed the canyon’s path. The reflection of both canyon walls on the river was revealed as the sun transformed the distant sky a bright pink. Trees high on the cliffs became more defined, and the dew on my tent glistened. I ate some instant oatmeal, not wanting to leave but eager to see what was around the granite-lined bend.
I walked into the blasting wind along the shores of one of the Missouri’s “little” lakes. Waves tried to rip the board from my control and throw it against the rocks. Swallows darted in and out of their nests 15’ above me.
I arrived at a campground by the Holter Dam. After setting up camp, I walked to a store in a marina. There was a freezer full of microwave food. The white-haired lady working the counter looked a bit concerned as I zapped an armful of frozen food while eating an ice cream sandwich.
The previous night I endured a hail storm so severe I though my tent was going to collapse. As I launched the next day just above Craig, Montana, the rain started again but I didn’t care. I was around the last dam for a couple weeks and I was flying along at 7 mph.
Thunder ripped into my ears. My tent poles strained against the wind and hail loudly reverberated off the nylon. I pulled a dry bag over my head, ready for my shelter’s collapse. I could feel water flowing under my tent.
After spending the morning drying everything out, I asked the campground host for a ride around the dam. As we approached the boat ramp, it started pouring again. I pushed off into an incredible current. My GPS indicated 7 mph. My worries vanished like the raindrops into the river. The cold water rushed over polished stone as colorful as a trout’s body. I flew past a dozen drift-boaters. Many called out, “Where ya’ coming from?” I’d reply, “Three Forks.” “Wow that’s a long way. Where ya’ headed?” A look of confused contemplation came across their faces when I replied, “St. Louis,” for the first time truly believing myself.
After a few days’ rest in Great Falls, my dad arrived to travel the next 150 miles with me in a rented canoe. We headed into the White Cliffs of the Missouri River Breaks. The current gave us a good boost without being overwhelming. For seven days we floated past white sandstone cliffs and wind-carved monoliths. The banks were ankle-deep with mud and thick with mosquitoes. The miles were easy, so we took many hikes, once being turned back by spooked stampeding cattle.
The current in the section I paddled with my dad was strong enough to allow us to make miles easily. We could afford to meander downstream and enjoy the unique rock formations— such as Citadel Rock seen here—around every bend.
Beavers slapped their tails on the water every 1,000 yards as we neared the James Kipp Recreation area. We lugged our gear and boats to the campground. It was hot, but we wore our rain jackets to get some relief from the worst mosquitoes I’d ever experienced. The fire pits were under the floodwaters, so I built a fire on an elevated cooking grate to smoke out the pests. My gear was filthy, and I’d never felt so grimy in my life.
I staggered out of my tent to pee, hoping get quickly back to the comfort of my sleeping bag. The brilliance of the Milky Way changed my plans and I went for my camera. It was hard to believe the sky was so dark only a half-day’s paddle from Great Falls.
In the morning we said goodbye and I turned my thoughts to Fort Peck Lake. There wasn’t a Montanan who didn’t warn me about how quickly things could deteriorate on the 130-mile-long reservoir. Sticking to the shoreline wasn’t possible since much of lake has long peninsulas that form coves a mile or more deep. I could save days by crossing 2- to 4-mile stretches of open water between peninsulas, but only if I got breaks in the weather.
My first day was calm. I woke at first light and stepped out of my tent. I was totally alone but more content than I’d been in years. The weather radio had been silent each time I’d tried. I was in one of the most isolated spots in the lower 48 and far from a signal. I packed quickly to get on the water while the conditions were still calm. For four days, I fought against persistent headwinds. Making 20 miles was a good day, and nights I’d drift off to a coma-like sleep.
When the conditions allowed I often cooked lunch on the board to gain a couple more miles. I was always eager to catch a free ride where the current flowed between the long stretches of still water in the reservoirs.
After reaching Fort Peck Dam I had a week of strong current, which carried me to Lake Sakakawea. There the current stopped and the river widened into the 160-mile-long reservoir. I hid my gear in the brush by a bridge and walked up to the road and stuck my thumb out to get a ride into the oil boomtown of Williston, North Dakota, to resupply. After just two minutes a dilapidated red minivan pulled over. I walked to the door and climbed in as the young driver moved a skillet holding his breakfast off the seat and added it to the pile in the back. He told me the oil fields were a tough place to work, but he pays for college in cash with his summer earnings.
It was my seventh day on Lake Sakakawea and I’d seen some big water. All night I’d endured 40-mph gusts blowing against my tent, so I was happy to be able to paddle. There was a 20-mph tailwind, but it was kicking up 4’ waves, holding my pace to half of what it would be in calm conditions. My progress was painfully slow. A wave crested at just the wrong time, and I took my first fall of the trip. My top-heavy board capsized. I was in the middle of the widest section of the lake where it takes a dogleg to the left. The extra layer I pulled on in the crisp morning clung to my skin under my PFD. I tried to remain calm and take inventory. The only thing that floated off the board was my water jug; the rest was tied on. I got my arms under the board and after two attempts righted it and scrambled back on and collect the stray jug.
Lake Sakakawea held the best sunsets I’d ever seen. The colors were different each night and were a reward for the work I’d put in that day. My campsite this night had trails up to the bluffs where I could see the vastness of the giant lake.
The following day continued Sakakawea’s routine for me, a 12-hour day of good conditions, followed by a day of wind so strong it would be foolish to leave shore. I stopped at a campground that sold ice cream and had gloriously hot, coin-operated showers. The previous day I’d been forced to spend the day ashore. I was in a rocky cow pasture exposed to the wind. The little things can make a big difference.
A few days and a lot of big waves later, I was on the other side of the Garrison Dam and just a couple days from Bismarck. A park ranger gave me a ride around the dam, and I paddled only a few hours before I had to stop on a sandbar in the shelter of a steep bank and set up my tent to get out of yet another oncoming thunderstorm.
The next day I felt the welcome pull of the current and headed into Bismarck. I would have thought it was a holiday weekend from the amount of boat traffic that was on the river and not a regular Monday. I guess when your winters are as hard as they are here, locals have to make the most of their summer. Many of the boaters were significantly inebriated, judging by the dozens of slurred questions and beers tossed my way.
After a weeklong break in Bismarck, I was off to tackle Lake Oahe. At 220 miles, it’s the longest of the lakes. The shore was a never-ending wave of rolling green, treeless hills. Everywhere else on the river the scenery had changed enough to make me curious about what was around the next bend, but here for 10 days everything truly looked the same. While it might have been my most challenging obstacle of the trip, I got lucky with weather, for the most part.
After this storm passed I headed back out only to get trapped on the water by high banks. I settled for a muddy and sloped spot to make shelter as rain pelted me and lightning shot through the air.
As I drew near the Oahe Dam I knew a storm was coming, so I had kept paddling after dark and used the lights on the dam and my GPS to navigate to the ramp at the end of lake. I made camp in the dark and fell into a deep sleep. I woke feeling like a log washed up on shore. My creaky body was slow to get moving, and the air was thick with the humidity that comes right before a heavy rain. A south wind was ripping up the lake. I was ready to be in the civilization of Pierre, South Dakota, for a day off. I set out the next afternoon to begin knocking off miles. Ahead I had the last three lakes and 200 currentless miles.
The wind was ruthless. Most of the energy I put forth went toward just keeping my place. The camping options had been abysmal the last few days, so I settled for a patch of gravel under a 20’ vertical bank below a cow pasture, and cleared away driftwood to set up camp. I woke in the night to hear a rustling, but figured it was just the wind and passed back out. In the morning I awoke groggy, and turned my head to the left to see a few tiny brown objects in my hat. A mouse had chewed a hole through the side of my tent and pooped in my hat!
I had fought aches and a fever for a week but pressed on. Current was not far downstream beyond Gavins Point Dam, and I needed it. My final day on both Lake Sharpe and Francis Case Lake was spent walking miles along shore to make the dam. The wind continued, unrelenting for days, so there was no sense waiting for better conditions. All of a sudden the empty green hills were lush with pine trees and golden rocky cliffs. It seems as if I’d been transported back to Montana, and my mood lightened with the improvement in my surroundings.
A river angel named Jarett Bies contacted me on Facebook and offered to give me a ride around the dam and put me up. I spent the night in a comfortable bed, but I was dropped off at the river before first light so Jarett could make his early work shift. The river was barely visible in the dim bridge lights. Convincing myself that it wasn’t safe to head out on the water, but knowing I really just wanted more rest, I weighed my options. The grass was covered in heavy dew, so I opted for the dry bike path and let the sun be my alarm. A car door slammed shut. I opened my eyes to see the sun had risen. I remembered I was sprawled out on an asphalt bike path in full view of a parking lot that now held several cars. I’d camped in a city park in Yankton, South Dakota.
I looked down at the water as the floating dock slowly bobbed under my weight. Patches of foamy bubbles drifted by at a tortoise pace. I filled with energy at the sight. The water had finally been released from the last of the 15 dams on the Missouri. The tops of the trees were just holding on to the last edge of the sun as it rose over the far bank. Golden rays poured over the silhouette of the forest and landed on the fading fog hanging over the water.
Barges navigate the last 750 miles of the river. There is an immense amount of fear surrounding the danger barges impose on a paddler. I gave them plenty of room and enjoyed the site of them chugging along.
I had paddled over 1,500 miles, almost half on currentless lakes. The channelized section of the river was all that remained, and these last 800 miles would take just three weeks. It alone was longer than any trip I’d ever taken, but it would pass too quickly. The current was too good to be true. After cursing the winds and lakes of South Dakota for weeks, I couldn’t imagine such speeds as 5 mph. The forecast was for 100 degrees with strong winds, but I didn’t care. I loaded my board knowing that I’d make distance and wouldn’t have to walk alongshore again for the rest of the trip.
I had seen huge downed trees littered on the banks for almost 2000 miles but rarely saw one in the water. When I saw this one floating in the middle of the river just before Omaha I decided to stand-up paddle it until the next bend in the river.
Water lapped against my board as I pushed off. The current slipped under the flat surface of my board, and I just plunged my paddle in to grab a hold of it. It took just a few strokes to get moving, but I halted paddling to watch the riverbank move past. Current. Sweet, sweet current.
I paddled through Sioux City, Omaha, Kansas City, and many small towns in between. The river there is lined with riprap and hundreds of wing dams to control the flow to allow for the safe passage of barges. Many people warned me of the danger of a barge wakes, but they were nothing compared to the waves I encountered on the lakes.
My solo trip ended with friends and family paddling with me to the Gateway Arch in St. Louis. I had the support of so many friends and strangers along the way that finishing surrounded by people was a perfect ending to the journey.
I ticked off 50-mile days. Nearing Glasgow, Missouri, a quaint town along the river, I fought off the impulse to count miles and relaxed. Thin clouds promenaded across the sky. As the day ended, blue sky met soft golden light and there was a slight chill in the late summer air. St. Louis drew closer and I enjoyed every moment. Life had been simple for 107 days. I had only what I could carry on my board. My pace of life slowed speed and I appreciated chance encounters and simple pleasures.
I will never see the Missouri River as a line on a map again. I’ll always feel its motion, hear its sounds, and see at every point along that winding line, driving rain and spectacular sunsets from the solitude of my camps. The journey far exceeded even my loftiest expectations.
Scott Mestrezat grew up in Michigan with a passion for the outdoors, but his college education landed him at a desk job in Chicago. He dreamed about getting away from the city and embarking on an expedition under his own power, and set his sights on the Missouri River. His website, Missouri River SUP, is devoted to this voyage, and on the site you can find a trailer for the movie he made about it, Big Muddy Moose.
The Kaholo Stand Up Paddle Board
My stand-up paddleboard is a Kaholo 14 from Chesapeake Light Craft. CLC has been selling precut small-boat kits for over 20 years and, in response to the growing demand of the sport, added the Kaholo after five years of prototypes. CLC worked with Larry Froley of Gray Whale Trading Company in California to design a kayak-derived shape that helps the board lift over waves and track well. The Kaholo 14 has a length of 14’, a beam of 29 ½”, and a thickness of 4 5/8”. The construction of 3mm and 4mm okoume marine plywood brought the weight to approximately 35 lbs. The only modification I made to my board was using 6-oz fiberglass instead of 4-oz to accommodate for the added weight and abuse I would dish out to the board.
The Kaholo 14 has a maximum load capacity of 280 lbs; my gear, water, and food weighed in at an average of 100 lbs and was secured in dry bags to the deck with bungees and eye straps. The weight of the gear was distributed on the bow and stern, with the heaviest supplies positioned closest to my feet. The weight caused the board to sit low in the water, but it maintained a high degree of stability.
There are certainly faster and longer boards on the market, but the added stability helped in the large waves of the lakes, and I thoroughly enjoyed the added connection of building my own board. I found a piece of fabric with the image of a moose, so I cut it out and laminated it under the fiberglass on the bow. As I stood at the headwaters of the “Big Muddy,” I christened the board with a can of Moose Drool Brown Ale and aptly named the craft the MUDDY MOOSE.
I spent 107 days paddling from the headwaters in western Montana to St. Louis, Missouri. My 2300 river miles encompassed five other states: the Dakotas, Nebraska,Iowa and Kansas. I averaged about 29 miles per day on days I paddled. The average for the big reservoirs was 22 miles per day, and for the channelized section it was 44 miles per day. My longest day was 58 miles, which happened on three occasions and 38 miles when no current was present. Average speed in calm lake conditions was 2.9 mph, never much faster but could be a lot slower. The average channelized speed was 5.2 mph and the maximum speed was close to 10 mph, which took place in the early days of the trip. —SM
With a pair of Y-shaped crooks holding the sails and spars and the oars on the foredeck, the cockpit is clear of clutter.
Oars, masts, and spars get you where you want to go in a small boat built for rowing and sailing, but those long sticks are awkward to stow when they’re not in use. I saw one interesting solution to the problem when I was kayaking the coast of Croatia.
This natural crook has a squared tenon to fit in a slot in the gunwale of a Croatian fishing boat.
In the island village harbors there were lots of small fishing boats equipped with natural crooks set in the gunwales. Some crooks had more than one branch, providing two places to set spars or oars. This crook has a squared tenon to fit into a square hole in the gunwale. Others are round and tapered to fit in tholepin sockets.
This Croatian work boat has metal “crooks.”
A few boats had metal equivalents set in oarlock sockets. A pair of these held long items, like the oars shown below, just above the gunwale and clear of the cockpit.
These maple crooks took only 30 minutes or so to make.
I’ve cut pairs of crooks from maple windfalls and used a spokeshave to take the bark off and taper the bottom end to fit tholepin sockets.
In rough conditions I’d opt for an arrangement that’s more secure and doesn’t interfere with the operation of the boat, but at anchor and on days of mild weather, having a place for spars and oars keeps the cockpit open and comfortable. I’ve seen many boaters stow oars in a pair of oarlocks in a manner similar to this, but the crooks have the capacity to hold more stuff. With the sails and spars you see here held up high, I have enough clearance for rowing.
Two pairs of oars secured to the foredeck keep them out of the way while I’m sailing or at anchor.
The crooks weren’t a good solution to stowing oars while under sail. I kept the oars inboard but they were always in the way. I decided to get them out of the cockpit and fastened pairs of chocks on the foredeck of my Caledonia yawl.
The mainsail with its yard and boom and the mizzen with its mast sit high enough that I can row at tholes between the crooks.
The crosspiece holding the oars has two jam-cleat-like notches for quick locking of the lashing to the cleat below.
Two pairs of oars rest in the chocks’ hollows and are held down with an oak crosspiece lashed to a deck cleat. The oars project beyond the bow like a bowsprit. I’ve come to like the look and having the cockpit uncluttered for sailing is a great pleasure.
Bob Kellett
The “bowsprit” on my Caledonia yawl is a pair of oars.
Different boats, of course, require different solutions to stowing oars and spars. If you’ve come up with a good solution to the problem, please email it to me and we’ll share it with our readers.
Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats Monthly. He has been building and cruising in small boats since 1979.
Secured on deck, the solar-cell panel gathers a charge while underway.
A 110-volt electrical outlet is hard to find while sailing coastal Carolina. Sure, if you grab the corner seat at the Big Trout Marina Café in Engelhard you can use the outlet there, or leave a tip at the ice cream shop on the Beaufort waterfront to use their power. But when anchored out on a beautiful creek, your camera battery weak, the phone battery about to die, you’re out of luck. My solution is to bring power along in the form of Goal Zero’s Sherpa Solar Kit ($409.97), which includes the Nomad 13 Solar Panel ($159.99), a Sherpa 50 Power pack ($199.99), and the Sherpa Inverter ($49.99).
The solar panel, compact, portable, and weather resistant, is meant for camping and backpacking. It works on small boats, too. Folded for storage, the panel measures 9″ x 10.5″ x 1″ with the junction box and cables stores neatly in a mesh pouch on the side. On my boat SPARTINA, a 17′ Welsford yawl, the panel fits in a Pelican box along with the power pack, inverter, and battery chargers.
Before launching I can charge the power pack from a wall outlet or from a car’s lighter socket. While I’m sailing, the Sherpa 50 can charge electronic devices—smartphones, cameras, tablets and laptops—through a USB connection, a 12-volt car plug or, through the inverter’s 110V AC outlet.
I usually pick clear skies for charging and, if I’m charging while under way, calm water. The panel can take a little salt spray, but I don’t want it soaked. (The power pack is not water resistant.) On a sunny day I’ll open the panel to its full 18″ x 10.5″ width on the foredeck, and position the panel to face the sun or nearly so. Fastened there with lines leading to the bow and side cleats, the panel can get the bonus of sunlight reflected off the jib.
The power pack has an inverter attached (left with the AC outlet) . It is installed under the foredeck, out of the elements.
A cable runs aft from the solar panel, drops into the cockpit, then goes up under the foredeck where it connects to the Sherpa 50 Power Pack. A pulsating blue light on the power pack indicates that the panel is charging the power pack, and a battery monitor indicates the battery’s strength. The inverter attaches to the power pack, and I plug my camera battery charger into the inverter. As the power pack charges the battery, the solar panel recharges the power pack. A couple of hours later I’ve got both camera battery and power pack at 100 percent.
Direct sunlight is key. A light overcast will reduce the charging ability; with a heavy overcast that little blue light will stop glowing and you won’t be getting a charge.
I’ve been watching product reviews on portable solar panels for years. The ratings were inconsistent, at least until now; Goal Zero has come up with products that are proving to be reliable. My particular system is not cheap, but it gives me freedom to cast off and sail, and not have to worry about getting back to the dock to charge my camera and phone batteries.
Steve Earley built and sails SPARTINA, a John Welsford-designed Pathfinder. His blog, The Log of Spartina, includes many accounts of his cruises in Pamlico Sound in North Carolina and the Chesapeake Bay.
Goal Zero has a wide selection of solar panels from 7 to 90 watts and power packs from 8 to 98 watt hours. Kits range from $120 to $1800.
Editor’s note:
There are many portable solar charging systems available for small boats where it may be impractical to have a permanently mounted waterproof panel. The Goal Zero system Steve Early uses supplies DC straight from the Sherpa power pack and AC through the inverter. Most of the devices I use aboard my boats operate on DC with AA batteries: GPS, camera, lights, and weather radio.
With these devices I can get by with a stock of AA batteries, either rechargeable or the ubiquitous alkaline versions, but my VHF radio and cell phone require recharging. I’ve had VHFs that have the option of an AA battery tray, but my current radio requires a charger that plugs into 110-volt AC wall outlets at home. An inverter, like the one Steve has, would be required to recharge my VHF from a DC power cell. Until I get an inverter, I keep my VHF off when I’m not using it.
I can charge my cell phone at home or in my car. While I’m cruising I can charge it with a solar power system using a USB connection. Most of the areas that I travel by boat have cell coverage, and my phone provides a valuable connection to my family back home. There have been a few occasions where my plans have had to change unexpectedly, and by calling home I can update my travel plans and prevent the kind of undue concern that can lead to unnecessary calls to the Coast Guard.
The SunVolt case holds the solar panel to face the sun.
It folds up into a carrying case
I have been using two systems to keep my cell phone charged. My Gomadic SunVolt Portable Solar Power Station is built into a nylon carrying case with nonskid feet sewn to the side that becomes the base when the panel is in use. Opened, the case is designed to set the solar panel at various angles to optimize its exposure to the sun. The storage battery has five blue LED lights that indicate the level of charge.
A pocket on the outside of the case provides a place for the battery and cables, and has room enough to protect the devices being charged from the heat of direct sunlight. On a sunny day the SunVolt can charge the storage battery with enough power to recharge the phone a couple of times; on an overcast day the panel will still gather enough energy for a single charge.
The Solar Wrap Mini unrolls to expose the flexible solar panel.
The Bushnell Solar Wrap Mini is quite compact, only a bit larger than a roll of quarters. The solar cells are on a flexible panel that wraps around a cylinder equipped with a storage battery, a charging port, a charging indicator light, and a USB port. I leave the Mini out in the sun during the day and recharge my phone in the evening.
Rolled up, the Mini is smaller than the smartphone it charges.
The Mini is not rated as waterproof, but it survived a heavy downpour that had water flooding the streets. (There is a Bear Grylls version of the Mini that is waterproof.) I’ve grown quite attached to the Mini; it fits in my pocket and will even charge my phone there.
Bushnell’s Solar Wrap Mini lists for $79.95 and sells through Amazon for $52.
Sometimes it’s nice to be able to drift. But just drifting means your boat usually ends up broadside to the waves and slipping downwind. If you want to hold a position comfortably in deep water, that’s what a sea anchor is for. Paratech’s parachute-like sea anchor Boat Brakes is well made, with webbing and stainless hardware to take all the loads. It has provisions for a main towing line and a light control line to invert the ’chute and reduce the drag it creates. Billed by the manufacturer as “The Fisherman’s Sea Anchor,” it’s designed to keep a boat over a good fishing spot, or slow a boat with a motor whose trolling speed is too fast. It’s also for emergency use to keep a boat’s bow into the waves and reduce the risk of swamping. It can also be really useful for a small sailboat when reefing. Many small boats want to lie cross-wind or run off downwind, which makes sail handling in breeze challenging. Deploying Boat Brakes would make this much easier.
I tried a 24″-diameter Boat Brakes and set it from my 16′ Swampscott dory. There is a float sewn into the perimeter at the top and a weight sewn in on the bottom. You can toss it in the water, and it will sort itself out. I didn’t use a control rope, just the main towline. I used about three boat lengths of line, which seemed to work fine.
It was a snappy day on Maine’s St. George River with 10–20 knots of wind coming several miles straight upriver, an opposing knot or two of current, and whitecaps aplenty. There was enough wind so that the dory heeled in gusts hitting abeam. Just drifting, my GPS showed we were moving at half a knot to a knot downwind into the current with the dory riding uncomfortably beam-to-wind. I set the Boat Brakes over the stern (the dory’s transom is quite narrow), and immediately the stern pulled into the wind. Lobster trap buoys nearby showed I was stopped. Gradually the current took over and pulled me at about half a knot into the wind. I rowed a half mile upwind to a spot where the current ran harder, with whitecaps more numerous, and tried it again. Again a dead stop and then gradually progress into the wind.
On much lighter day I deployed the Boat Brakes from an 18’ aluminum outboard skiff with a modest outboard on the stern in a light breeze without measurable effect. The boat stayed broadside, and did not slow. This was clearly a larger boat than was intended for the 24″ model; Paratech’s recommendation would be for a 36″ version. Set from my canoe-like 16′ Delaware ducker on a local lake, the 24″ Boat Brakes stopped me dead.
I can readily see adding Boat Brakes to the kit of a small boat to ride out in weather, manage sails while comfortably luffed, or just take a break.
Ben Fuller, curator of the Penobscot Maritime Museum in Searsport, Maine, has been messing about in small boats for a very long time. He is owned by a dozen or more boats ranging from an International Canoe to a faering.
I started using a 36″ Paratech sea anchor in 1990. It’s similar to the Boat Brakes reviewed here, but it’s made with parachute cord instead of webbing and lacks the float and weight sewn into the edge. It’s quite useful when I’m ready to drop the sailing rig and head for the launch ramp. (The ramp is hidden from view by a breakwater and if it turns out to be crowded I prefer to approach under oars instead of sail.) The two boats I sail most often have mizzens so I can bring the bow into the wind by sheeting the mizzen in hard and letting go of the main sheet and tiller. I can then easily drop the main while hove to, but I’ll drift downwind and have to hustle unless I deploy the sea anchor.
My son uses the sea anchor while he and his friends swim from his 19′ Escargot canal boat. It has a lot of windage and a very shallow draft and can move quickly even in a light breeze. With the sea anchor deployed it stays put.
In the video above I deploy the sea anchor from my Caledonia yawl. You can see the downwind drift is significant even in light air and without the sea anchor I would have lost much of my windward progress during a long and leisurely lunch break. I used to think that sea anchors were just for riding out storms on open water, but I’ve found mine very handy for less dramatic purposes.
Nearly six years in the making, Tom Santoro’s kayak takes to the water near his lakefront home.
Tom Santoro and has wife Carol had a cottage on Blind Lake, one of seven lakes on a chain of lakes in Michigan’s 11,000-acre Pinckney Recreation area, 60 miles west of Detroit. After Tom retired, they rebuilt the cottage as their year-round home. Tom had always enjoyed working with wood, and carved decoys, built wooden model ships and planes, and did simple furniture projects. In 2006, his daughter Amy gave him a copy of Kayaks You Can Build: An Illustrated Guide to Plywood Construction, by Ted Moores and Greg Rössel. It piqued his interest in building something on a larger scale and that he could paddle on Blind Lake.
Tom Santoro
The cockpit has a custom-fit closed-cell foam seat and sculpted thigh braces.
After some research, Tom purchased a Spring Run kit (the 16’ version) from Joe Greenley of Redfish Kayaks in Port Townsend, Washington. He worked on it mostly in the spring and fall—summer was better spent outdoors, and Michigan winters weren’t practical for building the boat in an unheated garage. During the winter of 2011–12 he had a furnace installed in the garage, and progress picked up. He launched the kayak last summer.
Tom has shown his kayak at three wooden boat shows, two of them juried. In August of last year, it took first place in the Contemporary Replica division at the Les Cheneaux Islands Antique Wooden Boat Show. Held in Hessel, it’s Michigan’s largest wooden boat show. Tom’s kayak also won Best Classic Small Craft at the Boats on the Boardwalk wooden boat show in Traverse City.
Tom Santoro
The hatch covers, held in place by magnets, are almost invisible and have no fittings to detract from the patterns of cedar strips.
Tom chose a kayak with cedar-strip construction because of the beauty of cedar in its many colors and its possibilities for artistic license in the designing a pattern. While he had no experience with epoxy and fiberglass, the woodworking was within his capabilities. He had made strip-built model ships, so moving up to a 16-footer was simply a matter of scale. He built without using staples and eliminated the blemishes they make in the cedar. This slowed the construction process somewhat but paid off in the clean look of the finished kayak.
Monkey’s fists serve as grab handles at both ends of the kayak.
Having put so much careful work into the patterned deck, he thought long and hard about cutting hatches into it. Going without hatches would mean he’d lose the benefit of bulkheaded cargo/flotation compartments and gear would have to be stuffed in through the cockpit. After much deliberation, hatches and bulkheads won out. The next major decision was how keep the hatch covers securely in place. He didn’t like the look of hold-down straps, so after some research and advice from Joe Greenley, he chose to use rare-earth magnets with a foam seal. The results were worked well and kept the decks clean look. Monkey-fist knot grab handles added another personal and elegant touch.
Tom and daughter Amy have taken to stand-up paddling. Carol wants a rowboat with a sliding seat, and Tom wants to complete the 3′-long wooden, radio-controlled tugboat that has been set aside for too long. He’ll busy again this winter in his warm garage.
Long before Europeans ventured to the new world, sailing dugout canoes fitted with outriggers sailed the waters in Southeast Asia and were used for migration throughout the Pacific region. The obvious seaworthiness of these boats was demonstrated by their ability to undertake remarkable voyages. Their twin-hulled form gave them stability, and the slender hulls gave them speed and seakeeping qualities that the western world could only dream of. Today, the recreational market offers many two- and three-hulled vessels for voyaging or daysailing. The Outrigger Junior is a modern adaptation of these early outriggers designed for beach sailing and fast spins around the bay.
Once you step aboard this boat, you will realize that it is different. First off, it is not symmetrical. The sweeping curved akas support an outrigger hull on their port end and a cockpit seat to starboard. The outrigger side has a seat also, which is the only symmetrical arrangement in the boat. The boomed lateen rig has a stub mast, raked forward about 15 degrees. When the sail is hoisted, the yard is almost vertical and boom tilts up slightly with a large triangular sail between. The boom sweeps very low when eased out, but rises to clear the seated crew when centered. The outrigger-always-on-one-side configuration should cause a slight asymmetrical feel to the helm. But that does little to affect its sparkling performance, often sailing at close to wind speed.
Outrigger Junior is asymmetrical, with an outrigger on the port side only. The hull form, lashings, and lateen sail are all reminiscent of features used by Pacific islanders.
Outrigger Junior was designed by John Harris, who has the advantage of modern technology and materials; his company, Chesapeake Light Craft (CLC) of Annapolis, Maryland, is producing the boat in kit form. The boat has a single outrigger, and is meant for construction by the amateur builder. The hulls of the Outrigger Junior are stitched together from plywood components, not unlike later versions of the old Polynesian sailing canoes—only today we use fiberglass and epoxy, rather than woven coconut sennit and sealant putty made from tree sap.
The lateen rig has similarities to the crab-claw sails of the early boats. And like the old boats, this vessel platform, composed of hulls and crossbeams (akas), is lashed together, but now using space-age cordage. Instead of deep hulls and a steering oar, the CLC version has a modern pivoting centerboard and kick-up rudder to facilitate operating from the beach or sailing in shallow water. I would imagine that the old waterlogged dugout hulls were quite heavy and required considerable muscle to drag up the beach, whereas this new boat is very light and can be handled by a young couple.
Chesapeake Light Craft of Annapolis, Maryland, supplies kits with pre-cut parts for the boat’s stitch-and-glue hulls, which are relatively easy to build.
The amateur builder should have no trouble constructing this craft. As with other products of CLC, it has CNC router-cut components, and an extensive construction manual. Long plywood sheet components are spliced together with puzzle joints that fit tightly to avoid any misalignment. Bulkhead tabs fit into tight slots in the planking to assure accuracy of placement. Predrilled holes correctly position all the stitch-and-glue joints. Assembly of each hull, crossbeam, and spar is almost foolproof. Finish quality, however, is dependent on the care taken during construction and final sanding. The prototype I sailed was varnished bright, showing off the marine-quality okoume plywood.
Sailing this outrigger feels different too. There is more boat hanging out one side than the other. On either tack the boat accelerates quickly when the sail is sheeted in. The difference in helm, from one tack to the other, is hardly noticeable. The steering is good and responsive, but not as crisp as you might expect. That may be due to a thin rudder and centerboard, a concession to simplicity of construction from two layers of 9mm plywood. The flat shaped foils show a tendency to stall at lower boat speeds. Hull forms with a deep V shape continuing aft to the transom also resist turning, acting like they are on rails, which further slows the steering response. All said, however, I was able to short-tack up a narrow channel in fluky winds with amazing speed. Maybe the only thing that is really different about this boat is how fast it is.
Nylon nets laced in between the components help keep gear and people aboard.
Unlike keelboats, multihulls gain stability with weight. That weight is usually positioned between the hulls so they can share the burden and keep the boat upright. Lightweight multihulls, especially single outriggers and proas, need to carefully balance the weight of the crew for stable operation. Without sail up, or in light winds, this boat can capsize with a single person sitting on the starboard seat opposite the ama. The boat looks intuitively stable, but due to the lightweight construction, the ama does not provide as much counterweight as one might guess. This fact gave me (a clumsy 200-lb, 70-year-old man) a swim after I slipped and fell on the outboard side tacking in light winds, causing it to capsize. The boat rolled slowly over until the mast was flat in the water and remained with sails awash. I soon recovered by swimming around to put my weight on the centerboard, which slowly levered the boat upright. I climbed aboard and sailed the rest of the afternoon more cautiously. Capsize at the dock is also plausible with no one aboard and sail over the starboard side. This suggests that a small amount of ballast in the ama might improve stability. But the orthodox multihull sailor would argue that it is heresy to use any ballast.
The forward-raked mast is a novel detail resulting in a nearly vertical yard (the spar at the top edge of the sail) and an increase in the sail area. When seen from a distance, the sail plan is distinctive. The gentle arcs of the spars add to the aesthetic quality of the boat profile. It almost looks like a sliding gunter rig with a long boom. A downhaul on the boom actually prevents the boom from moving forward since the halyard attachment to the yard is well forward of the center of gravity of the combined sail, yard, and boom. When the downhaul is slacked, the sail assembly rotates and the clew end of the boom becomes lower. In practice, the downhaul is not necessary since the mainsheet pulls down on the boom, but the boom needs to keep its position with respect to the mast.
As the sail is eased out, the boom sweeps down in an arc to become almost horizontal. Because the rig is positioned rather low, the sail obscures all forward view if you are sitting to leeward. You may not have the option to sit to starboard in light winds and so your view would be obscured when the boat is on starboard tack. The addition of a large window in the sail, near the boom, would be an asset in this situation. However, the window will be stiffer than the sailcloth and will cause difficulty with furling the sail on the spars for transport. One of the benefits of having two spars (a yard at the top, boom at the bottom) is the ease of furling. Drop the sail onto the akas and roll it up starting from the middle.
The two sweeping crossbeams, called akas, and the seats, are lashed to the hulls with nylon. The boat is easily disassenbled and stacks neatly for trailering.
A family car should have no trouble towing the weight of this boat on a small trailer; larger cars or small trucks could carry it on a roof rack. Two average-strength people can lift the 84-lb main hull, which is the heaviest component. The boat gains weight quickly as it is assembled, so select a spot close to the water. The fully assembled weight of about 260 lbs will require four strong people to slide or lift into the water. Simplicity always has a trade-off, and in this case it is cost and assembly time. Each lashing does not take long, but there are lots of them. CLC is currently working on a faster lashing method. Expect to take an hour to sail away, and two-thirds of that to return onto the trailer. Lightweight, very inexpensive kit trailers will accommodate this boat. The longest component is the yard, sail, and boom package. Some contrivance may be necessary to elevate this above the towing vehicle to avoid any overhang beyond the hulls.
Sailing this boat was pure fun, providing me with the exhilaration of speed. Watching it slice through the waves is fascinating, with its smooth and level ride. The boat speaks to one’s sense of novelty and adventure. The bold sheerlines, strong out-thrust bows, and forward-raked mast, combined with a gentle curve of the yard and boom, create a purposeful image. Even as it sits on the beach, the boat looks like it wants to go somewhere. Once aboard, you can conjure up thoughts of those Pacific Islanders making adventurous passages to discover new islands in the vast ocean.
John Marples is a yacht designer and marine surveyor (www.searunner.com) living in Penobscot, Maine.
Maximum payload/450 lbs
Sail area/165 sq ft
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Plans and kits for the Outrigger Junior are available from Chesapeake Light Craft, 1805 George Ave., Annapolis, MD 21401; 410–267–0137; www.clcboats.com.
Here’s a boat type one doesn’t see too often these days. It’s a modest-sized outboard designed not as a center-console but instead with a small cabin that will accommodate the adventurous camp-cruiser. For the less ambitious, it’s a boat that offers a place to have a nap, use the head in privacy, or take friends and family to a favorite beach, island, or fishing spot. Given its varnished cabin sides and shapely hull, it’s just the sort of craft that stops dock strollers in their tracks as they say: “Now what is that!”
This is really a boat that belongs to another era but one that, for several reasons, is well worth another look today. Plan Number 283 was developed by Samuel Sturgis Crocker in 1954. Crocker, a naval architect who trained at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, was then 63 years old and well on his way to a portfolio that would eventually number 344 designs. While sailors most often associate Sam Crocker with his stout and able cutters and ketches, the designer himself enjoyed smaller boats very much. “Sam was more a daysailor and racer,” said his grandson, Skip, who is now the proprietor of Crocker’s Boat Yard, which his father founded in 1945 in Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts. “He loved being out on the bay. It didn’t matter how far off another sailboat was. He was racing it.”
Sam Crocker’s design No. 283, developed in 1954, is a 19′6″ outboard-powered runabout. The boat is built of pine strip planks, with cabin and trim of mahogany.
Sam Crocker’s work also included powerboats, and No. 283 was designed expressly for Paul Whitin, a member of the Arundel Yacht Club in Kennebunkport, Maine. While the design is distinctive by any measure—just look at those shapely ports in the cabin sides—it’s her rather modest beam that might impress us today as unusual. In a retrospective article for Small Boat Journal in 1980, Whitin wrote: “Her 6′8″ beam made her an easy pushing boat and very economical to run. With the 18-hp Mercury, she planed off nicely with a top speed of 14 knots.” One would expect a contemporary hull this length to be as much as 20″ broader and have a 90- to 115-hp outboard on the transom. Today, this boat goes about her business in a notably quiet, fuel-sipping manner with a 40-hp motor.
A study of Crocker’s cabin plan quickly reveals what Whitin had in mind for his new boat. The drawings show a modest V-berth in the forward part of the cabin with open storage beneath. To port, between the bulkhead and berth, the plans show a single-burner alcohol stove outboard and a toilet inboard hidden beneath a box with a hinged lid. To starboard, by the bulkhead, is a convenient, small locker.
Whitin named his boat ’Long Shore (after a favorite book of poems) and, as far as he was concerned, it had “real cruising capability.” He wasn’t kidding. Besides trips along the Maine coast, Whitin trailered ’Long Shore to Moosehead Lake, Sebago Lake, and down to Buzzards Bay, where he visited Cuttyhunk “many times.” Whitin sold ’Long Shore after five years, replacing her with a 30′ version “though still outboard-powered and still designed by Crocker.” There was no way he could then have known that one day, some 20 years later, design No. 283 would once again enter his life.
“In the fall of 1978,” Whitin wrote, “I had a mild heart attack.” His options were to give up motorboat cruising for daysailing or buy a smaller motor boat. He drove down to Manchester to talk with Sturgis, who expressed interest in building the boat. A deal was made, the plans reviewed, and molds built.
Crocker is best known for his salty sailing yachts, and the hardware on this fine pocket cruiser evokes that sensibility.
"She was a winter project,” Skip recalled when I visited. “We built her upside-down right here in this office where we’re sitting now.” I looked around, trying to picture the building as it once had been.
“Do you still have the molds?” I asked. “No, the molds got turned into that flight of steps you just walked up here on.”
The new ’Long Shore was built, as was the original, of 3/4″ x 3/4″ pine strip-planking fastened with 2″ galvanized finishing nails and two-part resorcinol glue. The keel, 7″ deep at its after end but tapering down forward, was made of oak. A little coal stove was mounted atop the starboard-side locker, the Charley Noble poking through the cabintop. Curtains were made for the cabin side windows. The boat also was fitted with a bimini, a nice touch, to shade the cockpit.
This time, Whitin powered the boat with a much bigger motor, a 50-hp Mercury. The idea—and it worked out well enough—was that the 50 would seldom need to be run at more than one-half or two-thirds throttle. With a 12″ x 13″ propeller, the engine delivered 4 mpg. Not only did Whitin and his wife cruise to new destinations in Maine, but they made a five-day September voyage from Kennebunkport down to Manchester and then returned home. All this is impressive going for a 19′6″ outboard-powered boat with two aboard, but it also suggests something about Whitin’s seamanship skills. For safety’s sake, boating newcomers would be advised to gain useful experience in local waters before undertaking something so ambitious.
Opening ports in the cabin front provide ample ventilation for the spartan sleeping accommodations.
Details of ’Long Shore’s life after Whitin sold her are largely unknown, but the boat’s journey took a surprising turn in the mid-1990s. “One day when I was about 25 years old,” Skip said, “the second or third owner drove in with the boat. It was quite a surprise to see it. I remembered watching it being built when I was a kid. I told him that if he ever wanted to sell it, he should give me a call.”
Several years later, in 2005, the owner did just that. “He was asking such a low price,” Skip remembered, “that I thought it must be full of leaves and rot and I didn’t follow up.”
Eventually, however, Skip found himself in the owner’s neighborhood and called. He found the boat wasn’t in disrepair. In fact, it was in the owner’s garage where the brightwork had been stripped and the mahogany stained. Skip bought the boat, sold the old Mercury and, eventually, began working on ’Long Shore. He replaced the cabintop, which had been weakened by the addition of a hatch, and then replaced the beams beneath it. New floors were installed. Stern seats and rod holders were added, and so was a new helm station. Finally, the boat was entirely refinished. Skip launched the boat into the Essex River and spent a fun summer that included family outings to beautiful Crane’s Beach on Ipswich Bay.
The long keel helps this boat run straight. The soft chines—the area where the bottom meets the hull sides is rounded by comparison to a hard-chine’s sharp angle—deliver a soft ride but permit somewhat more roll in a beam sea. During our outing, there wasn’t much wind but there was a swell rolling in from Massachusetts Bay over Whaleback Rock in between House Island and Misery Island. The boat cut easily through the swell and, had Skip not been so busy at the yard, it would have been tempting to pass beyond House, turn to port, open her up, and dash east to Gloucester for lunch. As it was, we headed for home and soon entered the no-wake zone that leads to Manchester’s well-protected harbor.
As outboard motors became increasingly reliable before and after World War II, small, outboard-powered “cruisers” appeared with some frequency in boating and do-it-yourself magazines. These days, some such plans still remain for purchase. Crocker’s No. 283 differs from most such boats, however, as it was never intended for amateur construction. Lofting is required, and molds would need to be built.
Design No. 283 on Sea trials near the place of her designing and building, Manchester, Massachusetts.
Skip estimated that a skilled home-builder would likely be able to turn out a credible version of this boat with about 1,500 hours of work, or a year’s time working solo. Fiberglassing the completed hull would add durability and permit a handsome finish that could be expected to last for years. Material costs for such things as pine, oak, plywood, and hardware, might total approximately $5,000, depending, in part, on whether the hardware is stainless steel or the more expensive bronze. Skip’s boat has the original, opening bronze ports in the forward cabin coaming.
Given the weight of today’s outboards, beefing up the transom would be recommended. “There’s a strong knee that reinforces the transom,” Skip said, “but we’d want to increase the transom thickness by an inch.” Because a comparatively heavy outboard could make the stern sit a bit lower in the water than originally intended, a 40-hp model should be considered the maximum for the boat.
Skip has thought about the boat’s sales potential and believes it could be built at a price competitive with higher-end fiberglass boats of its general size. He also thinks the hull would make for a wonderful, open boat, modestly powered, and with tiller steering. All things considered, this early-1950s outboard is worth a look from those with an eye for good looks, practicality, and fuel efficiency.
Stan Grayson is a regular contributor to WoodenBoat.
Crocker’s Boat Yard: Design No. 283
LOA/19′6″
Beam/6′8″
Weight/2,100 lbs
Recommended outboard engine/25–40 hp
Update, August 2022: Plans for Design No. 283 are no longer available.
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Small Boats Monthly photo
Eddie Breeden
