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IssueM Articles


ORPHANED

"Did you build it?” is, by far, the question I am most asked when someone sees
me with one of my boats whether I’m in the back yard, at the ramp, or on the
water. I can’t help but feel a bit of pride when I can reply that I did. So, it
has surprised me that I’ve taken great interest in refinishing the Piccolo
lapstrake canoe I was given, unexpectedly by strangers, this past summer. I’ve
only taken it out paddling three times, each in an out-of-the-way place. No one
has asked me “the question,” but that time will come, and I’ll have to say “No.”
 I’ve been uncomfortable imagining how less satisfying those exchanges might be.

The Piccolo showed no signs of hard use but it was showing its age with the
gloss of its paint and varnish long gone.

I have not found out who built the Piccolo. Kelley and Samantha, the couple who
gave it to me, got it from Rob, who had bought a 1970 Newport sailboat and the
canoe came with it. He wanted a kayak instead and gave the canoe to Kelley.

The bright-finished interior showed that much of the plywood had been stained by
age. The outwale had lost almost all of its varnish.

When I decided to refinish the canoe, I began to learn a bit about the builder,
and even to like him, whoever he was.

John, as I’ll call him here, built the canoe from scratch. The Piccolo was
designed by Bob Baker for traditional construction: 1⁄4″ cedar planks on
steam-bent frames with breasthooks cut from grown crooks. John went the
glued-lap-plywood route and may have been guided, as I was when I built my 18′
lapstrake canoe in the late ’80s, by Tom Hill’s Ultralight Boatbuilding. He
would have lofted the boat from Baker’s offsets and, after he set the molds up,
lined off the seven strakes with battens. It’s not an easy task getting the
plank widths right and the curve of the laps fair. When I did it for my canoe, I
had to use large mirrors hung on the basement walls to get a line of sight along
the battens to adjust them. At first glance the Piccolo’s planking looked fine,
but on both ends the third broadstrake flares a bit and pinches the fourth. It’s
a minor complaint, and if the Piccolo was John’s first boat, he did well.

The planks were lined off with fair curves, but their spacing at the ends was
not quite on target.

Without the leg up provided by a kit’s computer-generated, precut parts, he
would have had to spile the planks to get their shapes from the battens, another
traditional boatbuilding skill that takes patience to do well. When I sanded the
hull, I saw the telltale feathered glue lines of scarf joints John had made to
get the full-length plywood blanks for the planks. He had done the joints
properly and they were smooth on both sides of the planks.

Before I started refinishing the Piccolo, I installed seven floor timbers to
brace the bottom of the hull and support a pair of floorboards.

In theory, it should be simple to make a symmetrical hull by duplicating planks,
one on top of the other, before separating them to put them on the building
form. When I added seven floor timbers to the Piccolo to support a set of
floorboards, I noticed that there were differences port and starboard. The
starboard garboard, for instance was 1⁄8″ wider than its port-side mate. I had a
similar problem planking my Whitehall: the steam-bent plank keel had a slight
twist in it and I had to spile the port and starboard garboards separately to
accommodate the asymmetry.

And the bevels on the Piccolo’s stems weren’t quite right. The angle between
them wasn’t as acute as it should have been to get the plank ends to lie flat.
John had had to force the hood ends home, and the planks hook into the stems
with a slight bulge. I’d built a few boats before I realized that curving a
fairing batten past the stems can create that problem. The planks have nothing
to hold them curved to the bitter end, so the lofting batten should be allowed
to run straight after it passes the stem, rather than being made to curve.

Sanding the Piccolo gave me an opportunity to better appreciate the canoe and
its builder. I used the rabbet plane and the scraper to remove loose epoxy from
the underside of the outwale.

I spent several hours sanding the Piccolo and as I studied and ran my hands over
the work John had done, the signs of the struggles he’d had were all very
familiar. I don’t know why he stopped working on the canoe when he had the hull
finished. He had done all the most challenging work—lofting, lining off,
spiling, scarfing, cutting bevels and gains on the planks—and he had done it
well enough to pass muster with anyone who has built a boat. With my first
boats, I thought finishing the hull must be the halfway point or even a bit
more, but I eventually learned it was close to the one-third mark, if that.
Baker designed the Piccolo with a cat-ketch lugsail rig, backrest, footrest, and
a rudder with tiller, yoke, and foot-pedal steering options. John may have
realized that completing the boat to the plans was more than he wanted or needed
to do.

The Piccolo is in my basement getting some long overdue attention.

John’s Piccolo doesn’t have a builder’s plate. He let the canoe go without his
name and without a name of its own. I don’t know how many years and how many
hands it had passed through, and I wonder if those who owned it thought of it as
just a wooden canoe. It has become more than that to me. John left his mark on
the Piccolo, enough for me to regard him as someone I would recognize, even
admire. When people ask me if I built the canoe, I’ll have to say “No,” but I
might add, “A friend did.”



4 Comments on Orphaned


LAWTON TENDER BY NEWFOUND WOODWORKS

During the first two decades of the 20th century, yachting was a particularly
popular sport among men of standing and means. Each yachtsman wanted a tender
worthy of his yacht. It needed to row and tow well and travel with efficiency
and stability while carrying considerable weight in a range of sea states. It
also had to have pleasing lines and be built to the highest standards of
craftmanship. For this clientele, cost was not a consideration.

Charlie Lawton of Marblehead, Massachusetts, built some of the finest tenders
meeting these requirements. John Gardner was a coworker and friend of Lawton’s,
and when Lawton retired sometime in the 1940s at age 90 he gave Gardner the
lines, table of offsets, and some patterns for the Lawton Tender. Gardner
eventually put this information together as a detailed set of plans and
instructions for building the boat and published them in the January 1978 issue
of National Fisherman. They were also included in Building Classic Small Craft:
Complete Plans and Instructions for 47 Boats, published in 2004.

Lawton built his tenders with carvel planking over delicate bent-oak frames.
Newfound Woodworks worked from Gardner’s offsets, lines, and descriptions of
Lawton’s building techniques to produce plans for a Lawton Tender built with
cedar strips and covered with fiberglass cloth and epoxy resin. There is a sense
in which these modern materials respect the original aesthetics of Lawton
Tenders. Newfound Woodworks says that a Lawton Tender built with their kit
materials weighs about 70 lbs, which is indeed light. The strip-built boat does
not require frames, knees, or breasthooks, although they can be added if you
want your tender to look more like Lawton’s.

Stephen Bowen

Applying the strips from the bottom up is straightforward for the first
two-thirds of the hull, but eventually, the ends are butted against the inner
keel and at that stage there is a tight bend for each strip. An alternative
method is to plank down for about 20 percent and then plank up to close the gap.
The author milled his own red-cedar strips.

I built a Lawton Tender from Newfound Woodworks’ plans with no intentional
modifications. As fits its purpose, the tender is a short, stout craft with an
overall length of 10′, an overall beam of 45″, and a capacity of 575 lbs. I
bought the “standard set of plans,” which includes full-sized half-drawings of
the form station outlines with several stations’ outlines superimposed on each
plan sheet. Using carbon paper, the outline for one side of a station is traced
onto 1⁄2″ MDF, then the sheet is turned over and the mirror image is traced to
outline the full station form. Conveniently, the tallest stations are just under
24″ so at least four station forms can be made from a 4′ × 8′ sheet of MDF cut
into four 24″ × 48″ pieces. Full-sized station outlines that do not require you
to turn over the sheet and justify it to the centerline are available at an
additional cost.

Included with the plans is a booklet consisting of 12 pages of step-by-step
instructions, a bill of materials for the kits that Newfound Woodworks can
provide, and some 32 pages of general information on strip-building techniques.
These instructions are meant to be sufficient for experienced builders, but
those with limited experience are urged to first get the Pre-Kit consisting of
the book Woodstrip Rowing Craft by Susan Van Leuven and two instructional
videos, Cedar Strip Boat Building and Applying Fiberglass and Epoxy, in DVD
format, with additional strip-building notes (the company hopes to offer the
videos in streaming format, too). I had built a cedar-strip canoe so didn’t get
the Pre-Kit and already had the book, which I found invaluable in answering
questions, but I haven’t seen the videos.

Matt Bowen

Whereas the Newfound Woodworks kits for the Lawton Tender use white cedar, the
author chose to use his own red cedar with a contrasting accent stripe. The fine
entry and aft skeg help the boat to track well despite its light weight and
shallow draft.

Newfound Woodworks can provide a kit that includes nearly all the materials
needed to build the boat: station forms, wood, fiberglass cloth, and epoxy. The
woods they provide are specifically chosen for this boat. Most of the strips are
white cedar, which is more flexible than red cedar and quite helpful when
stripping the hollow forefoot and the most-curved section of the stern. Many of
the pieces are pre-cut to the final dimensions. The kit is the practical option
for builders who do not have access to a joiner, planer, router table, and table
saw. I chose to use wood I already had or could obtain locally. I made strips
from red cedar, and for the rest of the boat I used the wood of a Kentucky
coffeetree that blew down in my yard a decade ago. This ring-porous wood has the
same density as white ash. I’m sure there are woods that would have been easier
to work with, but I liked the coffeetree’s golden-blond color.

The boat is built upside down on 10 molds, a stem form, and a transom support
set on a box-beam strongback. The first step is to laminate the inner stem and
assemble the transom, which is made up of 1⁄4″ plywood sandwiched by 3⁄8″
hardwood. Once they are attached to the form, stripping begins at the sheer and
works up toward the keel.

Stephen Bowen

The strip-plank construction lends itself to a clean interior without frames,
knees, or breasthooks, although these can be added for a more traditional
aesthetic.

There are two ways to attach the strips to the stations: with staples or with
clamps. I chose the latter to avoid all those staple holes, and applied a
1⁄2″-wide band of MDF beside the exterior edge of each station to hold the
clamps, as recommended by Van Leuven. Simple spring clamps worked for most
strips and didn’t mar the cedar. Given the degree of bend and twist required, it
was essential to use straps between stations to hold the strips in place while
the glue dried. The twist involved in attaching strips at the hollow forefoot
and the transom is particularly challenging, and Newfound Woodworks offers some
clever suggestions that helped me. A possible benefit of using staples is that
they stay in place until all the strips have been applied, whereas clamps are
removed after each strip. In applying strips to the forward half of the boat
from the center to the keel, I found that the straps pulled the completed
section away from the station forms and it did not fully return after the straps
were released. Had I recognized this earlier, I would have used some small
screws at a few points to secure the completed section to the station forms.
Newfound Woodworks assured me that this relatively small departure from the
intended shape would not affect performance.

As the first two-thirds of the strips are attached, they overlap the stem and
transom and are easily trimmed once the glue has cured. Farther up the form, the
ends of the strips have to be fitted as they butt against the inner keel.
Fitting is difficult because these strips must be bent quite a bit. An
alternative recommended in the building notes is to build about 20 percent of
the hull by starting at the inner keel and working down. This section is not
initially glued to the keel so that it can be lifted off the form. Then strips
are added from the bottom up progressing to the point where they overlap the
area covered by the top-down panel. The panel is put in place, scribed from
underneath against the completed section of the hull, and cut to fit. The
building notes provide more detailed instructions for this approach.

Matt Bowen

With its high freeboard the Lawton Tender has excellent load capacity, but can
be adversely affected by a strong crosswind.

When the hull is completely stripped, it is faired and sanded, sealed with
epoxy, ’glassed, and varnished. The outer stem, skeg, and outer keel are added
and sheathed with more ’glass. The boat is then removed from the form and
supported right-side up as the inside of the hull is faired, sanded, and
’glassed. The inwales and outwales are installed and a small deck is put in
place. Finally, the seats and oarlocks are installed. My finished boat weighs
89.5 lbs.

Ibought a Trailex aluminum trailer that is a perfect fit for the 10′ Lawton
Tender. The boat and the trailer are light and very easy to handle. For those
with the strength, the 70-lb boat could be cartopped but with a center depth of
nearly 20″ don’t forget it’s up there when you are pulling into the garage.

Stephen Bowen collection

The Lawton Tender has proved ideal for lake fishing with 125 lbs of
grandchildren on board.

I chose the Lawton Tender as a small, easily handled boat for getting out on
nearby lakes and rivers; sometimes fishing and sometimes taking out the
grandkids. I’m pleased with its stability and balance. Because it is so light, I
tend to treat it like a canoe and not stand too far away from the centerline,
but I’ve never felt like it was in danger of flipping. I was surprised at how
fast I can row it with about 125 lbs of grandchildren occupying the forward and
aft seats; we covered 1 mile in 22 minutes. It tracks well, but with its ample
freeboard is affected by wind.

I’m happy I chose this project. Building the boat was more challenging than
building the canoe, and I learned a lot in the process. Newfound Woodworks was
very responsive to questions either by email or by phone. Their Lawton Tender
has lived up to my expectations and is getting quite a bit of use. I would
recommend it to anyone who wants a small rowboat.

Stephen Bowen is a retired aquatic scientist, professor, and dean. For his
research career, he had a series of nearly indestructible Boston Whalers. In
retirement, he shares a 34′ sloop with his son for sailing Lake Michigan and he
now has a small, easily transported boat for West Michigan’s inland lakes and
rivers.

LAWTON TENDER PARTICULARS

Length:   10′ 1⁄4″
Waterline length:   9′
Beam:   45″
Waterline Beam:   43″
Weight:   70 lbs
Displacement (capacity):   575 lbs
Draft:   4 3⁄4″
Center depth:   19 3⁄4″
Depth at bow:   23 1⁄4″

Plans ($110 and $160) and kits ($3,405) for the Lawton Tender are available from
Newfound Woodworks. The Pre-Kit Rowing/Fishing Boat Package is $98.

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

1 Comment on Lawton Tender by Newfound Woodworks


ADVANCEDFRAME SPORT KAYAK

I am by nature a solo kayaker and seize the chance to go paddling when time and
weather allow. While I’d enjoy the company and help of a paddling buddy, lining
one up doesn’t seem to work with my spur-of-the-moment planning and
will-of-the-wisp exploring.

As a 69-year-old lake lover with spinal alignment issues, I’d been able just to
manage loading my 12′, 42-lb rotomolded kayak on my 2004 Subaru Impreza by
myself. I’d prop the bow on a folding sawhorse, lay a rag rug over the hatchback
window, then shove the kayak up onto the upright J-carriers on my roof racks.
I’d done this for quite a few years, and it worked well.

This spring, it was time to replace my dear Impreza, but the newer ones were too
low-slung so I bought an Outback. It has the clearance I need for the
semi-remote gravel roads I travel, but it’s slightly taller than my old Impreza.
The extra height and the spoiler would make loading more challenging. I bought a
suction-cup-mounted kayak roller to get me “over the hump” but, worried the
struggle would send me to the chiropractor, never tried it. I enjoyed paddling
the chain of lakes where my husband and I have a rustic camp, but it was a
frustrating summer not having an easy way to go kayaking elsewhere.

Photographs by the author and Richard Washburn

Folded in half lengthwise and then in thirds horizontally, the kayak easily fits
into the trunk of the author’s Outback along with a heavy-duty plastic sheet on
which to drag the kayak from the car to the launch, a 230-cm one-piece Malone
feathering paddle, a life jacket and miscellaneous gear, and the kayak’s duffel
bag, which holds the seat, pump, and other accessories.

In late September my dad sent me a link to an online review of inflatable
kayaks, with the suggestion, “When cartopping gets to be too much of a chore,
maybe this would work?” Two days later I had a serendipitous encounter with a
kayaker bringing his inflatable ashore at a nearby lake. His enjoyment of his
boat and the freedom it allowed him with its easy transport and setup inspired
me to look it up online. It was well rated, but he’d admitted it wasn’t great in
waves, so I shopped further and found a few other candidates in my size and
price range. I kept coming back to the sweetly designed 10′ 6″ AdvancedFrame
Sport Special Edition from Advanced Elements. With its semi-enclosed cockpit,
moderate 32″ beam, and enthusiastic reviews, it seemed a kayak I’d feel
comfortable and safe in. The reviews promised a paddling experience more like a
hard-shell kayak than other inflatables, with better tracking and handling in
waves due to the internal aluminum ribs and deck inserts that sharpen and define
the bow and stern. At 26 lbs, it would be a bit heavier than other inflatables I
had my eye on, but it seemed important to choose a boat I’d enjoy paddling,
which, as my husband, Richard, told me, “is the whole point.” I ordered an
Advanced Elements AdvancedFrame Sport Special Edition from an outdoor equipment
retailer.

Before setting off on my first sea trials at a local pond, I asked Richard to
help me set the kayak up on the lawn at home, to get the hang of inflating and
deflating it. The kayak came fully assembled from the factory, neatly folded in
a waterproof duffel bag with an owner’s manual, adjustable folding seat, repair
kit, double-action pump with built-in pressure gauge, and other accessories.

After spreading it out and identifying all the parts, despite all the clear
directions and diagrams about the spring and twist valves and proper inflation
of the boat’s four chambers, it took us an hour to figure out how the pump
worked with its various adapter tips and inflation/deflation ports. The pump
came with four different adapters attached on a plastic loop tie to prevent
losing them. Good idea, but confusing and in the way when I’d only be using the
two adapters that fit my boat’s valves. We cut the cord and tied just the two
tips I’d be using back on.

In comparison to other inflatable kayaks, the AdvancedFrame Sport is somewhere
between ultralight and heavy. Although it can be carried folded into thirds and
fourths, it is an easier lift if the kayak is inflated and then rested on the
bearer’s shoulder. In that position it is well balanced and easily handled.

The kayak’s air chambers are inflated in a particular order while watching the
pump’s gauge carefully to avoid exceeding the recommended pressure for each.
There’s a learning curve to the valves and pumping process, but having inflated
the kayak a few times, I now find it’s a snap and takes only 5 to 10 minutes to
pump up the four air chambers. With both feet on the pump’s foot flanges, and
both hands on the handles, I watch the pressure gauge as I pump, and slow down
as the needle nears the right pressure. Clip in the seat, and I’m good to go.

A caveat in the manual is to be mindful of water and air temperature, as on a
cold day the chambers may lose pressure and the kayak may sag, while “in hot
weather or prolonged sunlight, the air inside it will expand. You must let some
air out of the appropriate chambers to prevent the kayak from failing due to
overpressure.” It wasn’t a concern during my October trials, but the warning is
one I’ll take seriously in the summer.

The beauty of any kayak is being able to paddle through the shallows and pull up
onto a sheltered beach away from the crowds. Despite being an inflatable, the
tough three-layered skin of the AdvancedFrame Sport is rugged enough to be
pulled (gently) ashore.

The hull is made of three layers of PVC tarpaulin material (polyester fabric
with vinyl bonded on both sides) for puncture resistance, with reinforcing
material covering the welded hull-to-deck and bow and stern seams. Both for
safety and longevity, I’m careful how I launch and land, to protect the bottom
from abrasion. When getting in and out, I wade the kayak into the shallows,
bracing my hands forward on the sturdy cockpit coaming to hold my weight as I
step one foot in the center of the floor. (The 32″ beam is too wide for me to
straddle for a seat-first entry.) Then, with my hands bracing behind, I bring my
other leg in as I sit down.

The accommodations are amazingly comfortable, with a nicely made, cushioned,
buckle-in folding seat with high backrest. The trick is sitting down in the
center of the seat, in front of the hinge, with the backrest nearly vertical,
for the most comfortable position. Once I’m in, I can adjust the backrest angle
with the straps, but it’s hard to shift the seat base back and forth with my
weight on it. If I get in and the seat position doesn’t seem quite right, I try
again until I find the sweet spot. Once I’m seated comfortably with the backrest
upright, it’s a great seat and I can paddle quite a ways before wanting to come
ashore and stretch my legs.

There is a cargo area behind the seat and a small amount of storage under the
aft deck. Elsewhere, D-rings (as seen here on the aft deck) and bungees (on the
foredeck), offer a variety of options for carrying gear. At both the bow and
stern, reinforced nylon-strap handles can be used to lift the ends of the boat
or for carrying by two people.

The seatback has a sewn-in mesh pocket, which came with a repair kit tucked
inside. I carry a sponge in the pocket to mop up any puddles from drips or rain
if caught in a shower. I also carry an oval piece of blue sleeping-pad foam to
protect the inflatable floor from getting scuffed by sand and grit as I step in
and out of the boat.

The cockpit is perfectly sized for easy entry and comfortable paddling, with
just the right leg room. There are no foot braces, but I can easily adjust the
seat straps so I can rest my feet against the air chambers in front if I want
that sense of support I’m used to in my hard kayaks. I’m finding the trim feels
better, though, if I adjust the straps to put me an inch or two farther aft.
This still leaves plenty of storage space in the cargo area aft of the seat.

The AdvancedFrame Sport kayak is remarkably stable. The author was surprised by
how far she could lean over while still feeling on the “safe side of capsizing.”

I find the kayak reassuringly stable, both in its initial stability when I’m
getting in and out of the cockpit and in its secondary stability when I lean to
the side. I was amazed how far I could lean over without tipping, the water just
grazing the hull-to-deck seam. That boosted my confidence in the boat’s safety.
The Sport’s 32″ beam seems just right—wide enough for stability plus a good
width for the 230 cm feathering double-bladed paddles I already have for my
other kayaks, and indeed, they are perfect for this boat, which is a little
beamier but shallower.

A molded skeg is attached to the stern (at right) to aid tracking and another
attachment at the bow has a lower profile and protects the hull when coming
ashore.

The Sport is a pleasure to paddle. Properly inflated, it tracks remarkably well
for a 10′ 6″ boat, with the frame in the bow providing a sharp entry and a skeg
fused on the bottom aft. I find the bow yaws 2″ to 3″ with each stroke, but not
annoyingly so. I had thought I might have to buy the optional “backbone” (a
tubular keelson) or drop-stitched floor to stiffen the hull, as recommended by
some reviewers, but for my weight (120 lbs in a hull of 250 lbs total capacity)
it seems to handle just fine with only the built-in floor (twist-valve chamber
#2), inflated to the recommended 1 psi. It cruises along quite well, almost as
fast as my 12′ rigid kayaks. I’m strictly a flatwater paddler, and prefer poking
along protected lake and pond shores, exploring sandy-bottomed coves, admiring
the vintage camps, scenery, and geologic features, and botanizing. Sometimes
I’ll cut across open water in light wind and waves, and the little blue
inflatable has handled well so far in those conditions.

I’ve been impressed with how well the kayak is designed and made. Its shapely,
attractive lines are accented by the curved gray-fabric coaming and black-fabric
edging along the seams. Advanced Elements shines as an innovator in inflatable
construction, with its well-thought-out performance-first design, quality
materials, sturdy construction, and valve system, and all the thoughtful touches
and accessories that make the Sport a stylish, safe, user-friendly boat. It
includes all the features I enjoy on my hard-shell kayaks—rugged bow and stern
handholds, bungee deck rigging—plus neoprene paddle guards, Velcro paddle
holders, and ample cargo space. The only thing missing is a watertight hatch,
but a small drybag could be stowed under the aft deck.

The AdvancedFrame Sport kayak has a semi-enclosed cockpit with enough room for
easy entry but surrounded by reassuringly wide side decks. Unlike many
inflatable kayaks that have shallower cockpits and raised seats, here the
generous depth of the cockpit, with its cushioned seat resting on the inflatable
floor, helps to keep the kayak stable when getting in and out and when paddling
in breezy conditions.

Best of all is the Sport’s ease of transport and carrying. I can most
comfortably carry the kayak when it’s firmly inflated, with the cushioned
coaming resting on my shoulder. Even though the kayak weighs only 26 lbs, when
deflated and folded it’s a little more unwieldy, but I’m getting adept at
grasping and lifting it in the middle, folded first in half lengthwise, then in
thirds, with the bow and stern overlapping in the middle. This makes a
manageable bundle about 48″ long by 18″ wide by 8″ thick, which fits nicely in
the back of my car.

To fit in the duffel bag, the manual recommends using the pump to fully deflate
the air chambers, then folding the kayak in half lengthwise and quartering
horizontally into a neat package 30″ long by 17″ wide by 14″ thick. It also
emphasizes the importance of drying the kayak thoroughly before folding for
extended storage.

I’m delighted with my AdvancedFrame Sport Kayak and being free to follow my
watery whims without the stress of cartopping. I consider it a great value and
look forward to a new world of paddling adventures next season.

Jane Crosen lives in Penobscot, Maine, where she publishes her hand-drawn maps
and other map products as Jane Crosen, Mapmaker. She writes and copy-edits books
and publications including this magazine. This is her first article for Small
Boats.

The AdvancedFrame Sport Kayak and manual are available direct from Advanced
Elements for $549.99. The company has a wide network of retailers.

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

2 Comments on AdvancedFrame Sport Kayak


THE HEART OF A CRUISER

There is something deeply satisfying about prolonged outdoor physical exercise
when your body is injury-free and working well, when your muscles, tendons, and
bones have overcome their initial protest at being asked to do the unaccustomed
work and become conditioned to it. Long-distance cyclists and marathon runners
know this, and as a former enthusiast of both of those pursuits, I, too, know
it. However, for me, long-distance rowing delivers the most gratifying way to
experience that ineffable feeling that comes from spending days and weeks at a
time in the natural world moving under my own power. Thinking back over the
various small-boat journeys I’ve made through the years, there is one day in my
memory that epitomizes that feeling of fulfillment. It came aboard FIRE-DRAKE,
my 18′ sail-and-oar boat, 10 days into a cruise south from Prince Rupert along
British Columbia’s Inside Passage.

Early in the morning, under the last remnants of the overnight rain and with the
roar of Butedale Falls receding beyond my boat’s transom, I rowed away from a
ramshackle float at the abandoned settlement of Butedale. It was just another
day of cruising in Princess Royal Channel, the steep-sided narrow trench between
Princess Royal Island and the mainland, where the outer-coast weather forecasts
only loosely corresponded to the actual weather in the passage. The previous
day’s sailing wind had given way to calm in the morning, but I was grateful it
was not a headwind. Although the flood tide was making against me as I rounded
Redcliff Point and turned south along Graham Reach, I knew that I could make
progress if I worked close to shore in the back eddies created by the small
points and indentations resulting from the folds of the mountains where their
feet met the sea.

Tim Yeadon

Alex Zimmerman was on a 300-mile cruise, with his friend Tim Yeadon in July 2016
when they called in to Pender Harbor on the east side of British Columbia’s
Strait of Georgia. Before his AFib diagnosis, Alex thought nothing of
long-distance rowing cruises, whether in company or alone, and relished the
challenge of a multiple-day expedition under oar and sail.

The chill of the damp morning yielded to broken cloud with glimpses of sun
between the mountain peaks. I shed a layer, drank some water, planted my feet
firmly on the stretchers, and settled into my all-day pace of about 25 strokes a
minute. Each stroke was a cycle: pushing the oar handles aft, dipping the blades
of the oars into the water, pulling with extended arms, then completing the
stroke by bringing the handles to my chest. The repetition soon became nearly as
automatic as walking or running. I breathed easily in the crisp, clean air and
the rhythm induced a kind of moving meditation, where the awareness of my body’s
working was present but not uppermost. My mind was free from whirling jumbled
thoughts, free to just be, and to absorb what was happening around me. Rowing
close to the shore, I noticed all the little trickles, rills, and streams that
would otherwise be hidden by the overhanging cedars, whose lower branches were
trimmed by the high tide as neatly as by any gardener. The aural liquidity of a
Pacific wren’s song, the scold of a Steller’s jay, and the hollow “quock!” of a
raven testified to the unseen presence of deep-forest inhabitants. For some
reason there was no other boat traffic that morning, and I felt that all this
had been laid on especially for me.

The hours wore away, and the landmarks of my progress along the channel
successively ticked by—Aaltanhash Inlet, then Asher Point guarding the entrance
to Khutze Inlet to port, a brief puff of wind at Griffin Point that nearly
tempted me to raise sail. Carrol Island came up to starboard, and I rowed
through the narrow channel behind the island just because I could. In late
afternoon, nine hours after I had started, as I approached Netherby Point at the
mouth of Green Inlet in search of an anchorage, I was physically tired, but I
had a profound sense of accomplishment and felt there was no other place or time
I would rather be.

As I coasted into the bay, I was supremely grateful that, even at the age of 66,
I was still physically able to do this. I was grateful to have been able to
arrange my life to be there in that place at that moment, to row a loaded boat
that I had designed and built down this storied stretch of coast. The experience
was a privilege that few can access, and I believed I could keep doing it for
years to come.

Dave Lesser

Alex designed and built FIRE-DRAKE to replace the Whitehall he had rowed and
sailed for seven years. The new boat sailed well to windward but at times Alex
found the best option was to lower the rig and row. But the characteristics that
gave her better sailing abilities in comparison to the Whitehall—more beam and
wetted surface—also made her harder to row. For Alex in recent years, that extra
work became too much.

It wasn’t to be. Several years before that cruise south along the Inside
Passage, I had experienced some intermittent heart-rhythm fluctuations that came
and went. As an otherwise fit amateur athlete who had never smoked, never been
overweight, had low cholesterol and normal blood pressure, I didn’t think much
about it. I put the episodes down to too much caffeine and cut back somewhat. I
woke up one night at home, however, with another of these episodes, and by the
following afternoon it hadn’t gone away—my heart had not gone back to its normal
rhythm as it had before. I finally had to admit this was not normal. My wife
drove me to the hospital emergency department where we checked in and sat in the
waiting room with others who, like me, showed no obvious symptoms but didn’t
look well.

Eventually, the verdict was delivered—I had atrial fibrillation, AFib for short.
It’s a condition where the electrical signals for the heartbeat are extremely
irregular, weak, and usually rapid. I learned that there were several varieties
of AFib and that mine was paroxysmal AFib, which happens unpredictably in
distinct episodes. I was administered a cardioversion, a mild shock to jolt my
heart back to normal rhythm, and while it did not reset the rhythm, my blood
pressure wasn’t too low and I wasn’t feeling as bad as most people apparently
do, so I was discharged. I went home where, 16 hours after the start of the
AFib, my heart rhythm reset on its own.

After that visit to the ER, I went through tests and consultations with
specialists. Stress tests revealed that my heart had the strength and stamina of
a much younger man. That was gratifying. Given that my AFib was intermittent, my
doctor prescribed a drug that I could carry with me and take whenever I had an
episode; it should reset the rhythm. I was also told to drink more water and add
a little salt (which I had avoided for years) back into my diet. That regimen
seemed to work pretty well, at least for the next few years. There was one
two-year period, in fact, during which I had no episodes at all.

Tim Yeadon

In FIRE-DRAKE Alex would often row for up to eight or nine hours a day,
frequently alone, and sometimes in bad weather and remote places. Here he is
north of Yaculta Rapids in the channel between mainland British Columbia and
Vancouver Island.

I wondered what had caused my AFib and why I, who had led a very active life,
had it. I learned, to my dismay, that I may have been too active by exercising
too hard and too long for too many years. One doctor pointed me to a couple of
studies that found that the incidence of AFib among marathon runners and
cross-country ski racers in Europe was three to seven times that in the general
population. Later, a friend recommended The Haywire Heart, a book that details
heart problems among athletes, especially AFib. It confirmed and amplified the
findings of those earlier studies. There was a high likelihood I had unwittingly
caused the problem. More to the point at this stage, was that if I continued
doing what I had always done, I was likely to make the AFib worse.

I did not want to hear that nor admit it to myself, and it took me a long time
to accept it. It was something of an existential crisis. I had always defined
myself, at least in part, by what I could do physically. I was the guy who had
more stamina than most, the one who could persevere and make it through just
about any physical challenge. If I could no longer do that, who was I? Now I had
a condition where doing that could harm me. I’m a little thick sometimes, but
eventually it sank in that going out and rowing for eight or more hours a day
for weeks on end during a cruise was no longer a recipe for growing old
gracefully. I grieved for the man I once had been, and belatedly accepted I
could no longer do what he did.

I caved in and bought a 2.5-hp outboard to propel FIRE-DRAKE in the calms, but
after a number of weeklong trips, I found it was not a congenial match. The boat
was relatively lightly built, and I worried that the vibration from the motor
might do long-term damage to the structure. The stern was not suited for the
outboard—it had to be mounted on the gunwale, which I found very ugly, and taken
off and stowed every time I wanted to sail. Stowed, it took up room on board
that could be used for other gear. After much pondering about whether I could
build a well for the outboard (awkward given the existing structure, plus it
would eat up stowage space), or convert to solar electric (not enough area for
needed solar panels and a lot of added weight for batteries), I concluded that
if I wanted to keep making extended voyages along our wonderful British Columbia
coast, I really should do it in a different boat, a motorsailer of some kind. I
still wanted to sail when the wind served, but the boat should be happy motoring
all day in the calm and/or the rain that we get up the coast. The rain also
meant that if I could find something with a small cabin, so much the better. I
could have bought a used, small, production cruiser, but I liked having an
excuse to build another boat. I made this decision a few short months into the
COVID-19 pandemic, so it would be a project to keep me occupied during the
lockdowns.

Alex Zimmerman

Alex’s sketch of CAMAS MOON gives no sense of a man taking the easy life as she
cuts through choppy waters under a reefed mainsail but full jib and mizzen.

Which boat to build? As I would mostly be cruising solo, I didn’t need a big
boat. I didn’t want the expense of a boat that had to be kept in the water, so
it had to be trailerable. FIRE-DRAKE, at 18′ long and 5′4″ wide, was the biggest
boat I had built in the shop. After re-examining the space, moving things
around, and offloading a radial-arm saw that I didn’t use much, I figured I
could build a boat of about the same length, but a little wider. All these
considerations led me to Tad Roberts’s Pogy 17 design, which is, as he puts it,
“a minimum coastal cruiser for one or two people.” When I contacted him and said
I was ready to order the plans, he told me that the detailed plans had never
been developed, as nobody had yet built one. Tad proposed designing a slightly
different solution for the same mission, and it sounded like an even better fit
for what I had in mind. He named it the CoPogy 18, an 18′ gaff yawl with a
pilothouse cabin and an outboard motorwell. I started the build in September
2020 and, at the end of August 2022, launched CAMAS MOON.

My shakedown voyage in September 2022 was a two-festival cruise, first motoring
the 8 miles from my local launch ramp around to Victoria’s inner harbor for the
Victoria Classic Boat Festival. Then I motored in the calm and the heat across
the U.S. border, through the San Juan Islands, and south across the Strait of
Juan de Fuca to take part in the Port Townsend Wooden Boat Festival the
following weekend. After that, I returned home the same way, a 140-mile round
trip. I came away from the cruise with a list of nearly three-dozen fixes,
modifications, and improvements to be done over the winter. I got started right
away. What also got started that fall was a return of my AFib episodes, which
had been absent for two years. My meds still worked to reset my heart, so I
wasn’t too worried, and the rest of the winter passed without more episodes. At
the end of May, I had another major episode at home, but the drug still worked.
Not so the episode that came three weeks later. The drug not only didn’t reset
my heart rhythm, it turned the atrial fibrillation into atrial flutter,
apparently a more dangerous condition because the heart beats even more rapidly.
I checked myself into the emergency department again and was successfully
cardioverted back to normal sinus rhythm.

I had planned an extensive summer cruise for 2023 and was eager to see how the
boat would perform with my modifications, but this last episode had me worried.
In a follow-up talk with my doctor, he thought that the risk of it happening a
second time was low and that the meds could still work if it happened again.
Accordingly, I planned a cruise for late July.

Galen Piehl

CAMAS MOON, with Alex at her helm, sailed in the Victoria Classic Boat Festival
during their shake-down cruise in September 2022.

The morning of Thursday, July 20, I launched CAMAS MOON at the public dock in
Sidney, B.C., and headed out. I had a very pleasant warm-weather sail in
sunshine and light winds, with some motoring, over to Bedwell Harbour on South
Pender Island, and arrived in midafternoon. As I was raising the centerboard, I
heard a bang—the lift pennant had broken. I had to fix it somehow, and after
thinking about it, came up with a jury-rig solution using the materials I had on
board. It took me three hours down in the cabin in the heat, to complete the
repair. By then I was tired and somewhat dehydrated. I drank some water, but
probably not enough. As the sun went down, I moved CAMAS MOON over to a park
mooring buoy, which was a little more protected from the swell that had started
to roll into the anchorage. I went to bed a little early but woke at 11:15 p.m.
to the familiar disturbed rhythm of AFib. I took my meds right away, but the
AFib didn’t reset on its own. I was up to pee every hour through the night, one
of the effects of AFib, which likely aggravated my dehydration. I got up for the
last time at 5 a.m. and although I didn’t feel too bad at that point, I decided
I couldn’t continue the trip. I needed help.

I slipped the mooring buoy and motored back to Sidney in the calm. I arrived at
about 7:30 a.m., and luckily got a berth in the nearly full marina. The only
spot left was on the very last float at the end of the last dock, 500 meters
from the office and ramp. I called my wife to come to pick me up. I made three
trips back and forth to the office to check in, back to the boat to fetch stuff
that I didn’t want to leave on board, back again for a couple of important items
I forgot, and then back up the final time, feeling more tired each time, having
walked nearly 2.5 kilometers by then. I was feeling more and more light-headed
as we drove to the emergency department at our local cardiac hospital. About
three-quarters of the way there, it was so bad that I had my wife pull over and
call 911. I was dizzy, nauseated, sweating, and apparently my color was not
good. I felt like I came very close to passing out. I got out of the car and
laid down on a lawn.

Paramedics arrived very quickly, first a fire truck, then an ambulance. My blood
pressure had become very low, just 80/60. They loaded me into the ambulance and
took me to the emergency department. It was very busy, so it was nearly three
hours before I got to see a doctor. I was dehydrated and very thirsty, and my
heart had gone into a flutter again, but at a higher rate than it had a month
before. The paramedics got a drip going in the ambulance and dripped in about
1.5 liters of saline. As I waited, my blood pressure started to come back up.
According to the ER doctor, it is likely that at least part of the unusually low
blood pressure I experienced was due to low blood fluid volume. More of the
usual tests followed and once again cardioversion was administered, which
restored sinus rhythm with just one jolt. By then it was 2 p.m., nearly 15 hours
after the AFib had started.

Alex Zimmerman

After leaving Victoria, Alex motored south through the San Juan Islands and
across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to the Port Townsend Wooden Boat Festival. The
140-mile round-trip cruise is the only long-distance voyage Alex has completed
in CAMAS MOON but he’s still hoping there are more cruising adventures to come.

Would the AFib have had such a severe effect on me if I had remained properly
hydrated? I can’t answer that. The other big unanswerable question I have, of
course, is what if this had occurred later in the trip, when I was more than a
couple of hours away from a marina? I’ve always hoped I would never have to call
on the Coast Guard to get me out of a situation I could have avoided through
better judgment or decision-making, but I am not ready to take the consequences
of a bad decision and “die like a gentleman” either, rather than call for help.
And if I had been even farther away when I called for help, what then? I might
not be here to tell the tale.

It is early November as I write this, and while my AFib situation has clearly
taken a turn for the worse, I feel fine at the moment and day-to-day. But I feel
as if I am tethered to an emergency department. After more consultation with the
cardiologist, I now have a treatment plan for my AFib that, if it works as well
for me as it has for others, should allow me to get out and voyage solo again. I
should know within a few months.

Through all this, have I experienced some transformative epiphany around
affliction and aging? Not really. Everyone who has ever lived has been born
under a death sentence. I think it took me longer than most to internalize that,
and to recognize that my end might not come suddenly but via a slow decline.
Regardless, I believe life is to be lived to the best of my abilities. If age,
infirmity, or both mean those physical capabilities no longer include taking on
tough challenges, then I will do what I can with my intellectual capabilities
for as long as I can. Writer André Malraux wrote: “A man is the sum of his
actions, of what he has done, of what he can do, nothing else.” I think I still
have something to contribute, so perhaps I will pursue my writing more
seriously, or gain competence with my recently begun artwork, or take up my
guitar again. Regardless of to what degree I’ll be able to continue my cruising
adventures, I may finally be developing a sense of self-worth that is based on
what I have done and what I can still do, not on what I cannot.

Alex Zimmerman is a retired executive and engineering consultant who became
enamored with the sea and sailing after he learned basic seamanship in the Royal
Canadian Navy. From his home in Victoria, along the coast of British Columbia,
he has put several thousand miles under the keels of the various small boats he
has built for himself. His book, Becoming Coastal, chronicles many of those
journeys. He continues to write about wooden boats and the people who build and
sail them. 

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

23 Comments on The Heart of a Cruiser


A CANVAS LOUNGER

Almost anywhere land meets water there’s a view to be taken in and the best way
to do that is to sit down, stretch your legs out, and lean back on something
comfortable. A portable homemade beach lounger makes that possible wherever you
come ashore. All you need is a piece of canvas, a bit of wood, a machine screw
with a wingnut, and an hour or two to devote to sewing.

I had some leftover bits of cloth—some canvas (#10 duck/15 oz judging by the
weight of it) and a piece of marine Sunbrella (9.25 oz/sq yd)—and made two
loungers. I was able to get a 19″ × 46″ piece from the canvas and a 27″ × 60″
piece from the Sunbrella. Any size in between would work though I much prefer
the larger lounger. For sewing, use heavy-duty thread and a strong
sewing-machine needle (100/16). If the mitered corners are new to you, they look
good and reduce the number of layers you have to sew through.

Photographs by the author

All four edges of the fabric will have a double-fold hem. Lines drawn 1″ in from
the edges provide a guide for the first fold. A second set of lines, drawn 1⁄2″
from the edges, need only be drawn at just one corner. They’ll be used for
making a mitered corner between the hems on the intersecting edges and to
produce a template for the three other corners. The mitered corners are much
neater than having double-folded hems folded over each other and reduce the
number of layers of fabric the sewing machine needle has to push through.

Draw two lines as shown. The solid line will be cut, and the dotted line is for
a fold.

Make a stiff paper template of the triangle formed by the dotted lines and the
corner of the fabric, and use it to mark the remaining three corners quickly.
Cut the corner off at the solid line.

Fold the paper template along the line that indicates where the cut is to be
made. Open it and lay it flat on the corner of the fabric. Trace the diagonal on
the fabric, fold the peak of the template, trace the shorter diagonal along the
fold, and then cut along the short diagonal. Repeat for the last two corners.

Fold the edges of the fabric to the 1″ lines, steam-ironing as you go to make
the creases sharp. Put the second fold in along all edges; there won’t be a
pencil line to fold to, but you’ll be able to guide the fold by feel along the
tucked-under edge of the fabric. Iron the second folds to set the creases. Open
to folds at the corners.

Fold the corner in along the dotted diagonal line. You’ll lose sight of the
line, but you’ll be able to make the fold in the right place by setting the
obtuse angles of the fabric on the 1″ pencil lines. Iron this corner fold flat.

Refold the first fold of one of the hems, making sure to tuck the folded corner
fabric neatly into the hem.

Refold one of the hems, the second hem fold, again tucking in the fabric as
needed. You’ll get a neat diagonal fold at the end of the hem. Iron it flat.

Repeat the process for the other hem, starting with the first fold.

Refolding the second hem finishes the miter corner. Iron it flat.

With all four corners folded and ironed, sew the edge of the hems, making the
right-angle turn at each corner.

With the hems now sewn, fold 4″ of one end of the fabric over, iron the crease,
and sew the doubled-over hems to create two pockets for the legs.

The folded top is sewn along the left and right edges. This involves eight
layers of fabric and may require a stout needle in the sewing machine; I used a
size 100/16. Backstitch at both ends of each line of stitching.

Sew across the middle of the fold to separate the two leg pockets.

To get the length for the legs, fold a corner across to the opposite side and
use the length of the diagonal fold. I initially used dowels for the legs, but
they sank easily into soft ground. Lengths of 3⁄4″ stock cut to a width of 1
1⁄2″ to 1 3⁄4″ have a larger footprint and aren’t as prone to sinking. A 1⁄4 ×
20 machine screw serves as the pivot. A wingnut provides enough pressure to keep
the assembled legs locked to one another with their upper ends fixed in the
fabric pockets. I drilled 5⁄16″ holes for the 1⁄4″ machine screw (the next drill
size up makes it easier to insert and remove the screw).

The upper ends of the legs are rounded to avoid wearing out the fabric while the
lower ends are squared to help the corners get a bite into the ground. For both
the small and large lounger, the middle hole is at the midpoint of the leg. For
the large lounger, I drilled two more holes at 1″ intervals on either side for
adjusting the height of the legs when joined. The upper holes make the lounger
back lower, the lower holes make it higher.

For storage and transport, the lounger parts roll up into compact bundles.

With the top ends of the legs in their respective pockets and the wingnut
tightened to keep them there, the lounger is ready to use. Here, the machine
screw is in the lower holes, making the back higher.

The small lounger doesn’t rise as high in the back, but still offers good
support.

In soft sand, the legs can sink a bit.

A pair of old tennis balls, slit along one side and slipped over the bottom ends
of the legs, will effectively limit sinking and maintain the height of the back
support.

To set the lounger up, spread the tops of the legs into the pockets and tighten
the wing nut. Spread the fabric on the ground with the legs upright. Hold the
legs upright as you pivot into the lounger. Once seated, you can reach behind to
adjust the position of the legs. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the view.

Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats.

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

4 Comments on A Canvas Lounger


AN RSS LUGSAIL

In 2011 I built a Mayfly 14 as designed by Jim Michalak. He recommended “that my
customers sew their own sails either from common polytarp…or real Dacron
sailcloth. I can do it and so can you.” So, I made a polytarp 76-sq-ft balance
lugsail from the Mayfly plans. I sailed with it in the 2011 Texas 200 where it
quickly started coming apart due to my terrible workmanship. After the 2011
event, a friend sent me a Mayfly 14 sail that he had made of Dacron sailcloth,
which was a vast improvement, but five 200s and many other cruises in high winds
took their toll on that homemade sail. I turned to Michael Storer, a well-known
small-boat designer with expertise in balance lug rigs, for advice. As luck
would have it, he had recently opened a sail loft called Really Simple Sails,
which specializes in sails for small boats, especially lugsails. I decided to
order the sail from RSS.

Chuck Pierce

The RSS lugsail combines time-honored reinforcing including leathered corners
and stitched corner patches, with modern 4-oz sail cloth. The corner grommets
are pressed stainless steel with plastic inserts.

I had some specific requirements for my sail. Given the high winds that are
routine on the Texas coast, I wanted sailcloth that was heavier than normal for
a sail of this size. I requested three reefs, with the third reef essentially
making the sail a lateen. The cringles for the third reef needed to be angled up
as they went aft so that the boom would not droop when the sail was fully
reefed. The sail was to be loose-footed for draft control and, lastly, I asked
for a heavily reinforced tack to accommodate the loads from the downhaul.
Michael had me measure the amount of bend in the yard and boom under moderate
downhaul pressure, and I sent him drawings of how those were built so that he
could factor the curve of the spars into the sail design.

The sail arrived in May 2018. The build quality was excellent. RSS had used 4-oz
cloth, and the three laser-cut panels that made up the sail had a single row of
triple-stitch zigzag stitching that was straight and consistent, with uniform
panel overlap. The tack, clew, throat, and peak were all reinforced with patches
on one side, as were the reefpoints and reef cringles on the luff and leech.
Grommets for the corners and primary reef grommets were pressed stainless steel
with plastic inserts. The reefpoints were conventional nickel-plated brass spur
grommets. Around the sail perimeter there was 2″ Dacron tape folded in half and
stitched.

Chuck Pierce

The reef cringles are heavily reinforced as befits parts of the sail that will
become the heavy-lifters in strong winds.

I used the sail for the first time when I entered the 2018 Texas 200. On the
first day of the event, I played with the set of the sail and discovered that it
liked to be a little farther forward than the old sail, so I moved the halyard
attachment point on the yard aft about 4″. The sail performed quite a bit better
than the homemade sail, powering my Mayfly 14, GAMARAY, up to a degree that I
had not experienced in seven years of sailing her. Downwind she was a bit
faster, and by afternoon the winds were high enough that she would occasionally
plane in gusts, which had never happened with the old sail. By the afternoon of
the first day, winds hit 30 mph (according to the NOAA weather station I was
monitoring) so I pulled ashore at the turn into the Mansfield Cut and put the
third reef in. I then tacked up the channel for about 6 miles to the camp. Out
of the 13 boats that made it to the camp, there were only three others that
sailed up as opposed to motoring. The lugsail did a great job on all points of
sail, even to windward, whether under full sail or reefed.

Kathy Pierce

The author shows off his well-set RSS balance-lugsail. When he used it for the
first time in the 2018 Texas 200, the winds rose to about 30 mph. He pulled
ashore, put in the third reef and sailed upwind for 6 miles.

Over the past five years, I have used the RSS sail on my Mayfly 14 for four
Texas 200s and on a Michael Storer 16′ Quick Canoe trimaran for this year’s 200.
I’ve also used it on my 8′ David Routh Puddle Duck Racer. Once it was positioned
correctly in relation to each boat’s center of lateral resistance, the sail
performed well on all three.

My custom-built lugsail has been a rugged workhorse and RSS decided to make it a
standard offering—the Mayfly 14 Pierce Expedition—and has sold it for use on a
variety of small boats. It works very well when set up properly; balance lugs
are easy to deal with, even for a singlehander.

The balance lug is not the only type of sail made by RSS. They can design and
build sails for any small boat. The quality of workmanship is very good, sail
shape is excellent, and although mine has been heavily used over the past five
years, the RSS materials and workmanship have held up quite well.

Chuck Pierce is retired and lives in Beaumont, Texas, with his wife Kathy and
Stella the Crazy Dog. He plays music, repairs and restores old analog
synthesizers, brews beer, and builds stuff, including several small plywood
boats. He goes on as many sailing and paddling trips as he can.

Really Simple Sails offers stock sails direct and through Duckworks. RSS also
makes custom sails upon request. The Mayfly 14 Pierce Expedition sail,
custom-built for the author, is now a stock sail. It sells for $456 in white,
$475 in tanbark.

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.

1 Comment on An RSS Lugsail


NOR’WESTER

Throughout my childhood there was a framed print of Winslow Homer’s oil painting
“Eight Bells” hanging in the hallway between my bedroom and the bathroom. It
depicts two New England mariners standing at the bulwarks of a sailing ship on a
heaving sea with the dark lumpy clouds closing over them and threatening rain.
Both men are wearing sou’westers. That set the standard for me at an early age
and sou’westers have been the only kind of wet-weather hats I’ve worn while
boating.

For the past few decades, I’ve worn a Black Diamond Sou’wester. It’s made of
canvas and painted with a black rubbery coating. Mine was showing signs of
age—the rubber coating was beginning to peel. The Black Diamond is no longer
being made so I had to go looking for something else to replace it. In my search
I saw that Best Coast Canvas (BCC) had recently added to its lineup the
Nor’wester, a version of a sou’wester named for BCC’s home in the Pacific
Northwest. I’d been impressed by BCC’s Verksted Apron and was eager to try the
new headgear.

Photographs by the author

Folding the brim up creates a gutter to direct rainwater to the sides so it
doesn’t drip in front of the eyes. It still provides good protection for the
face.

The Nor’wester is made of waxed cotton canvas and lined with wool. The sewing is
first rate. The earflap, also lined with wool, has a cotton drawstring and a
spring-loaded toggle. The brim has two layers of waxed canvas sewn over a third
layer of canvas sandwiched inside for additional stiffness. That said, the
Nor’wester is not at all as stiff as other sou’westers I’ve owned. Facing a
25-mph wind, I could feel the front of the brim put a little pressure on my
forehead, but the Nor’wester didn’t flutter and stayed firmly planted on my
head. Unlike many sou’westers, including the Black Diamond, the Nor’wester is
crushable and can be rolled up and tucked in a raincoat pocket when it’s not
needed.

The tail end of the brim has plenty of length to protect the neck and keep
rainwater from flowing down a jacket collar.

The sizing guide on the BCC website worked well for me: the XXL is just the
right fit, neither too loose nor too tight. The wool liner is very comfortable
and warm, even after I poured water over the wool.  It soon felt warm again
against the bare skin of my ear. The front of the bill can be worn extended
downward to shield the eyes or folded up to make a gutter to divert rainwater to
the sides of the hat.

The interior of the crown and the ear flap are lined with a thick and warm
woolen fabric.

The BCC website notes the Nor’wester is “not waterproof but is water resistant.”
It kept me dry in a gully washer that overwhelmed my street’s gutter drains and
poured over the curbs, but the downpour lasted only 20 minutes. To make a
longer-lasting trial, I had to resort to simulating a steady rain in my bathtub
with a small electric fountain pump. For my first trial, I let the water
splatter over the hat for three hours.

A bathtub, a small water pump, a length of tubing, and a gizmo I made from a
coat hanger and a disc of copper create hours-long showers for evaluating the
Nor’wester’s waterproofing.

Halfway through, I saw a few small beads of water forming on the underside of
the back half of the brim, and by the end of the session there were more beads.
But the wool-lined crown of the hat remained dry. In actual use, I imagine that
any water that might collect under the long tail of the Nor’wester would shake
off and fall onto the raincoat I would be wearing.

Prior to a treatment with wax, the waxed canvas is dark blue and water is
partially absorbed without leaking into the crown.

The BCC website adds: “You can make it more water resistant by re-waxing it over
time as needed with wear and applying wax to the seams.” I applied a coating of
the wax BCC offers in a 40ml tin. The wax goes on easily with a soft cotton
cloth. After I had waxed the outside surface of the hat (paying special
attention to the seams) I rubbed it with a bare hand, thinking the warmth would
help the wax further penetrate the canvas. When I finished, the fabric had a
glossy sheen, was dry to the touch, and had darkened from dark blue to black. I
liked the transition; it gives the hat the more traditional look of early
foulweather gear, which was once waterproofed with a formula that included lamp
black.

An application of wax turns the canvas from blue to black and gives it a glassy,
water-repellent surface. Note how water beads up without getting into the weave
of the canvas.

During a second trial, the wax treatment made the water bead up and roll off.
After six hours in my artificial rainfall, once again there were a few beads of
water on the underside of the bill, but when I pressed the canvas, there was no
evidence that the water was coming from the inside of the bill. It’s likely the
water splashed up from dripping into the tub. The crown of the Nor’wester was
once again completely dry.

The Nor’wester could easily pass for a sou’wester painted by Winslow Homer in
1886. It is handmade of natural fibers, can be treated indefinitely to maintain
its waterproofing, is comfortable to wear, stands up to a downpour, and has
plenty of character.

Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats.

The Nor’wester is made and sold by Best Coast Canvas for $97. It comes in five
sizes, from Small (for 21″ head circumference) to XX-Large (25″). All sizes come
in Best Coast Blue; XL and XXL are also available in Plank Brown.

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.

 

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THE TUESDAY GROUP BUILDS A BOAT

For about six years, until 2016, Jeff Ambrose worked at the Colorado Railroad
Museum in Golden, Colorado, first as a volunteer and then as Restoration Manager
responsible for the restoration and upkeep of all the museum’s rolling stock and
its roundhouse. Over the years he was assisted by around 65 volunteers. They
included his A-Team, the “Tuesday Group,” some 10 volunteers who came weekly to
help Jeff with a variety of projects. In 2016, Jeff left the museum. For the
Tuesday Group it was the end of an era, one they were all reluctant to leave
behind.

Rick DeWitt

Eric Robison, Jeff Ambrose, Jim Curtis, and Rick DeWitt (from left to right)
glue up the second lower chine block. In the background, under a blue tarp, is a
Night Heron kayak, which Jeff was also building at the time.

“We really enjoyed working together,” Jeff says, “so I suggested we continue the
relationship by having them come over to my shop in Littleton once a week to
build stuff. For about a year, maybe more, they’d come over and work on small
projects—furniture, toys for grandchildren, that sort of thing. But then we ran
out of projects, and we needed something to do. It didn’t really matter what we
built. The object was to get together, develop our skills, and enjoy being
around each other.”

Jeff had learned boatbuilding skills over a four-year period taking classes
taught by Harry Bryan and Eric Blake at WoodenBoat School, and when he now
suggested building a boat, everyone in the group was in favor. But what would
they build? “I brought in plans and ideas, but nothing really lit them up. Then
I remembered: a year or two earlier, Mike had shown me a boat that he thought
was really cool.”

John Conover

Jim Curtis inspects the lower chine block, a three-layer piece glued-up in
place. The boat’s framework was built over a jig. Frames were of solid ash with
marine plywood gussets and bulkheads. The step in the lower stern portion of the
hull is very evident here.

Mike is Jeff’s brother-in-law. He lives about 1,400 miles from Littleton, in
Lake Havasu City, Arizona, and grew up around boats. When Mike was a kid, his
father had built a couple of ski boats and finished a 30′ cabin cruiser, but
Mike knew little of boatbuilding or woodworking; instead, his interests leaned
to the mechanical. After his retirement, Mike had begun restoring and
customizing older motorcycles, usually with his friend, Bob Fouts.

John Conover

Jim Curtis, Jeff Ambrose, and Eric Robison (from left to right) consider the
next steps in construction. The boat had been moved from the back yard to the
side yard where there was less space to move around but it could be easily
covered by a tarp strung from the fence to the house. Parts of the boat were
painted at this early stage because the builders realized they would never be so
accessible again.

When Jeff called to ask about that cool boat, the conversation evolved quickly.

“I told him the guys were looking for something to do,” says Jeff, “and what
would he think if we built a boat up in Littleton and then got it down to him
for the mechanics?”

Mike was in.

The boat Jeff had been thinking of was the Crandall Flyer 15, designed by Bruce
Crandall in 1936 to the “135 cu in” C-class rules established that same year.
The article Mike had found was written by Willard, Bruce Crandall’s brother, and
was published in the July 1936 issue of Motor Boating. In it, Willard described
the 15′ 2″ single-step racing hydroplane as being “designed to give maximum
speed, but maximum speed under normal competitive conditions. Factors of design
giving straight-away speed, turning ability, and ability to ride rough water
have been so proportioned that in an actual race a high peak of speed is
reached…” The Flyer 15 was, Willard Crandall continued, “designed on the
principle of carrying most of the weight on the foreplane, so that a wide
afterplane is not necessary.” The resulting hull is narrow, without flare, and
streamlined with a torpedo stern.

Eric Robison

Rick DeWitt (above) and John Conover (below), measuring up for the first
diagonal layer of mahogany veneer on the port side.

Jeff took the article in to show the guys. “They were excited from the start. It
really is a cool-looking thing. So off we went.”

The boatbuilders were a group of seven, including Jeff. Six had met through the
railroad museum and the seventh was Rick DeWitt, a neighbor who “mistakenly
stopped by one day to see what we were up to,” remembers Jeff.

John Conover

The boat was moved into Jeff’s garage for the winter. Here, Jeff applies the
first diagonal layer of mahogany veneer to the foredeck.

Deciding to build the Crandall Flyer 15 was the easy part; more challenging was
finding lines drawings. The Motor Boating article included some drawings and a
table of offsets, and Jeff was considering lofting the Flyer when, in one of his
many forays through the internet, he found Classic Wooden Boat Plans, an online
business that has, within its catalog of plans, a set for the Crandall Flyer 15
that includes full-sized plans and a digital 3D model, “which allowed us to spin
the boat around and see it from all angles.” Jeff bought the set and recalls,
“we did run across some issues in the plans but that’s all part of boatbuilding.
On the whole, they were good.”

The Willard Crandall article described the construction of the Flyer 15 and
while Jeff adhered to the original dimensions and scantlings, he veered away
from some of the proposed building materials. “The article said that the boat’s
frame should be in spruce,” says Jeff, “but that’s not the easiest wood to work
with or to source, so we switched to ash. There was also talk of lapping the
joints on the frames, but we opted for glued and stainless-steel-screwed butt
joints with plywood gussets. The hull was originally batten-seam planked, but
with today’s materials we decided to cold-mold it instead: three layers of 1⁄8″
mahogany—the inner layer laid fore and aft, the next two on opposing diagonals.
The bottom of the boat, aft of the step, where there’s almost no curve at all,
we fashioned from 3⁄8″ marine plywood, and for the deck we used 1⁄8″ plywood
topped by 1⁄8″ mahogany. In all it’s probably heavier than the original, but we
were going for durability rather than a true lightweight racer.”

John Conover

Curtis Cain, one of the original members of the Tuesday Group, fabricated the
turned metal for the vintage-look instrument panel.

In recent years there have been discussions on classic-boat and yacht-design
forums as to the safety of the Flyer 15’s design and its apparent instability if
taking tight turns at high speed. But the building team in Colorado was in it
for the look of the boat. “We didn’t put a lot of thought into what we’d do with
it when it was finished,” says Jeff. “It really was just a matter of ‘what a
neat project this would be.’ I don’t know that it does perform that well as a
[practical] boat, but as a woodworking project, an art object, it’s perfect.”

The Colorado building team began work in 2017. By early 2019 the boat was
finished. All it needed now was the engine to be installed. Around the time the
project was winding up, Jeff was busy relocating to North Carolina and, he says,
“in a spirit of generosity one doesn’t expect from a brother-in-law,” Mike drove
up to Denver and trailered the boat back to Lake Havasu City. It was time for
the mechanical phase of the project to begin.

MIke Slattery

The difference in the size of the two restored vintage engines is obvious when
seen side by side. On the right is the Gray Marine Phantom 45, which was
physically the perfect size but underpowered for the boat. On the left is the
Gray Marine Fireball 90, which delivered sufficient power but required some
structural adjustments.

Finding an engine had been a challenge. “It’s a small boat,” says Mike, “and the
engine compartment is very confined, so the power options weren’t limitless. We
needed a vintage flat-head marine engine with an integral transmission. Anything
else wouldn’t fit.” While the boat was still in build, one of the building crew
located a period-correct 45-hp Gray Marine Phantom 445 engine. It was in
Michigan, sitting on a rack where it had been for the past 30 years. Thinking it
would be perfect Jeff, Mike, and Jim Curtis, one of the boatbuilders, drove east
to get it.

Mike Slattery

A vintage rudder was located at a shop on Lake St. Claire, Michigan. Mike is
considering extending the rudder shaft to better position it in the water flow
beneath the hull; it is hoped that this will improve the boat’s maneuverability
at speed.

Over the next few months, as the build had been drawing to a close in Colorado,
Mike had taken the engine apart, rebuilt it, and got it running. When the boat
at last arrived in Arizona, the engine was ready, and the boat was ready to
receive it. Mike had never done a mechanical installation on a boat before, but
with 10 years of working on vintage motorcycles and having done a “ton of
research and talking to people,” he was confident that, with Bob’s help, he
could do what was needed. “Working on engines,” Mike says, “keeps us busy and
interested in waking up the next morning.”

Mike and Bob installed the engine—making their own motor mounts—and in September
2019 they took the boat for a speed trial on Lake Havasu. “We quickly found out
that 45 hp wasn’t going to get the boat up onto a plane. I don’t know what speed
we were getting but the engine just wouldn’t turn over more than 2,100 rpm and
peak horsepower in the Phantom 445 can only be achieved at 3,000 rpm.” Searching
for solutions and still hoping they could get the engine to work, Mike installed
a smaller propeller with less pitch to see if that would help. It didn’t, he
says, “and at $480 a pop I wasn’t about to start buying propellers on spec.”

John Conover

The engine compartment is a very tight fit. Because the second engine was larger
than the original, a vent was added to the engine cover, and a bite was taken
out of the frame.

Mike considered his options. For a while he thought about getting a modern
engine and shoehorning it into the Flyer. He even went as far as buying a $300
boat that had a “really nice MerCruiser 120-hp, four-cylinder engine.” He
cleaned up the engine, got it running, cut up the old fiberglass boat, and took
the pieces to the dump. However, once he had extracted the engine from the boat
and was able to measure it properly, he realized that its weight would be too
far forward and too high. He sold it and moved on. “I made a couple of bucks, so
it was okay.”

The Mercruiser idea a dud, Mike was back on the hunt for a period engine. At
last, on eBay, he found a Gray Marine Fireball 90, “an engine,” he says, “made
for high-performance boats in the 1940s.”

MIke Slattery

Mike Slattery and Bob Fouts finished painting the hull in Mike’s shop in
Arizona. The group had chosen the classic racing colors offset by the varnished
deck, but it was Mike and Bob who perfected the finish.

In January 2022, the Fireball was shipped from Massachusetts to Arizona. “It had
been sitting in a warehouse and was completely frozen,” Mike says, “so I had to
tear it apart and do a complete rebuild. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to have too
many hours on it, plus I was able to get all the parts I needed.” During his
research, Mike had come across David Van Ness at Van Ness Engineering in
Fairfield, New Jersey. “When Gray Marine went out of business Dave bought all
their hardware, so he’s the source for all things vintage Gray,” Mike says.
“He’s not the easiest to get in touch with but he’s very generous with advice
and information, and through long-distance phone calls he led me through the
rebuild. Thanks to him I got it back up and running.”

Mike Slattery

The completed boat ready to be towed back to Colorado on a used trailer that
Mike and Bob customized. Mike chose the boat’s name because the paint color
reminded him of the well-known steak sauce.

When Mike and Bob relaunched the Flyer in September 2023 it “jumped right up on
plane.” But, Mike says, there’s still room for improvement. “It still doesn’t go
very fast because the prop is now too small and doesn’t have enough pitch to get
the most out of the new engine. I’m sure if I spent another $500, I could get a
more appropriate propeller and then we could start pushing the boat into the
zone for which it was designed.” Which, adds Jeff, “scares the hell out of both
of us.”

John Conover

Although the cockpit layout is true to the original, the seat back—which is
removable to allow access to the fuel tank—was designed by the Tuesday group and
laminated over a mold in Jeff’s shop. The cushions were upholstered by Diane
Slattery.

For now, the Flyer, with its undersized propeller and under-performance stats,
remains in Arizona. Mike and Bob did trailer it up to Colorado in the fall so
that everyone who had helped in the build could drive it around on a local
reservoir. “It wasn’t the best outing,” says Mike. “Because of the higher
elevation in Colorado the engine ran very rich, but it was still a lot of fun.”
There are still one or two small mechanical issues to be fixed, which Mike was
planning to do as soon as the daytime temperatures in Arizona eased up, but
after that no one is quite sure. Lake Havasu, which straddles the border between
Arizona and California, has no speed limit and, says Jeff, “is the hydroplane
capital of California.” It might be an appropriate place to put the Crandall
Flyer 15 through its paces.

Kathy Ambrose

With Jeff at the helm, the A-1 was finally underway at Chatfield Reservoir,
Colorado. This was the first opportunity for the Colorado building team to see
the boat finished and to try it out on the water.

 



“Without question the project has been a success,” Jeff says. Its creators were
separated by almost 1,500 miles, and “start to finish, it’s taken nearly seven
years—not many projects can be sustained so long.” What happens next may be
undecided but, Mike says, “I think I’d like to drive it around at least once
when it’s actually performing properly. Then I guess we’ll sell it and maybe
we’ll all go out to dinner some time. It really was the challenge of doing the
thing.”

 

The Crandall Flyer 15 building crew in Colorado were: Eric Robison, Jim Curtis,
Rick DeWitt, Curtis Cane, John Conover, Bob Wilson, and Jeff Ambrose; and in
Arizona: Mike Slattery, Bob Fouts, and Diane Slattery—who upholstered the seat
and its custom-designed curved back.

Jenny Bennett is managing editor of Small Boats.

Do you have a boat with an interesting story? Please email us. We’d like to hear
about it and share it with other Small Boats readers

 

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MUSTELID – EPISODE 15

We made it! You made it!! Six hundred nautical miles later—a conservative
estimate—we’d like to sit down with you and take a look back.

How did this rowing sailing contraption of ours work out? What went well? What
would we do differently? Are we still on speaking terms? What’s the take-away?

Well, there is a moral of sorts.

We’re not the brightest bulbs, the best builders, the best sailors. We’re
neither tough nor intrepid nor especially courageous. What is it that gets and
keeps us on the water—limitations notwithstanding—vessel after vessel, year
after year?

Dreams. Determination. Persistence.

We all have dreams. Once we determine to pursue them, we are determined. If we
persist, one measly step at a time, we will look back to find that we have the
persistence we need.

It’s nothing special. It’s within our reach, one and all.

Come all o’ ye Dreamers!



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MUSTELID – EPISODE 14

It’s time, for real, to get our sweet bippies out of the wild.

Snowline descends from no longer naked peaks. We wake to ice on the overhead.
The stove warms cabin…boils coffee. We relish the thermal rush a hot mug imparts
to cold hands. We blow steam till we can drink it down.

First we have to cross Icy Strait at its widest and perhaps most difficult
point. We wait out a storm. We wait for a window. We get a fair forecast. We hop
and go.

Well, the forecasts falls short around here, often as not. We take what we’re
offered. We pay the toll in muscle and make the crossing.

We ratchet our way along Chichagof’s shore until fair wind finds us. All too
soon, we round the corner that rounds the voyage.

Yet we dawdle, reluctant to end our venture.



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MUSTELID – EPISODE 13

Cruisers with any sense at all would call this a fine adventure and head home.

After all, it’s late in the year. Equinoctal gales are uncharacteristically
late. But when they do arrive, they’re only the warning shot across the bow,
presaging autumnal storms. And that’s just regional weather.

Lynn Canal, the largest fjord in North America, has a reputation. It squeezes
between two jagged mountain ranges, funneling and amplifying wind and water
flows between them over a four-fathom range of tide. Ocean-born lows vie with
Canadian interior highs.

That is to say, the wind do blow.

But we’ve been having such a great time! We hear news of a family gathering up
that way, and we’re invited. It’s only 60 nautical miles distant. It’s really
been unseasonably mild, right? And we know the ground. Probably sailed it a
dozen times. If need be, we can duck down.

So, wait… we’re gonna do what?



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MUSTELID – EPISODE 12

We return to inside waters with a double sigh of regret and relief.

Icy Strait is a hydrological wonder. Deep and wide to the east, kinked in the
middle, and shoal and narrow to the west, it connects Lynn Canal/Chatham Strait
with ocean waters. The tide drive temendous flows across convoluted land and
bottom contours. Right angle feeds collide in sudden rip fields. Fresh water
flows over saltwater, dragging across tides. Bores, rips, and whorls abound. Add
winds driven by glacier cooled downdrafts from northern quarters.

We’ve been learning how to sail this glorious mess over the years, one awkward
passage at a time. But we slip through easy, this time. Sort of.



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ACCIDENTAL

This past August, while I was riding my bike along one of my usual routes
through Seattle’s northeast neighborhoods, I saw a moving truck backed onto the
gravel parking spot in front of a white-clapboard single-story house. Sticking
out from the back of the truck were four wooden rods with stainless-steel
sleeves on the ends. I thought they looked like the ends of take-apart paddles
and coasted up to the truck to take a closer look. I met the young couple, Kelly
and Samantha, who were in the process of loading the truck, and when I asked
about the paddles, they showed them to me and Kelly said, “If you want them,
they’re yours.”

The paddles were homemade and very long. I was about to say that I didn’t need
them when Kelly added, “If you want the canoe they’re for, you can have that
too. It’s in the back yard.” I wasn’t expecting to be interested in it either,
but it was a plywood lapstrake canoe and I recognized it by its straight raked
sternpost as a Piccolo, designed by Robert Baker. I biked home, got my car, and
drove back for the canoe and its paddles.

As I was in the last few days of getting this issue of Small Boats finished, I
needed to take a break and took the canoe to paddle around Foster Island, part
of a park on the shore of Lake Washington. The island is just a third of a mile
long, surrounded by marsh and waterlilies, and separated from the mainland by
only a creek-like passage that is shallow enough to wade across.

When I arrived at the parking lot closest to the launch site there was only one
spot left but it was taken up by a green ride-share bicycle and scooter. I got
out of the car and moved the bike. When I pushed the scooter out of the way, I
had my head down and didn’t notice a low branch sticking straight out from a
maple tree; I plowed into it with the top of my skull, which made my ears ring
and, as blows to my head always do, put a damper on my mood.

The launch site is just a short walk down a gravel path from the parking lot.

I set the canoe on the cart I’d brought and, as I was tying it on, the cart
rolled over and the canoe thudded to rest on the cart’s side. I crawled under
the canoe, lifted it, turned the cart upright, and this time got the canoe tied
down. At the launch site I set the canoe in the water and filled three dry bags
with lake water to use as ballast. The only other times I’d been afloat in the
canoe was with a single-bladed paddle instead of the double blade for which it
was designed, and with my weight off-center to reach over the canoe’s 30” beam
with a too-short paddle, I didn’t feel very stable. I could easily imagine why
someone would happily give the canoe away.

I put the largest of the three bags, carrying about 30 lbs of water, into the
stern. The other two bags were compression bags, and after I filled the first
one and put it in the bow, the one-way valve to purge air sent an arc of water
in against the side of the hull. I rolled the bag to put the valve on top and
that stopped the flow. When I loaded the second bag on board, its top, which is
like a soft-sided bowl attached by four straps as part of the compression
system, scooped up a half-gallon of water and spilled it into the canoe. I
hadn’t brought a sponge and needed some sort of bailer, otherwise I’d have to
pull everything out, roll the canoe on its side, and start packing again.

At the top of the path leading to the launch site there was a garbage can. I
peeked in but there were no cups that could serve as bailers. I found a 12-oz
seltzer can in the car, cut off the top with a pocketknife and used that to
scoop the water out. I’d brought a folding camp seat, the kind used to provide a
cushion and a backrest when sitting on ground, and as soon as I’d set it in the
boat I realized that I’d need both hands on the gunwales to get aboard and
wouldn’t be able to hold the seat open to get into it. This was not turning out
to be the restorative break from work that I’d had in mind. I used a line,
stretched across the gunwales, to hold the seat back upright.

The passage around the southeast corner of Foster Island was darkened by a
canopy of trees and obstructed by the submerged and semi-submerged trunks of
trees that had fallen years ago.

I finally got underway to make a clockwise circumnavigation of Foster Island and
headed to a path of open water between expanses of lily pads. I had paddled only
a few dozen yards before getting stuck in the mud. I made the mistake of turning
around rather than backing out and it was several minutes before I got free
again. I headed in the opposite direction and entered the narrow passage on the
island’s southeast side. It is shallow and the bottom is littered with fallen
tree limbs that are invisible in the mud. I could only feel them nudging the bow
sideways or bringing the canoe to a stop. Not quite 300 yards in, I was stopped
by a log about 8” below the surface. I made several attempts to get by, but it
spanned the entire width of the passage.

I turned around again and took a different route through the lily pads on the
southwest side of the island. Beyond the lily pads the water was more open and I
paddled under a footbridge that connects the northwest corner of Foster Island
to the much smaller Marsh Island. When I reached Union Bay Passage, the waterway
that connects Lake Washington to Lake Union, I retrieved a can of root beer from
the dry bag in the stern and took a break. Between sips of root beer, I tucked
the can into the front of my PFD and paddled to a second footbridge on the other
end of Marsh Island.

A walking path connects Foster Island, on the right, to Marsh Island, on the
left. Beyond it is Union Bay.

In the short time I’d been paddling, I’d begun to relax. I paddled up close to a
raccoon busily gnawing at its backside, a great blue heron watching me with the
full golden circle of its eye, and hooded mergansers with their extravagant
black-and-white crests sprinting across the water as they took flight.

I was just less than a half-canoe-length away from this raccoon before it took a
break from chewing on its backside to look at me. I backed off before I got so
close that it could have jumped on board.

When I coasted by this great blue heron, it raised its head to keep an eye on
me. Although I was only about 20′ away, the bird didn’t take flight.

At the point where Lake Union Passage enters the Montlake Cut stands the
original University of Washington shell house where the crew made famous by the
book The Boys in the Boat stored their racing shells.

The two overpasses of Washington State Highway 520 carry traffic over the
backwaters of Lake Washington’s Union Bay to the 2-mile-long floating bridges
across the lake itself.

Along the shoreline there were many places where trees had fallen into the lake.
The beavers living in this island-like lodge are the likely culprits.

Before I returned to the launch site, I paddled into one of the fields of lily
pads, let the canoe come to a stop, and untied the seat’s backrest to lie down
in the canoe—a test to see if it was well suited for sleeping aboard. As I
stretched out, my butt slipped off the pad and into the water that remained in
the bilge. I scooted back onto the pad and tried again. This time it was my
shoulder that was suddenly wet. I sat up and looked for the water, but there was
none, neither in the bilge nor seeping from the water-filled dry bag. Slowly, I
laid myself down again and again felt wet not only on my shoulder but also on my
chest: it was root beer pouring out of the can that I’d tucked in my PFD.

The Piccolo was surprisingly roomy and I could lie down with just enough room to
keep from feeling cramped. I’m a side sleeper and the canoe could accommodate me
if spending a night aboard.

I drank what was left, crumpled the can, and tossed it into the bow. I lay down
again, damp, slightly sticky, and smelling like sassafras, but very comfortable.
The canoe was so still it could have been aground. With the only sound coming
from a bird with a one-note chirp, I let the quiet sink into me and imagined
spending a night in the canoe in places not so easily reached in my larger
boats, boats that had so many elements that somehow kept me busy throughout a
day of cruising.

Once back at the launch, I took all the gear and water ballast out of the canoe
and paddled it in the open water near the shore. With the long double-bladed
paddle, the canoe was much more stable than I’d previously given it credit for.
I packed up and drove home at ease, energized by the future I saw for the
Piccolo and me.



7 Comments on Accidental


CENTERBOARD SLOOP #226A

Paul Gartside originally produced his Beach Cruiser, Design #226, in 2017, “as a
fast, light, lug-and-mizzen boat at 17′ overall for a fellow on the coast of
Texas.” The following year, for a customer in California, he built a 16′ version
with a gunter main, jib, and mizzen: Centerboard Yawl, Design #226A. In 2022
that 16-footer appealed to Andy Weimer of Zurich, Switzerland, when he enrolled
at the Boat Building Academy (BBA) in Lyme Regis, England. “I liked the shape of
the hull and the plumb stem—I am a bit of a sucker for West Country working
boats—but I didn’t like the gunter-yawl rig, so I asked Paul if he could draw a
gaff rig with a topsail and bowsprit.” Paul obliged and the result, the
Centerboard Sloop of Design #226A, is the same 16′ hull as the Centerboard Yawl,
but with the mast and centerboard moved forward to balance the new rig.

Courtesy Paul Gartside

Design 226A was originally conceived as a yawl with a gunter-rigged mainsail,
overlapping jib, and leg o’ mutton mizzen set to a short boomkin. Paul Gartside
drew a new gaff-sloop sailplan for Andy Weimer.

Paul specified edge-glued carvel strip-plank construction for the 16-footer
designed for Andy. While both previous versions of the #226 were strip-planked,
Paul noted “strip-planked construction has its place (working best on long,
narrow hulls) but is very much an amateur method. Edge-glued carvel is
structurally the same thing but just looks a lot better with plank lines in
harmony with the hull shape. We wanted a varnished interior on that boat, so it
was important. I suggested Andy do the same thing on his as it would be a more
profitable learning experience. Lining out and then backing out and rounding
planking are useful skills to acquire.”

The five sheets of plans supplied by Paul consisted of a sail plan, lines plan,
table of offsets, setup plan, and a construction plan with scantlings and
suggestions for materials.

As required for student projects at BBA, Andy started with lofting, and from
there the nine building molds, the transom, and a template for the stem were
produced. Although the plans show the inner stem in three pieces of solid pine,
it was thought that it would be stronger if laminated in one piece. The outer
stem (specified as laminated in the plans) and the inner stem were laminated
together using 1⁄8″ sapele veneers with sheets of polyethylene separating the
two elements.

Nigel Sharp

The plumb stem, short bowsprit, and tan-bark sails all reflect the influences of
Andy’s much loved small traditional working boats from England’s West Country.

Once the molds and transom were secured upside down on a building base, the keel
was laminated over the molds from 5⁄8″ sapele (two laminations over the whole
length and up to five where the extra thickness is needed aft of the centerboard
trunk) and then removed after the glue had set. The shaped inner stem was fitted
into notches in the forward two molds and then the 5⁄8″-thick single-piece
sapele hog/keelson was scarfed to it and laid into notches in the remaining
molds and transom. Battens were used to line-off the planking on the stem,
molds, and transom.

After carrying out some experiments it was decided that, rather than starting
with thicker timber for the planking and then hollowing out the inside faces to
match the shape of the molds and later doing a major fairing job on the outside,
the curves across the grain would be achieved by steaming the planks. This
allowed the use of 3⁄8″-thick timber, which came out of 16′ × 8″ × 1⁄2″ yellow
cedar. The stock was long enough to make one-piece planks for six strakes and
the remaining three strakes required planks in two pieces scarfed together.

The planking started with the garboard and the sheerstrake and then progressed
down and up toward the shutter plank. The garboard and sheerstrake were epoxied
to the stem and transom (and the garboard also to the hog); subsequent planks
were also edge-glued to each other. There were nine planks each side. The
garboard and two adjacent planks had to be steamed at their forward ends to cope
with the twists at the bow.

The outside of the hull was sanded fair with long boards. A 2″-wide by 1⁄8″-deep
rebate was machined into the perimeter of the transom face to allow the hull’s
sheathing of 6-oz ’glass and epoxy to be extended into it. After being shaped,
the keel (with the centerboard slot already cut into it) and the outer stem were
fitted. While the plans specified a 1⁄4″ outer plywood face to cover the
transom’s ’glassed perimeter and provide a smooth, flat exterior surface, Andy
had some nice-looking 1⁄8″ sapele veneer on hand that would do the job, and
vacuum-bagged it to the transom; the sapele had an attractive color and grain.
The ’glassed hull was then faired, coated with five coats of primer, and the
transom was finished bright. After the hull was turned right side up the molds
were removed and the inside of the hull was sheathed in 123gm/m2 ’glass and
epoxy.

Nigel Sharp

The contrast in wood tones is particularly evident in the centerboard trunk—the
sides are 7/8” yellow cedar, while the top cap and end pieces are sapele. The
curved face of the laminated aft end piece reflects the shape of the bottom edge
of the centerboard. The double-purchase centerboard uphaul is led aft and
cleated off on the port face of the trunk where it is close to hand for the
helmsperson.

The sides of the centerboard case were made from 7⁄8″-thick yellow cedar with
the logs, end pieces, and top cap in sapele, all biscuit-jointed together. Its
aft end piece was laminated to form a gentle curve, partly for appearance but
also to match the shape of the bottom of the centerboard itself. After the slot
was cut into the hog/keelson, the case was fitted. Nine 1 1⁄4″-thick sapele
floors were fitted, three of them were notched into the centerboard case logs.
The forward two would later support the maststep while the others would also act
as cockpit sole bearers.

The plans call for 1⁄4″ plywood bulkheads to seal two watertight flotation
compartments, one in the bow with a 9″ access port, and the other in the stern
under the seat and aft deck with a similar port in the deck, though Andy chose
to leave the deck uninterrupted.

A central thwart in solid cedar provides seating amidships and braces the
centerboard trunk. Between it and the stern seating, Gartside has drawn 3⁄4″
cedar-slat side benches. Andy chose not to fit these as he thought he wouldn’t
likely need them.

A deck of 3⁄8″ white cedar is shown in the plans. Andy opted for a 1⁄4″ plywood
subdeck supporting a 1⁄4″-thick yellow-cedar laid deck with sapele covering
boards. After the kingplank was added, the whole deck was cleaned up and
sheathed in ’glass and epoxy.

With the topsides painted, the 1″ × 1 1⁄4″ rubbing strake was fitted (Andy used
sapele instead of the locust specified). The strake was bedded rather than glued
so it can more easily be replaced if damaged. After the sapele coamings were
fitted everything else was varnished. For the sole boards Andy used iroko.

Nigel Sharp

Seen from above, the unusual line of the cockpit coaming is apparent: its height
is reduced aft of the jib-sheet fairleads so that the crew can comfortably sit
up on the side deck, but kept high forward to keep water coming over the bow
from flowing into the cockpit. Also visible are the darker tones of the sapele
rubbing strake, kingplank, coaming, and transom that contrast with and
compliment the lighter tones of the yellow cedar.

The 1″-thick rudder blade is laminated from cedar and sheathed and epoxied. The
1 3⁄8″-thick centerboard is shown in the plans as white pine vertical laminates
sheathed in Dynel and epoxy and weighted with 25 lbs of lead. The spars are
spruce: the 18′ 1″ mast is hollow while the boom, gaff, and bowsprit are solid.
Andy made the bowsprit 4″ longer than designed to allow room for a furling gear
with the jib tack in designed position and the forestay forward of it.

Nigel Sharp

The gaff-sloop rig, complete with small topsail, is traditional. The mainsail is
low-tech: laced to the boom, gaff, and mast, and reefed with two rows of simple
nettles. Less traditional is the jib’s roller furling mechanism, installed by
Andy for easier control from within the cockpit. To accommodate the gear but
still have the jib tacked to its designed position, Andy lengthened the bowsprit
by 4″.

 

Andy and I took the sloop for a sail on a squally day on the Penryn River near
Falmouth, U.K. When trailering the boat, the boom and gaff can fit inside the
hull with the mainsail attached to them, while the mast rests in the stern and
on a slightly offset mast support at the forward end of the trailer; the
bowsprit is left in place. It takes about 20 minutes to step the mast (which
Andy has found he can do by himself by initially standing it upright outside the
boat), secure the standing rigging with lashings, lace the mainsail’s luff to
the mast, and do everything else that is necessary to be ready to hoist the main
and gaff, and unfurl the jib. One person can hoist the 1:1 peak and throat
halyards simultaneously and, of course, the furling gear for the headsail makes
life simpler. We didn’t set the topsail that day, but even with its jackyard and
luff pole it can be easily hoisted with its halyard and sheet, and then
tensioned with its downhaul.

There was plenty of room for the two of us, but there would also be room for two
more people sitting on the central thwart, on the side decks forward, or just on
the cockpit sole. I didn’t miss the side benches that Andy chose not to build.
In their stead, the side decks certainly offered comfortable seating and good
visibility and, with the tiller extension, effective steering.

The wind direction allowed us to sail away from the dock easily; Andy was due to
fit oarlocks to allow the boat to be rowed.

Nigel Sharp

Reefed down on a blustery day, the sloop remains comfortable, heeled but still
well-balanced. The fine finish of the carvel-planked hull is testament to the
many hours Andy spent fairing and sanding.

The wind strength varied between a gentle 10 knots and a fierce 25 knots and,
once we were underway, I initially found myself wanting to play the mainsheet
with some urgency in the gusts and lulls, but I soon realized that the boat
didn’t heel as much as I expected it to. It accelerated easily in the gusts and,
with a reefed mainsail, jib, and no topsail, the helm was neutral. The boat
tacked easily with no suggestion that it might get into irons. We were sailing
in flat water, but Andy told me that the previous weekend he and a partner had
sailed the few miles across Falmouth Bay to the Helford River in a 10- to
15-knot southwesterly and “quite a swell” from the south. He said that the boat
slowed down a bit going into the swell on starboard tack but he enjoyed a bit of
surfing on port tack and always felt safe. Andy is happy with the Centerboard
Sloop’s performance and is looking forward to trailering it home to Switzerland
for sails on Lake Zurich.

Nigel Sharp is a lifelong sailor and a freelance marine writer and photographer.
He spent 35 years in managerial roles in the boatbuilding and repair industry
and has logged thousands of miles in boats big and small, from schooners to
dinghies.

CENTERBOARD SLOOP DESIGN #226A PARTICULARS

Length overall: 16′ 0″

Beam:  5′ 9″

Depth amidships:  1′ 6 1⁄2″

Draft (board down):  3′ 10″

Sail area:  139 sq ft

Main:  84 sq ft

Jib:  37 sq ft

Topsail:  15 sq ft







Plans for the Centerboard Sloop, Design #226A are available from Gartside Boats
for $75 in digital format, $225 printed and shipped.

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

3 Comments on Centerboard Sloop #226A


GEORGIAN BAY

During the pandemic I was, like many folks, stuck at home with only a few quick
trips out when necessary, and I spent lots of time on the computer, watching
video after video. It eventually occurred to me that something good could come
out of all the “alone time,” and I went back to one of my favorite pastimes of
the last 50 years or so: researching the possibilities of owning a boat,
something special that I could pass down, and would last generations. I stumbled
on Giesler Boats, and there was something about the company that struck a chord
with me.

In October 2022, after exchanging emails for several months with Gerry Giesler,
the third-generation owner of B. Giesler and Sons Ltd. in Powassan, Ontario, my
wife Theresa and I went up for a visit to his shop. Taking in the smell of the
wood, varnish, and sawdust on the floor, I was hooked, and asked Gerry where I
should send the deposit

Al Lyall

The Giesler hulls are made of western red cedar shiplap strips, whch are then
sanded using both electric palm sanders and hand sanders. Bottoms can be
fiberglassed as an optional extra.

We ordered the Georgian Bay, an 18′ cedar-strip runabout, which would include a
60-hp Yamaha high-thrust four-stroke outboard with electric trim. The base model
of the boat, without any of the options offered on the Giesler website, is
perfectly fine and I would think it would do well with a 40-hp, but our lakes
are large and deep and can be choppy, so the bigger, tougher motor was better
suited to our needs.

Theresa and I wanted a real beauty, so we had Giesler Boats add a mahogany
coaming to wrap around the top rails and around the front deck. I wanted a solid
wood cockpit sole (or at least something other than the standard cedar and pine
slats), but that didn’t happen as Gerry wasn’t enthusiastic about the change.

While we selected a long list of upgrades from the Giesler website, we didn’t
think that the extra touches were particularly expensive considering the
affordable base price of the boat. Gerry thought, based on how we intended to
use the boat, that we should add a couple of inches to the freeboard, a longer
front deck, and a rear deck with a splash well. There were also some cosmetic
additions, which is where Giesler boats really shine as no two are alike.

Al Lyall

No two boats are the same. Here the foredeck is longer and the freeboard was
raised a couple of inches. The mahogany sidedeck that wraps around the cockpit
and foredeck was requested by the author. The wood brackets for the custom
windshield were made in-house, and the oak strip laid into the center of the
decks complements the oak dashboard.

Most of the wood—cedar, maple, oak, pine, walnut, and mahogany—is sourced from
North America, as locally as possible. The boats are hand-built using
molds/frames that have been around for almost 100 years (with some repair along
the way as constant use wears down the wooden molds) but the design and building
technique have not changed much.

The hulls are made of western red cedar shiplap strips measuring 3⁄8″ × 1 5⁄8″
and clench-nailed to the frames. The strips are applied on steam-bent 11⁄16″ ×
3⁄8″  oak frames and fastened with thousands of copper nails. The hull is then
sanded smooth by hand or with a palm sander. Giesler Boats offers the option to
have the bottom fiberglassed and painted with antifouling paint.

The transom is mahogany, the dash oak, and the seats are pine. Gerry added a
decorative oak and walnut stripe down the center from foredeck to transom, a
very nice touch.  The wood brackets for the custom windshield are made in-house.

Gerry and his crew always had time for us: we went to see them every two weeks
once the build started, and while we always had lots of questions, they never
seemed to get tired of us. They started our boat on April 2, and we put it in
the water on June 24.

Al Lyall

With two bench seats aft of the bridge deck as well as the bench seat forward,
there is comfortable seating for as many as six passengers. The cedar slat
floorboards that mirror the strip-planked decks, are standard. The fuel tank is
behind the aft bench.

Once the boat was complete, it went over to Giesler Marine, run by Gerry’s
cousin Mark, for the mechanical end of things. They do an in-water boat test,
give you a full tank of gas, help hook up the trailer to your vehicle, and have
the boat ready to launch when you pick it up. Gerry even registers the boat in
your name and has the identification numbers ready to go on the sides as well as
the plates on the trailer.

The boat, motor, and trailer come in at just under 1,500 lbs, so I can tow it
with my 2021 Rav4 which is rated at 1,500 lbs max for towing. We found it easy
to tow the boat and put it into the lake at the ramp. We were lucky enough to
get a slip at a local marina, so we don’t have to trailer from lake to lake.

My wife and I have both been around boats all our lives and have driven many but
always with the owner present. It’s a whole different thing being on our own,
but this little beauty makes it easy. It handles well, is not too powerful, and
can take the rough water we get in our lakes. The wide beam and taller sides
make it feel much larger than it is. At only 500 lbs you would think it would
feel light and bounce around, but it has a solid, heavy feel and instills
confidence.

Theresa Lyall

With plenty of curve at the bilge, the boat banks into turns, a motion that will
feel unfamiliar to drivers more used to the sliding motion of a hard-chined
planing hull.

The boat has what Gerry calls “pretty much a displacement hull.” To me, it’s
like a Maine lobsterboat with a big V in the front and flat on the back. It
pushes through the water nicely at low speed, about 12 mph, and when you hit the
throttle, it pops out of the water right away and comes up on plane around 19 to
21 mph.

It’s a nice soft ride as the boat pushes through the water, and very comfortable
anywhere from 21 to 30 mph. It has a top speed of 33 mph with the 60-hp outboard
at full throttle. I have played with the trim angle to bring the bow up a few
degrees to get a bit more speed, but the boat will porpoise fairly easily from
23 mph on and I find that I have to trim back down. I was told by Gerry to just
leave the trim all the way in to keep the bow down all the time, but I sometimes
push it a bit on a calm day.

The hull, with its ample radius at the turn of the bilge, banks into turns made
at speed. It’s a strange feeling at first, as it seems to slip out under
you—very different from a planing hull with hard chines that slide through a
turn. The Georgian Bay’s cornering is very forgiving and just plain fun.

Theresa Lyall

Despite weighing only 500 lbs the boat handles well and has a surprisingly heavy
feel that inspires confidence in its seakeeping abilities.

The boat inspires confidence, as rough water does not seem to bother it. The
sound of the water against the hull has surprised us at times as we remembered
there was only ⅜” of cedar between us and the water. The whole experience soon
becomes second nature, and the sound melts away. You can get a bit of spray if
going through a big wake as it rides up the wake and comes down hard. I usually
try to roll with a big wake or just avoid it all together.

The total draft is 22″: the boat draws 8″, and the motor trimmed all the way
down adds 14″ so we can go between islands and look down through crystal-clear
water to rock shelves close below. The shallow draft allows us to get into quiet
bays, enjoy the landscape, and slip slowly between the islands dotting the
Muskoka lakes.

I really could go on and on about this boat—it’s just that good. It is a solid,
seemingly invincible small boat that’s mostly old school with just the right
amount of modern safety and convenience. At the price you just can’t get any
better. B. Giesler & Sons was started in 1927 and after almost 100 years of
building boats, let’s hope they never stop.

Al Lyall is a retired corrections officer living peacefully in Muskoka with his
wife, Theresa (who still feels the need to work). He enjoys spending time with
their adult children and grandchildren. A longtime dreamer of owning a classic
boat, Al is now making up for lost time out on the lakes of Muskoka, Ontario.

GEORGIAN BAY PARTICULARS (STANDARD HULL)

Length:  18′

Beam:  75″

Depth:  30″

Weight:  500 lbs

Power:  up to 90 hp

The Georgian Bay is available from B. Giesler & Sons for $9,200 (base price).
Many options are available.

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

3 Comments on Georgian Bay


SEVENTY48

"Atmospheric river” was the term used for the sheer volume of rainfall in
Tacoma, Washington, at 6 p.m. on June 10th an hour before the start of the 2022
SEVENTY48 race. At the moment of that downpour, I was sitting at a bar and
grill, less than 50 yards from where my boat was docked at the starting line. I
watched out the window as others walked by clad head-to-toe in exposure suits of
all kinds. Is that person in the drysuit part of the race or are they just
dressed for the weather? It was hard to tell.

Our table at the restaurant was more than a dozen-people deep with mostly family
who had flown in from across the country. They came to show their support as I
was about to embark on the SEVENTY48 race for the second time.

Courtesy of the author

On a training run south of Whidbey Island, I focused on getting more comfortable
crossing large channels and the hazards that come with them. Rain, low
visibility, and boat traffic all added to my anxiety as a fairly new rower. The
only way to get beyond those fears was time on the water and experience at the
oars.

SEVENTY48 is a human-powered boat race from Tacoma to Port Townsend (roughly 70
miles) with a 48-hour window in which to finish. Which route racers take is up
to them. As the website states, “the rules are simple: no motors, no support,
and no wind.” Masochists from around the country show up in Tacoma every June
(since 2018) to participate in vessels ranging from tried-and-true to, let’s
say, experimental. The starting line is a mixed bag of sea kayaks, rowboats,
paddleboards, 20-person canoes, and tandem pedal barges. There are two kinds of
racers: those who are in it to win, and those who are in it for the experience
and adventure. I am among the latter.

This was the second year that I sat at the restaurant, just above the docks,
anticipating the start of the race. The previous year I had entered the race
with my 15-year-old wooden sea kayak, a reliable and sea-tested boat that I
purchased at the height of the pandemic in 2020. In my first go at the race in
2021, I saw 5′ whitecapped waves, endured 30-knot winds, and tested the merit of
my eBay drysuit with DIY patches. Of the 92 teams that started in Tacoma that
year, only 43 finished the race, myself included in 32nd place. I arrived in
Port Townsend at 12:34 a.m. Sunday, just shy of 30 hours after the starting gun
went off. Soaked to the bone and missing critical safety gear after a capsize
early in the race, I stood on the dark beach and told myself that once was
enough.

Then my resolve wore off. Racers from previous years had recounted their
Zen-like experiences on a glassy Puget Sound through the night. Why couldn’t I
have one of those? I decided to give the race another try but I wanted a new
vessel—something more stable, more comfortable. I spent a few months researching
and settled on building an Expedition rowboat designed by Colin Angus of Angus
Rowboats. There had been a few of them in the race in 2021, including a pair
rowed by a father and daughter who finished minutes ahead of me. The Expedition
is not likely what you picture when you think of a rowboat. At boat ramps and on
the water, it’s often referred to as “that thing.” “What is that thing?” “How do
you paddle that thing?” “Why do you sit backward in that thing?”

Samuel Hendrix

Bainbridge and Blake islands were my primary training grounds leading up to the
race. Here, looking east from Blake Island toward West Seattle, I beached my
boat for a quick break before making my way back home on one of my longest
training days, about 30 miles.

The Expedition is long, narrow, and almost completely enclosed by decking, save
for the small cockpit where the rower and sliding seat are positioned. Three
large, watertight hatches, one at the stern and two forward of the cockpit,
provide ample storage for gear as well as buoyancy in the event of a capsize.
It’s truly a boat designed to keep you afloat in even the worst conditions.
After my experience in 2021, that’s what I was looking for.

As the 7 p.m. race start approached, my nerves heightened as the rain fell. I
said goodbye to friends and family as I ran down to the dock for last-minute
preparations. The rain had let up quite a bit from the hour prior, bringing a
glint of positivity to the evening. As quickly as I was feeling better about
things, I was brought down by the sight of my gloves and socks lying on top of
the boat, completely soaked from hours of rain. Fortunately, one of my biggest
takeaways from year one was to always have spares. I grabbed a dry pair of each,
donned my rain jacket and pants, and kicked off the dock to queue with some 130
other boats for the start. All the boats take team names for the race; mine was
Team Bogus Journey, a reference to the sequel of the Keanu Reeves classic movie
(my father-in-law competed as Team Excellent Adventure in 2018 and 2019).

Dean Burke courtesy of Northwest Maritime Center

Moments after the starting gun fired paddlers, pedalers, and rowers fanned out
through the narrow confines of Tacoma’s Thea Foss Waterway. I’m in the orange
jacket just to the left and ahead of the stand-up paddler wearing a blue and
black drysuit. As a rookie rower, and not used to being surrounded by so many
others, I made frequent glances over my shoulder to avoid collisions. With well
over 100 vessels competing for space, the first mile of the race would feel
crowded until I reached Commencement Bay.

The Race Boss fired the starting gun at 7 sharp and off we went. One of the
coping mechanisms I subscribe to for a long-distance race is chunking sections
of the course into smaller, more manageable goals. Each of these chunks has its
own characteristics unique from others throughout the 70 miles. The first 7
miles or so, from the start at the Thea Foss Waterway to Owen Beach, took me
around 2 hours to cover and was defined by a crowded course, bumping oars, and
constantly checking over my shoulder. It’s also where I got a surge of
adrenaline to sustain me for the first third of the race. While daylight still
hung in the air, the waterway was lined with fans who had come from all over to
cheer on the racers as we pushed north. As racers began to spread out and
settled into their paces, it could be an opportunity to meet new racers and old
friends along the way. I caught up with 2021 race veterans Team Ted (a stand-up
paddler) and Team PWS Sea Otter (a sea kayaker) for about an hour as we made our
way together through the 2 ½-mile stretch of riprap-lined beach along Ruston Way
toward the first checkpoint at Owen Beach, a mile from the tip of thickly
forested Point Defiance.

Roger Siebert

.

At the checkpoint, racers make sure all the required SPOT satellite trackers are
working. The race organizers plot the positions of each boat on a website chart
and spectators at home can watch their favorite racers progress digitally up the
course. After a quick shout with my team name to the checkpoint boat, the race
marshals confirmed my live status on the tracker. I pointed my bow north.

Vicki Beaver

As I made my way into Commencement Bay with the Port of Tacoma in the
background, I was able to settle into my pace with less fear of running into
others. At this point, the pack had spread out significantly, giving racers room
to breathe and better strategize their plan for the course. The rain continued
to fall as my muscles warmed up and I found my rhythm.

The next 14 miles of the race run the length of Colvos Passage, the slightly
kinked, mile-wide channel between Vashon Island and the Kitsap Peninsula. I
started up Colvos at around 9 p.m. as the last glimmer of the sun set behind the
darkening silhouette of the Kitsap hills to the west. The descent into darkness
would accompany me for the next several hours; the half moon wouldn’t rise until
1:45 a.m. Racers’ headlamps and navigation lights dotted the water like floating
lanterns all around me. A handful of fireworks rose and glimmered in the
distance astern.

Before my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, it was nearly impossible to judge
how far anything was from me. Sounds seemed to come undiminished across the
water, tricking me into thinking conversations were happening a few feet from me
when they were likely a hundred yards away; a light bobbing up and down in the
distance turned out to be a paddleboarder drafting in my wake just a few feet
behind me.

As engaging as the transition into night was, the row up Colvos Passage was a
slog. The continued rain and overcast sky made it especially dark, much darker
than in 2021, and the west side of Vashon Island includes several false summits,
giving me the impression that I’d reached the end when I still had miles to go.
Racers who had been thronged at the start found their pace and had spread out
here. My intention through the last few miles of Colvos was to find a buddy to
pair with for the upcoming crossings from Vashon to Blake Island, and then to
Bainbridge. These are the longest and most exposed open-water crossings of the
route and coincided with the darkest part of the night. Ferry traffic and
unpredictable seas can make this a particularly scary part of the race.

I adjusted my pace, both speeding up and slowing down, attempting to pair up
with headlamps that looked as if they were relatively nearby. After a couple of
tries to flag down other racers, and a near miss with an old pier, I assessed
the conditions and determined that I would just keep moving forward, even if
that meant solo.

Samuel Hendrix

At one point in Commencement Bay, I snapped a quick selfie while asking myself
why I was doing this. It wasn’t the last time I’d consider the question over the
next 18 hours. The rain was beginning to let up but would still linger for a few
more hours into the night.

Blake Island lies just over a mile north-northwest of Vashon and is a popular
place for racers wanting to catch a few hours of sleep. One of my biggest
regrets in 2021 was stopping at the island to stretch and regroup. Weather and
crashing waves on the beaches at Blake that year caused me to roll my boat and
lose some critical gear, including my VHF radio. This year, I had decided I was
going to bypass Blake entirely if conditions allowed. As I reached the north end
of Vashon, Blake, just 1 1/8 miles wide, loomed large and dark in the distance.
Seas were fairly calm at this point, and the wind and rain had finally let up. I
was able to strip off my raingear. Just around midnight I set a compass course
north across the surprisingly friendly waters and continued to row.

The crossing from Vashon Island was uneventful. Bypassing Blake and crossing
straight from Vashon to Bainbridge Island came up just shy of 5 miles and took
about 75 minutes to row. Aside from the headlamps and audible chatter as I rowed
by Blake, there was hardly a sign of anyone out there at all, making it all the
more eerie. For the first time in this race, I felt truly alone and no longer
connected to other racers. I settled into a steady rhythm and rowed at a
comfortable, sustainable pace.

As I neared the southern end of Bainbridge Island, a few different things
snapped me from my trance. The south side of the island is marked by a rocky
shore. I knew I was coming close and could hear waves crashing against the
rocks. When I turned my head to check my course, I was blinded by my own
navigation lights. As dark as it had been, this was the first time I realized
how bright my bow light was. It prevented me from seeing anything beyond the bow
of my boat. I decided to play it safe and give the shore a wider berth. This was
a wakeup call to keep a better mental log of where I was and of upcoming
landmarks to ensure I wouldn’t make any costly mistakes like running aground.

Samuel Hendrix

On a training row outside of Seattle, I kept my eye on a cruise ship that
appeared to be coming right for me. I was relieved when it made a turn away from
me.

As I adjusted my course and let my night vision recover, I caught sight of a
cluster of dozens of bright pinpoints of light to starboard, traveling west from
Alki Point on the Seattle side of Puget Sound. It was moving fast and heading my
way. It took a few seconds before I realized it was the Seattle-to-Bremerton
ferry, probably the last westbound ferry of the night. It crossed only a couple
hundred yards aft of me. Had I been only 10 minutes slower, I would have been
right in its path, a realization that spooked me giving me the wake-up call I
needed. I had assumed that I would be crossing the ferry lane late enough that
the Bremerton and Bainbridge ferries wouldn’t be a concern. Had I known the
ferry would have been coming through around 1:30 a.m., I would have better
planned my crossing to avoid it. But, even knowing the schedule, picking out a
ferry against the backdrop of the Seattle city lights and their sea of
reflections can be a lot more difficult than I had expected. I moved north up
Bainbridge Island with more caution as I approached the Seattle-to-Bainbridge
ferry crossing at Winslow. Fortunately, I had missed the last run of the night
and was clear to continue rowing without fear of ferries until Kingston, 13
miles farther north.

Fay Bainbridge Park, at the northeast end of Bainbridge Island, is roughly the
halfway point of the race and another popular spot for racers to stop, have a
snack, or catch a few hours of sleep. I had covered the 10-mile length of
Bainbridge in about two hours and reached Fay Bainbridge at 3:30 a.m. The park
is easy to miss from the water, but I knew I was getting close when I heard in
the distance voices I could safely assume were racers. When I saw headlamps
moving up and down the beach, I turned my bow toward them to make a quick stop
to stretch and eat. I neared a particularly dark section of shore and hopped
out, avoiding the piles of driftwood on the beach. As I turned my headlamp on to
secure the boat, the light suddenly revealed a face no more than 6’ in front of
me. A fellow racer had emerged from behind a large piece of driftwood to lend a
hand getting the boat ashore. Having a stranger’s face pop out of the dark when
I thought I was alone, got my adrenaline going and I no longer needed the break.
I thanked the racer for his kind offer and let him get back to his beach nap. As
quickly as I had pulled to shore, I was kicking off and ready to tackle the last
half of the race.

Courtesy of the author

Blue skies peeked through the clouds as I made my way across Port Townsend Bay
just a few hundred yards from the finish. Friends and family lined the docks and
beach to welcome me home.

Beyond the north end of Bainbridge Island lies Port Madison, a 3-mile-wide bay
that can be tricky for racers unfamiliar with the race route. In morning fog and
with sleep deprivation, the open water there can send even seasoned racers off
course. The best bet is to head north-northeast from Fay Bainbridge and point
your bow toward Point Jefferson—if you can see it. The crossing can feel like
big water with large rolling waves spilling over from Puget Sound. Fortunately,
I made my way across Port Madison at 4 a.m., in calm seas as dawn was beginning
to illuminate from behind the Cascade Range on the eastern horizon. As I rounded
Point Jefferson, I passed the flank of a parade of four or five cruise ships
making their way south into Seattle. One was adorned with garish purple lights
and was blaring party music at this pre-dawn hour.

As I began to cross Appletree Cove at 5:30 a.m., I knew ferries would likely be
running soon to and from the Kingston terminal on the cove’s north shore. These
ferries move fast—16 to 18 knots—and I had two options. I could hug the shore,
crossing the ferry lane near the dock in Kingston. This would add quite a bit of
rowing distance but would allow me to cross the ferry lane where it narrows and
the ferries are moving slower. Or I could cut across the cove on a more direct
route. Having been awake for nearly 24 hours, rowing for the last 10, and loath
to row any farther than I had to, I chose the latter. While I made my way across
the bay, I focused acutely on the ferries docked at Kingston, looking for any
sign that one might depart and head my way. A fisherman who had been watching
racers come by motored alongside to let me know the morning ferry was broken
down and wouldn’t be running for a while. This was a huge relief, and I took the
opportunity to have a breakfast of leftover pizza and cold-brew coffee
concentrate while gently bobbing at the cove entrance with no ferry worries.
While enjoying my pizza in the morning light, I began to see several racers
spread out astern, continuing their march north.

Courtesy of the author

When I crossed the finish line at the Northwest Maritime Center docks in Port
Townsend an airhorn blew, signaling that I was done—18 hours and 4 minutes after
leaving the starting line in Tacoma—the 32nd overall finisher. Filled with
relief, I coasted the last few yards to the beach.

The next stretch of the race, the 7 miles from Apple Cove Point to Point No
Point (yes, that’s the real name), were the most monotonous, tedious miles I’ve
ever rowed. The weather was clear, the sun had come up, and the rowing
conditions were perfect as I rounded Apple Cove Point. From there, Point No
Point is the farthest visible point (yes, there’s actually a point) on the
shoreline to the west. As long as I kept my bow in that heading and made forward
progress, I couldn’t miss it. But I felt like I was fighting a current and Point
No Point never seemed to get any closer, always looming in the distance. Yet the
stretch took just under two hours to complete, matching my average pace for the
race. Whether I could chalk my mental struggle up to sleep deprivation, or the
pizza I had for breakfast, this chunk of the race will linger in my memory as
the most difficult and most mentally challenging. Reaching the lighthouse at
Point No Point felt like a huge accomplishment and built momentum for the final
stretch to Port Townsend.

I had convinced myself that the worst was over, that I was almost done. I bought
into the lie I told myself to keep moving forward. At Point No Point I was not
almost done. On the chart, I could more or less draw a straight line to Port
Townsend, but I still had at least 18 miles to go in what can often be the most
volatile waters of the racecourse—Admiralty Inlet. Its north end connects
directly to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and its swells and currents funnel
between Marrowstone and Whidbey islands and dump into Admiralty Inlet, creating
conditions not suitable for most of the small boats in the race. Though the
12-mile stretch through Admiralty Inlet can be serene, with no warning it can
become whitecaps. In the previous year, I had spent about 8 hours beached 4
miles west of Point No Point near the appropriately named Foulweather Bluff
waiting out a hailstorm, catching up on sleep, and hoping the weather would
improve. This year, I rounded Point No Point and saw nothing but clear skies and
calm waters ahead. I could have used the break and a burger in Hansville, the
village a mile west of Point No Point, but opted to use this weather window to
keep pushing on. I passed Foulweather Bluff and made my way toward the Port
Townsend Canal, 8 miles to the northwest.

The Port Townsend Ship Canal is a narrow ¾-mile-long passage built in 1915
between the mainland and Indian Island to open access to and from the south end
of Port Townsend Bay to Admiralty Inlet. The reversing tidal current in the
150-yard-wide canal can run up to 6 mph. I arrived at the south entrance at 11
a.m. with a steady 2 to 3 mph current flowing…in the wrong direction. My family
and friends had lined up along the canal to cheer me on for the last push I
needed to fight the current and break through into the bay. With their
encouragement and a surge of adrenaline, I kicked up the rowing for the final
leg.

Courtesy of the Northwest Maritime Center

The last thing to do was ring the bell. A volunteer offered her congratulations
as she held the bell out for me. It was an exciting moment, made especially so
as I had not rung the bell in 2021 because I finished late at night.

In 2021, I had emerged from the canal at 11 p.m., rowed the final 6 miles of the
course, and finished at the Port Townsend beach just after 12:30 a.m., having
rowed for 29 1/2 hours and finishing in 32nd place. This year the sun was high,
the sky was clear, and the snowfield-draped Olympic Mountains loomed over the
horizon. Schooners and sloops tacked across the bay. The beach at the Northwest
Maritime Center was lined with locals, friends, family, fans, racers, and event
volunteers who had come together to welcome the racers. Even more spectators had
lined the docks and paddleboarders came out to encourage racers over the last
few hundred feet.

I pulled onto the beach and rang the finish bell at 1:04 p.m., 18 hours and 4
minutes after the start, and once again the 32nd boat to reach the finish line.
Tired, blistered, but in surprisingly good spirits, I gave my family a round of
hugs, including my newborn daughter, and thanked them for all the support while
I accomplished this silly goal for a second time. I was quickly congratulated,
handed a beer, offered a place to shower, rest, and eat. After a few minutes to
stretch my legs, I was ready for another cold drink and joined the crowd to
cheer on the rest of the racers. It wasn’t long before I began strategizing on
how to improve for the next year’s SEVENTY48.

Samuel Hendrix is a Midwest transplant now living in Tacoma, Washington, who has
spent the last decade exploring the waters of Puget Sound. When he’s not rowing
Commencement Bay or dreaming of his next boat build, he can likely be found bike
touring with his wife and daughter at one of the many beautiful parks in the
Pacific Northwest.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4 Comments on SEVENTY48


QUICK CINCHES

There is not enough room in a small boat to be sloppy when stowing gear not in
use. Tarps, sleeping pads, and sails (almost anything made of fabric) can be
kept from occupying more space that necessary by being rolled tightly. The trick
is to keep it that way. Putting a length of cord around the bundle and tying it
with a bow knot, as if tying one’s shoes, is likely to lose tension in the
process and a bungee, while it can stretch and keep the bundle compressed, may
not be the right length to get the hooks on the end engaged.

Photographs by the author

This self-inflating sleeping pad has the squeeze put on it by three cinches,
from left: loop and twist, toggle, and lark’s head.

I’ve found three ways to tie bundles using cord that are easy to use, increase
the compression as much as you like, and release easily. All rely on friction,
so it’s best to use cord that has some texture to it. Smooth-braid nylon cord is
very slippery. If that’s what you have to work with, you can hold the tension by
adding a slipped hitch around the standing line where it meets the loop, taking
a couple of turns around and underneath the toggle, or square-knotting the tail
ends over the lark’s head.

LOOP AND TWIST

A length of 1/16″ braided cord works well to keep a 20″ x 38″ camp bath towel in
a compact package.

The loop-and-twist cinch begins with a loop formed by a bowline, as seen here,
or a figure-eight on a bight.

Tuck the tail end through the loop from the back side.

Take a turn around the side of the loop and bring the tail end through again.

Pull the tail end down.

When you pull the tail end tight, the twist will flip and trap the tail end
against the bottom of the loop.

Pull the tail end to tension the cinch. It will lock when you let go of the
tail.

To release the cinch, pull the tail end up.

A hard pull on the tail end will straighten it so it can be pulled back,
loosening the cinch.

 

TOGGLE

Toggle cinches work well for bundling sails around their spars.

The toggle cinch starts with a loop—either a bowline or a figure-eight on a
bight. The tail end is slipped through a toggle made from a dowel. A stopper
knot keeps the toggle from slipping off.

Lead one end of the toggle through the loop.

After the other end of the toggle is through the loop, both sides of the line
running through it are under the loop.

Pull the tail end, here on the right, to tension the cinch. You can hold the
standing part of the line while you pull the line tight. You can also hold the
toggle. If you hold the loop end of the line, you won’t be able to pull the tail
end through the toggle.

The toggle can apply and hold a lot of tension around the bundle.

To release the toggle cinch, rotate the toggle parallel to the loop.

Push that end through the loop and out to the side. The other end will follow,
releasing the toggle.

LARK’S HEAD

Pulling the tail ends of the lark’s-head cinch in opposite directions square to
the cinch applies the tension around the bundle.

Start the lark’s-head cinch with a loop in the middle of the line and the tail
end around the bundle.

Fold the loop over itself to create two loops side by side.

Fold the two loops back to lie alongside each other. This is the lark’s head.

Feed the tail ends through the lark’s head in opposite directions.

Pull the lark’s head tight around the tail ends.

Pull the tail ends tight. The lark’s head will hold the tension.

To release the cinch, pull the tail ends back through the lark’s head.

…

Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats.

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

3 Comments on Quick Cinches


COLLAPSIBLE WATER BAGS

Small boats can be tricky places to store the quantities of water some cruises
require. Our family of four consumes at least 3 gallons per day, more in hot
weather. Carrying a week’s worth of water in rigid containers would leave
precious little room for our bodies and gear in our 18′ sail-and-oar pram.
What’s more, hard-sided bottles make poor use of the irregular spaces where
water is often best kept in small boats. Rigid containers would be difficult to
secure and impossible to fit into the small, curved, awkward spaces available
low in our boat where we prefer to keep such dense supplies.

James Kealey

The Collapsible Water Bag can be laid down flat, stood upright and, if not
filled to the maximum, be stowed in awkward places, conforming to the shape of
the space.

Enter the soft-sided 2.6-gallon Collapsible Water Bags from WaterStorageCube.
Remarkably inexpensive, they hold water securely and conform to the shape of
wherever they’re stowed. They have a comfortable handle, stand upright, pour
well, seal effectively, and hold about the right weight of water for adults to
carry. When empty, they fold down to nearly nothing. They are BPA-free, and
1.3-gallon sizes are also available.

SBM photograph

Once emptied, the bags can be folded up and put away. Unlike a more conventional
water bottle, the bags take up very little space when not being used.

The four bags I’ve been using have stood up very well to a season of use. They
have been mildly abused, mostly at the hands of my six-year-old son, who cannot
be convinced to stop lying on them. They have been dropped, frozen, lightly
trodden upon, and packed into small spaces, and still hold water.

The claims of durability from the manufacturer are not particularly
quantitative: “can withstand heavy pressure & falls.” To simulate what seemed to
me a realistic worst-case scenario, I held a full bag at my side as it would
normally be carried and dropped it repeatedly on concrete. After seven drops, it
broke in the center of its largest panel (not a seam). I’m satisfied that this
is durable enough for my purposes, particularly as we carry several bags and
more water than we expect to use and so have safety in redundancy.

James Kealey

Thanks to the bag’s more adaptable shape, it can be used not only to carry water
but also as an ice block for cold storage in a cooler.

When frozen, the water bags make excellent ice blocks for cold storage (remember
to fill them only partially so that the expanding ice will not rupture the
plastic). A little creativity in fill levels or their placement in your freezer
should result in a block custom-fit to your intended use. Don’t use the bags for
hot water storage, as the manufacturer only rates them to 140°F.

SBM photograph

The pleated base of the collapsible bag allows them to stand upright and, being
narrower than most water jugs, they are unobtrusive, here standing alongside the
centerboard trunk on an 18′ sail-and-oar dory.

I try to minimize my environmental impact, don’t love buying plastics, and felt
some guilt around purchasing and using these water bags, which are made of LDPE
(low-density polyethylene), which is collected for recycling in bins found at
grocery stores in some communities (not mine, unfortunately). The thin-walled
semi-rigid gallon water jugs that I previously used are made of HDPE
(high-density polyethylene), which is accepted in curbside recycling; these
gallon jugs typically last about a year before cracking and leaking. The water
bags weigh 98 grams to the gallon jugs’ 64 grams and they store 2.6 times as
much water, meaning that they are using substantially less plastic per gallon.
My bet is that they will also last longer than the harder plastic used in the
jugs.

The bags are a safe and inexpensive way to store plenty of water in a boat’s
awkward spaces, and I’m happy to have them aboard.

James Kealey lives and teaches in Richmond, California. When he’s not chasing
his two young sons, he can usually be found banging away on some project in his
garage workshop or sail-camping on a mountain lake.

The Premium Collapsible Water Bags from WaterStorageCube are available from its
Amazon Store. A set of four 2.6-gallon bags sells for $16.96.

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.

 

5 Comments on Collapsible Water Bags


XPL OARS

The first time I used the XPL Oars from Duckworks I didn’t even notice them. I
was focused on the performance of the company’s new 10′ skiff I was rowing
during speed trials, quick sprints, and sudden stops. If I had noticed the oars,
it would have been for their faults. The XPLs went unnoticed because they had
none.

When I took the XPL Oars along to row my Whitehall I could turn my attention to
their virtues. They are exceptionally light. The 7′ 11″ oars weigh an average 2
lbs 9.2 oz. By comparison, one of the 7′ 4″ spoon-bladed oars I made of spruce
weighs 3 lbs 2.9 oz, 9.75 oz heavier for an oar that’s 7″ shorter than the XPL.
The XPL blades are 23″ long and 6 7⁄8″ across at their widest point. Their
basswood handles are 10″ long with a grip area 1 1⁄4″ in diameter.

Photographs by the author

The flexible rubber sleeve covers the joint between the oar halves and the
button that locks them together.

The XPL Oars are sectional and have a built-in ferrule with a spring-loaded
button to lock the two pieces together. The fit is snug and assembly requires a
bit of effort, which is as it should be. There is no play in the joint. A rubber
sleeve covers the joint and the button and gets curled back on itself to take
the oar apart.

The looms are 1 3⁄4″ in diameter and fitted with Seadog oar collars, which are
made of molded polyethylene and split down one side. They’re meant to be secured
by nails to wooden oars, but for the XPLs, they’re held in place by a heavy-duty
heat-shrink tubing that extends from the buttons and 1 1⁄2″ beyond the sleeves
to grip the looms. The loom, plus collar and tubing, has a diameter of 2 5⁄32″,
too large to fit a standard 2″ oarlock.

The basswood handles are left bare for a good grip even when wet.

The oars were delivered with Gaco oarlocks, sold separately by Duckworks.
Designed to fit oar sleeves up to 2 1⁄4″ in diameter, these are a good fit for
the XPLs. They can be slipped over the loom before the two pieces of the oar are
joined, avoiding the harder task of opening the lock with a screwdriver. The
Gaco locks have 10mm stainless-steel shafts and adapter sleeves to fit 1⁄2″
oarlock sockets. The adapters seemed to be a bit oversized—I couldn’t get them
inserted into any of my 1⁄2″ sockets so I trimmed them down with a scraper until
they had an easy slip fit. (If the fit is too tight, the adapter will come off
the shaft and remain in the oarlock socket.)

The faces and the backs of the blades are gently contoured and offer little
resistance to lateral movement at the catch and the finish of the stroke and
during sculling.

A dab of tallow—the same lube I use with oar leathers and bronze
oarlocks—provides freedom of rotation to the oars for easy feathering. At the
catch, the blade’s edges, only 1⁄16″ thick, cut into the water without
disturbing it and the centerline ridge on both the back and face of the blade
has gentle transitions that slip beneath the surface cleanly. I could
consistently make hard catches without having the blade drive any air into the
puddles.

While I couldn’t feel any give in the looms during the catch and drive, there is
some flex when I try to bend an XPL oar by levering it against the ground. There
is enough give in the loom and the end of the blade to ease the shock on one’s
hands during a hard catch. The blade doesn’t flutter during a strong pull and
exits the water cleanly at the finish of the stroke.

The blades are exceptionally thin. The ends of the blades, beyond the central
ridges front and back, have a bit of flexibility to ease the impact of a fast
and hard catch on one’s hands.

The swing weight of the XPL Oars is exceptionally light. It takes almost no
effort to move the blades from the finish to the catch, even when rowing at a
high cadence. I keep the blades low on the recovery, and inevitably slap waves
and wakes with the back of the blades. The blades go quickly up and over, and I
can maintain a light touch on the handles.

Sculling the boat sideways with one oar was made easy by lack of lateral
resistance offered by the blade’s slim profile. I kept the blade deep in the
water to get the most efficient use of its thrust and it would take several
seconds before the produced upwelling reached the water’s surface. I was
impressed by how much water the blade could set in motion. When I took the oars
apart later, some water came out of the joint, likely a result of sculling,
which put the rubber sleeve between the sections low enough to allow water under
pressure to seep past it. Foam plugs in the loom on both sides limit how much
water can get in, and keep it from the loom’s outboard ends where it would
increase the swing weight.

In a quick, forceful catch, the blade slips into the water without drawing any
air in with it. Keeping the air out of the water reduces slip to a minimum. The
water shooting upward comes from the flip catch at the instant the blade comes
off the feather and full pressure is put on the blade.

After rowing the Whitehall with a fixed thwart, I switched to the sliding seat I
made for the boat. The oars performed equally well with the longer stroke. I
could feel the weight of the boat during the drive, an indication of how little
the blades slipped in the water. I would have liked to change the gearing of the
oars by moving the collars outboard a couple of inches. If you were to order the
oars with the sleeves and heat-shrink tubing, you could hold the sleeves in
place with tape or hose clamps until you determine the best location and gearing
for your boat.

The XPL Oars are available in any length from 6′ to 9′ 6″.

The XPL Oars perform very well during all phases of the stroke and are a great
pleasure to row with. They have only one flaw: The feather-light touch they
require on the recovery is going to make the oars I’ve been enjoying for decades
seem clunky.

 Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats.

XPL Oars are made and sold by Duckworks for $850. They can be ordered in any
length between 6′ and 9′6″. The rubber sleeve kit is a $30 option. The 1⁄2″ Gaco
oarlocks are sold separately for $42.99.

Is there a product that might be useful for boatbuilding, cruising, or
shore-side camping that you’d like us to review? Please email your suggestions.

3 Comments on XPL Oars


FOPA

Steve Petty wanted to build a boat. He had done it before, twice: he had built
an 8′ Frugal Skiff, WE DO, as a wedding present for his son and daughter-in-law;
and he’d built a 12′ Frugal Skiff with a 5-hp outboard so he could “putter
around West Falmouth Harbor in Massachusetts.” But he had sold the 12-footer
when he moved inland to Sherborn where there was no coast but there were many
lakes and ponds. He might have built anything on a whim, but he remembered that
some years earlier his daughter had said she’d like to have a good rowing boat
to keep at the family camp on North Channel in Ontario. That passing comment
clinched it. Steve would build a rowboat.

Steve Petty

With so many molds set up on the strong back it’s easy to see the shape of the
hull with the full ’midships sections running into a deep V both fore and aft—a
combination that provides the boat with stability and good tracking.

While searching for the right project, Steve came upon an advertisement in
WoodenBoat for Newfound Woodworks. He visited the website and liked what he
saw—a catalog of plans and kits for “easy-to-build strip canoe, kayak, and
rowing boats.” He especially liked the 15′ Rangeley Lake Boat. Steve has enjoyed
fly-fishing for many years and had visited the Rangeley Lakes region in western
Maine several times. Seeing the name of Newfound’s boat was enough to pique his
interest.

Steve Petty

Within 10 days, the transom was in place and Steve was well along with the
strip-planking. He had protected the molds with duct tape so that the strips
would not stick to them.

Newfound Woodworks describes the Rangeley Lake Boat as “a distinctive American
sporting boat that has been in use for something like 100 years, and was well
known to past generations of fishermen for its numerous excellent
characteristics.” Originally built of lapstrake cedar, Newfound Woodworks has
adapted the design—using offsets published in John Gardner’s Building Classic
Small Craft—for strip-planking with a combination of red and white cedar, as
well as mahogany for the gunwales, sapele for the deck, and spruce for the
coamings.

Steve was hooked. The design’s inherent stability, excellent tracking qualities,
and two rowing stations made it an excellent choice for his children and
grandchildren who, at the time, ranged in age from 8 to 12. He called Newfound
Woodworks and ordered a kit.

Robert Conkey

After the strip planking was complete and sanded fair, Steve got his first taste
of fiberglassing.

Steve has always enjoyed woodworking. In high school he took shop classes and,
for a while, considered becoming a teacher of industrial arts. But in the end,
he says, he went into carpentry and construction, and spent almost 35 years
building timber-frame homes.

While Steve says “working with wood isn’t scary,” he was new to strip-planking,
so he took advice from Alan Mann and Rose Woodyard at Newfound Woodworks and
purchased the Pre-Kit Rowing Package. It included a DVD on cedar-strip
boatbuilding, another on applying epoxy and fiberglass, and a book, Woodstrip
Rowing Craft: How to Build, Step by Step, by Susan Van Leuven. “It was
terrific,” says Steve. “Between those three things…well, there wasn’t much left
out!”

Steve Petty

With the boat turned upright, Steve fiberglassed the interior.

When his kit was ready—all Newfound Woodworks kits are made to order—Steve drove
up to Bristol, New Hampshire, to pick it up. “I could have had it sent, but it’s
not terribly far away, and I got to meet Rose and Alan. They gave me a wonderful
tour of their shop and what they do. I took another ride up partway through the
build when I had some questions. And I called a couple of times—they were great
to work with.”

Steve built the Rangeley in his shop, which is housed in a barn in Sherborn,
Massachusetts. He shares the space with a friend, and they use the shop for
“everything from playing with boats to building small pieces of furniture to
larger parts of construction projects. We each do our own thing, but it’s nice
to have an extra pair of hands around when you need them.”

Steve Petty

The thwarts and sternsheets were temporarily placed prior to installation. The
inwales were milled with openings to create a slotted gunwale.

The Rangeley Lake Boat kit, says Steve, came with almost everything he needed.
“You don’t have to buy a complete kit, but I did, and it was truly complete. It
came with brushes and rollers, all the materials, even rubber gloves. Pretty
much all I had to buy was sandpaper, vinegar, cleaners, and clamps—I didn’t have
nearly enough before I started—and a few more rubber gloves.”

With the guidance of the Pre-Kit, the plans, and the construction notes, and
pictures, Steve encountered very few problems. The only tricky moment, he
recalls, was when he was gluing up the stem piece. “I got a little too excited
and tried to bend it too quickly. It snapped right in half.”

 

Karen Naughton

The boat went in the water with little ceremony and without the family.

He called Newfound Woodworks and spoke to Alan. “He chuckled and said, ‘You bent
it all at once, didn’t you? You have to do it very slowly.’” Steve thought Alan
would suggest sending a replacement, but instead he reminded Steve that the kit
“had come with some spare hunks of 2″ stock cedar. He advised me to make my own
replacement out of that.” Steve ripped some new strips and started gluing them
up, “a little slower this time.”

Karen Naughton

Steve didn’t try rowing during the first launching—he just wanted to make sure
the boat didn’t leak.

The fiberglassing was also “exciting once in a while,” says Steve. He was new to
the process and found ’glassing the inside of the hull particularly testing.
“Keeping the bubbles and wrinkles out of there was challenging.” Once more, the
Pre-Kit’s book and DVDs came in handy. One tip he found particularly helpful was
to hold the cloth up to the gunwale with clothespins to stop it sliding down.
“It sounds simple, but it was terrific,” he says, “it worked really well.”

Start to finish the project took Steve from early February 2021 to late April
2021, working about three to four hours, four to five days per week. “A lot of
the time was spent waiting for glue to dry. But it’s good, it forces you to slow
down and work at a measured pace.”

Sarah Petty

Steve rowed FOPA for the first time at the family camp in Ontario.

The Rangeley was launched on May 2, 2021, on Steve’s local pond. “I didn’t row
it. I just put it in the water to make sure it floated, and that it floated
somewhat level.” It did. Steve took the boat back to the shop, wrapped it up,
and waited. The plan had been to take the boat to the family camp that July, but
COVID had changed everyone’s plans, and it would be another year before the
family was once again at Lake Huron and could receive the Rangeley. While he was
waiting, Steve bought two pairs of oars and gave the boat a name: FOPA for each
of his four grandchildren, Finn, Olivia, Parker, and Alexa.

Steve Petty

When the summer skies over the North Channel are clear and its waters are calm,
FOPA is not likely to spend much time idle at the dock.

In July 2022, Steve and FOPA made the trip to Ontario and the family’s camp on
North Channel. Now, two summers in, Steve says everyone loves her. “She weighs
around 95 lbs, is very stable, and rows like a dream.” Within the family there’s
a wide range of rowing abilities, but all, young and old, enjoy taking FOPA out
on the lake.

Sarah Petty

On the day FOPA arrived at the camp, Steve took his grandson, Parker, out for a
row.

As for Steve, he’s thinking of his next project. He doesn’t have a boat right
now, but the Charles River and many of the Great Ponds of Massachusetts are
nearby, and even the lakes of Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont are not far.
He’s pretty sure he’ll build another kit but is undecided whether to go for a
rowboat or a canoe. Although, he says, “I do really like the look of the
Adirondack guideboat.”

Jenny Bennett is managing editor of Small Boats.

Do you have a boat with an interesting story? Please email us. We’d like to hear
about it and share it with other Small Boats readers

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MUSTELID – EPISODE 10

We row and sail deeper into the maze to thread the passages between larger
islands and Chichagof itself. Some passages squeeze into ocean level
“lakes”—more saltwater than fresh—which “race” in and out between tides. Some
“passages” burrow deep into blind coves and “inlets.” Some cross undulating
“flats.” Some open into vast “ports” that aroused the naval envy of early
European explorers. Some are straightaways. Some meander. Some are deep. Some
are “dry.” Some wide. Some oar-cramping narrow.

Few of the standard features of the chart are “standard.” Most earn their
air-quotes. Expect the unexpected.

The Tlingit People were here from the time of legend. Fur hunters came, and
whalers. Miners by the hundreds. Moonshiners to quench their thirst and the Law
to staunch the flow.

Nowadays, a few come, then go: hunters and fishers, kayakers and yachts. Fish
biologists at a tribal chum stream.

And now, in this episode, us.



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MUSTELID – EPISODE 11

It’s now September and we’ve left the outer coast; we’re in outside waters, but
once again in familiar surrounds.

This is a short stretch, but it includes two of four communities on Chichagof
Island. Together, they top 100 residents.

The south end is hemmed by steep granite walls that rise abruptly above
timberline. Many find this inlet oppressive, even ominous. But there’s a slow
joy to it. It is new stone, pushed up along the fringe of the ring of fire. It’s
youthful geology positively kicking up its heels.

As we sail north, mountains moderate. We spend several days in a cove at inlet’s
end and visit its overlooking muskegs—peat bogs of tough and wizened diversity.

Cross Sound opens on the Gulf of Alaska, but a short hop sees us into a more
sheltered stretch, shielded by another span of islands.

Then a stop to visit old friends and await conditions.



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TO THE RESCUE, AFTER A FASHION

A few years ago, I headed out for a solo afternoon sail on Puget Sound aboard my
Caledonia Yawl, ALISON. It was a weekday and there was only a handful of
trailers parked in the lot by the launch ramp at Meadow Point. The light summer
breeze was just right for the ample spread of the lug main and, after I cleared
the breakwater guarding the ramp, ALISON slipped briskly through the corrugated
water.

Laurie Cunningham

After setting sail, I headed across Puget Sound toward Bainbridge Island. (The
photographs here were taken in the same location but on different occasions.
They closely resemble the scenes in the events conveyed in this account.)

The only other boat on the water, a sailing skiff, was about 1⁄4 mile from
shore. We crossed tacks close enough that I could say hi to what appeared to be
a father and a daughter in her early teens. In the northwesterly breeze, I was
on a starboard tack headed west across the sound and they were on a port tack
heading north into open water beyond Meadow Point.

Christopher Cunningham

After I’d crossed tacks with the sailing skiff, its sail was still visible for a
while, a bit of white off Meadow Point, the wooded shoreline at left. The launch
ramp is at the right at the edge of the marina’s line of masts.

I made good time with a summer breeze that provided decent boat speed without
kicking up a chop. It was easy sailing, but I regularly scanned the horizon, a
practice picked up from my father when he taught me how to sail.

Laurie Cunningham

Although there were few other boats out, I frequently scanned the horizon and
often looked over the stern. What caught my attention was the absence of the
skiff’s sail.

At one point I saw no other boats around me, not even when I looked aft. The
skiff should have been somewhere astern, but I didn’t see it anywhere. The
father and his daughter couldn’t have disappeared, so I came about and headed
east on a reach toward the area where I had expected to see them.

After I had sailed 100 yards or so, I caught sight of the skiff with its crew
clinging to its capsized hull. There was no centerboard or daggerboard showing.
If it had been lowered while they were sailing, it had slipped back into its
trunk during the capsize and couldn’t be used to right the boat. If they hadn’t
deployed it, its absence may have been the cause of their capsize.

When I reached the pair, I rounded up, but ALISON was carrying too much speed. I
reached over the starboard side and grabbed the outstretched arm of the father.
Even as he was saying “Get her first,” I pulled him off his boat. ALISON came to
a stop a few yards upwind, and I helped him crawl over the rail.

I pushed the main’s boom to port to bring the bow around, sailed a loop back to
coast alongside the skiff, and brought the daughter on board. I retrieved an
aluminized emergency blanket that I kept tucked under the foredeck and the
father wrapped it around the shivering girl. By the time I had the two of them
settled aboard, an outboard fishing skiff and a cabin cruiser had arrived, and
their crews set about trying to right the capsized skiff. I sailed on a run to
get my cold and wet passengers back to the launch ramp, about a mile away.

When we were about halfway there, a Coast Guard Zodiac that had emerged from the
breakwater raced by about 50 yards away to port of ALISON. I pulled my VHF radio
out of my PFD pocket and turned it on. I had only used it to monitor vessel
traffic on Channel 14 and, while I knew the channel to use and the protocols for
hailing another vessel, I’d never transmitted a call. I froze and, in a
pointless gesture that embarrasses me still, I held my radio up so the Coasties
could see it. Call me? The Zodiac was already long gone and soon joined the
boats around the capsized skiff. After a stop there it turned around and caught
up with ALISON when we were just a few dozen yards from the launch ramp. Assured
that everyone was safe, they motored in ahead of ALISON.

A fire truck was waiting at the ramp for the father and daughter. I docked and
handed my passengers over to the medics. Several minutes later, the other good
Samaritans towing the still-capsized sailboat eventually arrived at the dock. I
helped them get the skiff righted.

I came away from that incident with mixed feelings. I was, of course, glad that
I could help, and I appreciated the attentiveness I’d learned from my father.
But I was surprised and disappointed that things that I knew how to do had
eluded me when I needed to put them to use. I knew that I should have rounded-up
downwind of the capsized skiff to come to a stop alongside it, but it has been
decades since I had practiced by throwing a cushion overboard and sailing around
to retrieve it. I knew that I could have turned the VHF radio to Channel 16 and
hailed the Coasties, but on the occasions that I was boating in the company of
another boat which also had a VHF, I didn’t take advantage of the opportunities
to practice making calls.

The rescue was, at best, an illuminating experience in how the mind works (my
mind, at least). Sometimes even the simplest bits of knowledge can be safely
stored in memory and recalled at a moment’s notice if recollection is all that’s
required. But turning knowledge into action requires creating the pathway for
electrical impulses to reach the muscles. It’s that way with music. I may know a
tune by heart and be very familiar with all the notes and chords on the sheet
music, but it’s not until I put in the practice on the piano that I can play it
and eventually have the joy of listening to the music my hands create without
having to bridge the gap between knowledge and action. As I put in the practice
with my rescues and VHF, I’ll be able to do what needs to be done without
hesitation and avoid making such blunders as tearing a father away from his
child or holding my radio up as if it was meant to be used as a semaphore.




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THE LAKER CANOE

My decision to build a cedar-strip canoe came about when a close friend loaned
me Gil Gilpatrick’s Building a Strip Canoe. He thought it would be a nice
wintertime project for me since I had recently retired. After a few reads of the
book, my wife and I decided on the 16′ Laker design. It’s been many years since
we have done any serious canoeing and now, with grandchildren, we thought having
a nice stable all-around canoe would be best.

We purchased the strips, gunwales, decks, etc. from Newfound Woodworks, a
Bristol, New Hampshire, company that specializes in strip-building products. We
came home with all the material needed for our design—a blend of western red
cedar, eastern white cedar, and some accent strips in Alaska pine. The strips
were all bead-and-coved and uniform in width and thickness, something we could
not have accomplished if we had tried to rip and mill the strips. We also chose
to purchase pre-caned seats and a pre-shaped yoke.

I deviated from the Gilpatrick design by selecting ash inner and outer stems
instead of gluing the cedar strips together and shaping them at the stems. This
decision was made primarily because I preferred the aesthetics of the stem
guards. In his book, Gilpatrick states that, based on his experience, the stem
guards do not provide any additional protection and they add weight, merely
ounces, but something he is keenly aware of.

Before starting our build, we took the templates provided in the book to a print
shop to mirror the half template and scale them to full size.  Since we went
with stem guards, we had to trim 3⁄4″ off the stem forms to keep to the design
length.

Photographs courtesy of Tim Cormier

Thanks to the canoe’s flat bottom loading and boarding in shallow waters is
straightforward.

Stripping the canoe and seeing it take shape proved to be an enjoyable process.
My wife participated quite a bit and having that extra set of hands greatly
helped. I tried using an adjustable air-powered stapler, but it was a mistake. I
could not get the settings correct to keep the staple head raised above the
strips. The T50 hand stapler suggested by Gilpatrick worked best.

Fairing the outer hull took more time than expected. The more you look and feel,
the more sanding and fairing you want to do. I purchased a spokeshave and once I
got the settings adjusted it was a fun tool to use. Keeping the blade well-honed
was essential.

Purchasing pre-made caned seats from Newfound Woodworks saved a lot of time. All
the Cormiers had to do was trim and install.

Fiberglassing was a new experience for us. The outer hull was easier to ’glass
than the inner, and both sides required some patience toward the stems. After we
decided where to make cuts for the cloth to fit together, the edges never seemed
to lay wet the same way. I’ve read online forums where other canoe builders have
’glassed the inner hull in sections with better success.

The installation of the gunwales was also a challenge. The double curves toward
the stems needed a lot of coaxing. After giving it some thought, I built a
steamer out of a 4′ piece of galvanized dryer vent and a bending form to shape
the gunwale. Once the shape was set, the gunwale was much easier to install. The
Gilpatrick book showed solid wood gunwales with 3⁄4″ × 3⁄4″ outwales and 3⁄8″ ×
3⁄4″ inwales. The inwales we purchased were milled with router-cut openings to
replicate a spacered gunwale, allowing for quick and easy drainage of water from
the canoe when ashore by turning it on its side.

Like the cane seats, the yolk was pre-made. The inwales have routered-out spaces
along their entire length, which lends a traditional look, reduces weight, and
allows for quick and easy water drainage when the canoe is tipped on its side on
shore.

All that was required for the pre-made seats and yoke was to trim and fit them
into the canoe. The book provides detailed instructions for making the seat
frames and devotes 12 pages to caning them. I did not feel confident enough to
drill all the holes in the frame with a handheld drill to cane the seats, but if
I get a drill press, as Gilbert recommends for the process, I may attempt it on
a new set of seats.

The build required about 270 hours over six months to complete. The canoe came
in at 72 lbs, a little above the 65-lb estimate in the book.

I built a support rack for the back of my pickup truck and cushioned the black
pipe crosspiece with a section of pool noodle. Sliding the canoe onto the rack
and back off is easily accomplished singlehanded. Two short lengths of pool
noodle, split to wrap around the gunwale, cushion the forward end of the canoe
on the truck-cab’s roof.

In the stems, Tim added ash inner and outer stem guards. To maintain the canoe’s
designed length, he trimmed ¾″ off the stem forms. While Gilpatrick advises
against the stem guards because of the extra weight they bring to the canoe, Tim
liked their appearance.

We held off putting the canoe in the water because we wanted paddles appropriate
for it. We purchased Canoe Paddles: A Complete Guide to Making Your Own, by
Graham Warren and David Gidmark, and chose the Sugar Island design. Making
paddles turned out to be easier than we’d anticipated. They came out a bit on
the heavy side, as I’d been too conservative when thinning out the blades. I
later used some 1 × 6 pine to make some shorter, lighter versions of the paddles
for our grandchildren to get them excited to join us.

After we slipped the canoe into the water for the first time, it floated in good
trim. I stood up several times and found it to be very stable. Once we got
seated and started paddling, it tracked well. Later in the day the afternoon
wind picked up and the canoe sideslipped, but as long as we were actively
paddling and used some small J-strokes, it wasn’t much of an issue and the canoe
held its course well.

With smooth, easy strokes the canoe slipped along quietly; with more aggressive
paddling the bow gurgled as it cut through the water. The canoe maneuvered
handily as we paddled around lily pads and downed trees.

The canoe carries its beam well into the ends and the sheer rises sweetly to the
stems. For the bow paddler, this results in a generous beam at the seat,
narrowing forward for a comfortable stroke. Looking for a more stable canoe that
would suit both themselves and the grandchildren, the Cormiers appreciate the
Laker’s stability and generous freeboard.

I’ve done some solo paddling in shorter canoes, and the Laker, at 16′, is right
on the dividing line between solo and tandem canoe. It seems a bit long for me
to attempt significant solo trips, but this may be my inexperience showing.

As we built our canoe there was always a feeling of excitement as we progressed
through each building phase, and this feeling never wavered.

When we’ve taken the Laker on the road, thumbs-up and beeps are common, and
we’ve had numerous people walk over at rest areas and gas stations to admire and
talk about the boat. This never gets old. We are very happy with the canoe and
hope to get many hours on the water with the grandchildren aboard. I
enthusiastically recommend the Laker as a wonderful general-purpose family
canoe.

Tim Cormier and his wife, Renee, live in Merrimac, Massachusetts, where they
raised three sons, and have five grandchildren. Tim is retired after a 35-year
career as a software engineer. An active outdoor person, he enjoys playing
soccer, golf, hiking, skiing, and snowmobiling—anything outdoors. He has always
enjoyed some woodworking, and this canoe is the biggest project he has taken on.
For 45 years, he and Renee have boated out of Pemaquid Harbor, Bristol, Maine,
enjoying weekend cruises, fishing, or just sitting on anchor in one of Midcoast
Maine’s many hidden coves.

LAKER PARTICULARS

Length: 16′
Beam: 36″
Depth: 13″
Height of stems: 22 1⁄2″
Weight: approx 65 lbs

Building a Strip Canoe, by Gil Gilpatrick, is available from The WoodenBoat
Store for $24.95. The 112-page book includes plan sheets, folded and tucked into
the back of the book.

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

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CANDLEFISH 16

Sam Devlin’s Candlefish series—the 13, 16, and 18—was inspired by the pangas he
saw while visiting Mexico. Those small workboats are sturdy but narrow, allowing
them to weather rough water while still maintaining speed with a small motor.
After the success of the cartoppable Candlefish 13—designed to be run with
low-horsepower outboards—Sam recognized that people wanted more speed. He drew
wide- and narrow-bodied versions of both the Candlefish 16 and the Candlefish
18. This “methodical uptick in sizes,” as Sam puts it, is commonplace for his
design process. The narrow-bodied 16 was eventually discontinued, but the
wide-bodied version has proved popular. Sam designed both a Bridge Deck Version
with plenty of enclosed storage and a simpler Open Version. Drawings for both
are included in the plans.

As with all of the designs from Devlin Designing Boat Builders, the Candlefish
16 is of stitch-and-glue construction. I was 12 years old in 2015 when my father
and I decided to build a boat. To get a more complete boatbuilding experience,
we opted not to purchase a kit, but instead to build the Candlefish 16 from the
nine sheets of drawings included in the plans set. In addition, we used Devlin’s
80-page Building Instructions Booklet for Stitch & Glue Construction to guide
our project.

Photographs courtesy of Lilja Hanson

Lilja and her father began building their Candlefish 16 when she was 12. The
stitch-and-glue construction was a good choice for introducing her to the art of
boatbuilding and to the art of fixing errors—such as a chipped bottom panel at
the stem—along the way.

We scarfed the okoume plywood to get the length required for the two bottom
panels (each in two pieces) and the intermediate and sheer planks (each in three
pieces) for the sides. The shapes for those pieces—cut from 3⁄8″ (9mm)
plywood—and for the 1⁄2″ (12mm) bulkheads, decks, seats, knees and breasthooks,
are given as drawings with offsets, while supporting diagrams show how to
distribute the pieces on sheets of plywood. The plans illustrate mounting the
four bulkheads and the transom onto a 2×6 backbone frame with vertical 2×4
supports and, for the transom, angled plywood braces.

The planks’ mating edges at the chines are given a double bevel, cut at 45
degrees both inboard and outboard, to ensure fair alignment. Then, holes are
drilled and wire is used to stitch the planks and transom together. The seams
are spot-glued with thickened epoxy from the inside, then the wires are removed,
and the seams are sanded smooth and fair. The outer seams are taped with 17-oz
biaxial tape. The hull exterior is sheathed in 5-oz Dynel cloth and epoxy before
being turned right-side up; friends and family made light work of flipping the
hull. Once turned, the inside of the seams could be reached, and we gave these
fillets of epoxy and wood flour, 17-oz biaxial tape, and a layer of 6-oz
fiberglass cloth.

We had opted for the more complex interior appointments of the bridge-deck
version for the storage compartments it offered and had built the hull around
the plan’s bulkheads for it. We installed the 1⁄2″ (12mm) side benches, the
bridge deck, and two storage lockers, one forward and one amidships.

the Candlefish 16, trailer, and 20-hp outboard motor together weigh in at around
1,500 lbs making it the ideal boat for towing behind the average family car.

The plans specify 3⁄4″ × 1 1⁄2″ hardwood for the inwales and outwales. To bend
the pieces without the use of steam, we glue-laminated their forward halves from
two 3⁄8″-thick pieces of white-oak to accommodate the curve of the sheer plank
at the bow. Similarly, the plans suggest horizontal kerfs in the forward end of
the 3⁄4″ × 1″ keel to accommodate the bend at the forefoot.

The Candlefish 16 webpage  notes that the boat can be built in about 200 hours.
Our father-daughter project took 18 months of sporadic work alongside school,
extracurriculars, and work. I was 14 by the time the painting was finished, and
our boat was ready to launch. We bought a 20-hp long-shaft, four-stroke outboard
for the boat, which is in the middle of the recommended range of 10 to 30 hp.

The storage lockers in the bridge-deck version of the Candlefish 16 offer an
impressive amount of space. The bow locker is ideal for stowing anchors and
docking lines, fenders and extra flotation, while the ’midship locker has room
for lifejackets, cushions, coolers, and more.

The Candlefish 16 is very light for its size. I have never weighed mine, but
online forums suggest that the dry-hull weight falls around 325 lbs. Add to that
the 20-hp outboard and a trailer Dad salvaged from the side of the road, and the
whole package is well under 1,500 lbs and easily trailerable by any car with
even modest trailering capabilities.

There are two storage lockers: a smaller one under the foredeck and a larger one
under the bridge deck. The smaller locker stores fenders, deck lines, two small
anchors and their rodes, and foam for flotation. The larger storage area
amidships can hold PFDs, flares, coolers, gear, and a storage box for smaller
pieces of equipment, with room to spare for at least four totes of gear. With
its hatch closed, the larger storage compartment serves as a bench. A starting
battery, a 3-gallon gas tank, and more flotation foam fit under the aft end of
the side benches, out of the way but easily accessible. For flotation, the plans
call for inexpensive Type-II PFDs strapped under the seats.  We found billets of
flotation foam washed up on the beach and they do just fine.

The cockpit is easily hosed down and has limber holes in all but the forward
bulkhead and a drain plug in the transom. I have found that the limber hole in
the aftmost bulkhead, at about 1″ in diameter, provides for adequate and
efficient drainage, but anything less than 1″ can easily clog. The drainage
under the bridge deck is facilitated by a 1″ PVC conduit ’glassed to the inside
of the hull between that compartment’s bulkheads.

For our family, the Candlefish 16 is the perfect little on-water pickup truck.
The boat handles well in rough water, though in choppy conditions we all prefer
to wear rain gear as it can get fairly wet. When we beach the boat, the keel and
the runners, which we chose to add aft just a few inches inboard of the chines,
are protected by a stainless-steel half oval. Rolling on fenders up and down
beaches is very doable and was easy for me even at age 14. The same goes for
docking and loading onto the trailer, as the boat can turn within its own length
and is sensitive to any changes in speed with the 20-hp outboard.

With just Lilja on board, the Candlefish 16 tracks and trims well.

The Candlefish 16 handily carries my family of four, plus the dog, and in calm
conditions can take a few additional passengers. We take the boat camping with
all of us aboard along with a cooler, camping gear, and even a paddleboard or
sit-on kayak strapped along one of the inwales. While that may be a tight fit,
it certainly leaves plenty of freeboard remaining for open-water crossings.

With our 20-hp outboard, the Candlefish will get on plane with two people
aboard, but with more weight it’s hard to get past a semi-plane. The boat moves
fine at that point, but while it isn’t plowing or displacing too much water, the
plane isn’t as clear and the bow doesn’t carve the water as cleanly. I wouldn’t
advise going with an outboard of less power than 20 hp. The plans suggest a
maximum of 30 hp, which I would be eager to try out, especially for a larger
crew.

The deep cockpit and ample seating arrangements mean that the Candelfish 16 can
easily accommodate a family of four, plus dog and camping gear, in most weather.

I can’t think of a better outboard skiff for an amateur or adolescent
boatbuilder. The uncomplicated nature of stitch-and-glue design and the options
given between open and bridge-deck versions make for the perfect balance between
straightforward construction and personal customization. What’s more, the robust
seaworthiness of the Candlefish 16 is well suited to exploring the Maine coast,
messing around with friends on lakes, and providing simple transport anywhere
you want to have an adventure. The ample storage is conducive to overnight
exploration, and the size of the boat is manageable while still allowing for a
group of friends or family to come aboard. Now 20 years old, I’ve had great fun
using my Candlefish 16 for several years and look forward to many more.

Lilja Hanson is a student at Barnard College of Columbia University studying
English. She grew up on and around boats in Downeast Maine and has combined her
passions for writing and boats as WoodenBoat’s editorial intern this summer.

CANDLEFISH 16 PARTICULARS

Length:   16′ 2 1⁄2″
Beam:   6′ 10″
Draft:   7 1⁄2″
Propulsion:   30-hp outboard, max



Plans for the Candlefish 16 are available from Devlin Designing Boat Builders
for $95 (download) or $125 (printed). The WoodenBoat Store offers the plans for
$85, digital or print (plus shipping).

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

 

 

3 Comments on Candlefish 16
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