Shavings Volume 12 Number 3 (July 1990)

2 SHAVINGS July 1990

Table of Contents Festival Program of Events 3 Spring Regatta 4 New Use for Old Machinery 4 Oil and Water 4 Aboard the Crusader 5 Why Maritime Preservation? 6 A Few Good Boating Stories

Ishmael and me 8 Omega 2 9 How Crazy Can You Get? 10

The Inside Passage by kayak 12 Calendar of Events/Workshops .. 16

Cover photos: Some of the Center for Wooden Boats living heritage exhibits - photo by Marty Loken

The Center For Wooden Boats 1010 Valley Street Seattle, WA 98109

(206)382-2628 President: Grant Dull Director: Dick Wagner Assistant to Director: Faye Kendall Program Administrator: Rollie Wulff

Board of Trustees Ross Anderson, Duncan Bagne, Brian Conway, Caren Crandell, Jack Donohoe, Grant Dull, Steve Excell, Ali Fujino, Bill Keasler, Carter Kerr, Rhoady Lee, Blake Lewis, Jens Lund, Mike Milburn. Bob Pickett, Bill Van Vlack, Vernon Velez

Shavings This issue of Shavings was published by Northwest Yachting Magazine, 5206 Ballard Ave. N.W., Seattle, WA 98107, (206) 789-8116, in conjunction with the Center for Wooden Boats.

Contributors Randy Mackenzie, Thomas Nielsen, Jerry E. Rosenthal, Jay Stoner, Russ Vinden, Dick Wagner, John M. Watkins, Simon Watts, Gordon R. Young. Camera work provided by Norwest Graphics, 5206 Ballard. N.W., Seattle.98107; (206) 782-2415.

July 1990 SHAVINGS 3

L A K E UNION W O O D E N B O A T FESTIVAL

PROGRAM OF EVENTS July 6, 7 & 8

South end of Lake Union - Center for Wooden Boats, Northwest Seaport and Naval Reserve Center

FRIDAY, JULY 6, Noon - 8 p.m.

12:00 noon Lake Union Challenge Cup - Quick and Daring Boatbuilding Contest

12:00 noon - 5:30 p.m. Folk music concert - C W B Pavil ion

12:30 p.m. Steve Philipp - maritime crafts of Puget Sound Indians - C W B Boathouse

1.00 p.m. Rowing race - fast and half-fast boats

2:30 p.m. • Lee Ehrheart - Caulking demonstration

3:30 p.m. Sailing races - two classes: fast and half-fast

A l l Day Toy Boat Bui lding

A l l Day Aboard Wawona - ship model making and ship videos

A l l Day Traditional boatbuilding - C W B lawn

8:00 p.m. Seattle Storytellers' Gu i ld - C W B Boathouse, $5 adults, $3 children

SATURDAY, July 7,10 a.m. - 6 p.m. 12:00 noon Lake Union Challenge Cup - Quick and Daring Boatbuilding Contest

12:00 noon - 4:30 p.m. Folk music concert - C W B Pavil ion

12:30 p.m. Steve Phil ipp - maritime crafts of Puget Sound Indians - C W B Boathouse

1:00 p.m. Rowing race - fast and half fast-boats

2:00 p.m. El Toro sailing race

2:30 p.m. Lee Ehrheart - Caulking demonstration

3:30 p.m. Sailing races - two classes: fast and half-fast

4:00 p.m. Boatbuilding with Br ion Toss

A l l Day Toy Boat Building


6:00 p.m. - 9:30 p.m. Auction - everything you ever wished for can be found

at the fundraising auction - D r i l l Hal l

SUNDAY, July 8,10 a.m. - 6 p.m.

12:00 noon - 4:00 p.m. Folk music concert - C W B Pavilion

12:30 p.m. Steve Phil ipp - maritime crafts of Puget Sound Indians, - C W B Boathouse

1:00 p.m. - 3:00 p.m. Northwest Radio-controlled Ship Modelers - C W B Boathouse

1:00 p.m. Rowing race - fast and half fast-boats*

1:30 p.m. El Toro sailing race

2:00 p.m. Lee Ehrheart - Caulking demonstration

2:30 p.m. Sailing races - two classes: fast and half-fast*

3:00 p.m. Lake Union Challenge Cup - The Race!

3:00 p.m. Award - the Daly Cup for best owner-restored boat

3:30 p.m. Awards - rowing, sailing and Lake Union Challenge Cup

4:00 p.m. Boatbuilding with Brion Toss

6:00 p.m. Raffle drawing - announcement of winners

A l l Day Traditional boatbuilding - C W B lawn

A l l Day Toy Boat Building


•Winners of Friday and Saturday races

Special Events Demonstrations

THE SEATTLE STORYTELLERS' GUILD PRESENTS TALES OF THE SEVEN SEAS - An enchanting evening of seaside storytelling by seven of Seattle's finest storytellers. Everything from folktales and legends of pirates and seal people to true-life ghost stories, all with the salt of the sea in them. 8 p.m. Friday, CWB Boathouse. $5 adults, $3 children. Benefits the Center for Wooden Boats.

AUCTION - Potpourri of unique, valuable, useful and exciting stuff, including boats, airplane trips, weekend getaways, dinners, Boeing flight simulator experience and an 85' tugboat. Preview many of the items inside the Naval Reserve Drill Hall Friday and Saturday. Auction begins Saturday at 6 p.m. in the Drill Hall. (Small donation at the door to cover cost of refreshments.)

QUICK AND DARING BOATBUILDING CONTEST - Six teams race to see who can build a fast, seaworthy boat in a short amount of time. The Quick and Daring contest is sponsored by Flounder Bay Boat Lumber, The Woodworker's Store and Lake Union Burger King. Boatbuilding noon - 3 p.m. Friday and Saturday. Finished boats race on Sunday at 3 p.m. Wawona Courtyard.

BOATBUILDING WITH BRION TOSS - Brion, world renowned knot-and-splice master, will build a "sailboat" with the help of festival attendees and "sail" it through the Naval Reserve parking lot. Opposite Drill Hall main entrance 4 p.m. Saturday and Sunday.

ART - See an exhibit of marine paintings. Naval Reserve Drill Hall. All weekend.

BLACKSMITHING - All weekend Wawona Courtyard.

BOATBUILDING EXHIBIT - Traditional skiff built traditionally. CWB lawn. All weekend.

BOAT FINISHES AND FINISHING TECHNIQUES Information by Daly's. Near Drill Hall entrance. All weekend.

CAULKING • Lee Ehrheart, North Quay.

CLASSIC WOODEN BOATS - The whole point of the Wooden Boat Festival, lining the docks along the north edge of the Naval Reserve Grounds. You are welcome to climb aboard (with owner's permission) and get a taste of life on the water.

FOLKSINGING, SEA SHANTIES AND GENERAL MERRIMENT - At CWB's pavilion. All weekend.

MINIATURE STEAM ENGINES - A working exhibit of the engines that transformed the world. Wawona Courtyard. AH weekend.

PHOTO EXHIBIT - Historic small craft of the Northwest. Naval Reserve Drill Hall. All weekend.

ROPEWORK DEMONSTRATIONS - See sailor's "show-off" knots done by some of the most flamboyant knotsters of the Northwest - Dennis Armstrong, Warren Scholl and Brion Toss. Festival grounds. All weekend.

165 FOOT 1897 SCHOONER WAWONA Welcome aboard. All weekend.

SCHOONERS FROM A TO Z - See the 101' Adventuress and the 120' Zodiac. Both at the North Quay, Naval Reserve Base. All weekend. You can also look in at about 150 other wooden boats moored at or parked on the festival grounds.

TOY BOAT BUILDING - Build a toy boat; we provide wood, tools, masts, sails, everything you need. Usually our busiest and most popular event. All weekend. Naval Reserve Grounds.

WATER TAXIS - Take a ride in a sailing scow, a 32' Makah Indian whaling canoe, a Lake Union Dreamboat and more. A plethora of boats to try. Follow "water taxi" signs. All weekend.


Spring Regatta The Center for Wooden Boats' Spring

Regatta on Apri l 29 took place in conditions that allowed the rowing and paddle boats to race the length of Lake Union, showing a clean set of heels to even the fastest sailboats and to harangue the sailors on the way back, still reaching home before the first sailboat.

The armada assembled for the regatta was impressive and included three

Blanchard Seniors now owned by the Center. A boat that hadn't spent much time in the water in recent years, the Petaluma Wherry, made the circuit of the lake and a sailing dinghy built in 1959 made the trip with Rollie Messer, the original owner, designer and builder, at the helm.

This was the first time B-6, the most recent Blanchard Senior added to the

OIL AND WATER

by Randy Mackenzie

Date Line: Land of Oaff

Another beautiful and abundant day in the land of Oaff. G e m is buying a Daily Bugle to scan the Help Wanted ads. "Clam, listen to this. 'Hundreds of people lined the high bank overlooking the Oaff Sound yesterday, clutching binoculars to see if their fears of an environmental disaster had been realized."'

"In Oaff?" asked Clam wide eyed. "Yes," returned Clem looking at the Bugle. "What they saw was a wounded Oi l Tanker a mile off shore, listing and surrounded by Coast Guard boats." "What happened?" asks Clam. Old Man sat on a lonely rock gazing at Oaff Sound. "One million gallons? The problem has come home, right to our door step." "Clem, this is our lucky day" says Clam. "What do you mean?" "We need a job, I ' l l bet they're hiring,"' replied Clam. Clem said sadly, "you may be right, let's go check it out." At the site. Clem says. "Boy, Clam, this is like tar, one glob at a time. Some as

big as basketballs." "It's got to be better than this black jello. It's impossible." says Clam. "Look at all the dead birds and the dead fish, so many fish" says Clem. "Ya , there go the sea food prices." re

torts Clam. "Oh look. Clam, there is Old Man." "I guess he needs the money too" says

Clam. "The foreman says if it gets hot, the Oi l

wi l l turn to a sticky syrup." "Oh, look, isn't that pretty" says Clam. The water that was breaking over a rock had turned orange.

C W B fleet, had been taken out. The police agreed to wink at the fact that her new numbers hadn't arrived yet, so that she could participate in the regatta. A l l three Blanchards are pre-war models with boomkins, but demonstrated enough differences among themselves - even between B-6 and B-7 - to show that wooden boats, even a one-design class from the same maker, are products of craftsmanship, not manufacturing.

The Spring Regatta did not feature a race this year, but Vern Velez had worked out an order of battle that involved keeping the boats in a certain formation. The light winds quickly doused any hopes of having enough control over the boats to keep to the order but, with the wind filling from behind, the faster boats were kept close to the slower ones. Getting too far ahead meant literally running out of wind for at least the first half hour, which took the boats only about half the length of the lake.

When the rowboats and the war canoe

had completed their pull to Gasworks Park and headed back, they found the sailing fleet sitting like painted ships upon a painted lake, allowing the rowers and the impromptu warriors in the canoe to weave through the sailboats, circle them and have a gam with the sailors. The wind finally did come up, giving the sailors a lively trip home, but the breeze posed unexpected hazards for balloting in the chili cook-off.

The chiles ranged from a champagne-vegetarian version to Texas-style chili and beans to a Latin-style chili Colorado. Balloting was done with toothpicks dropped into ballot boxes made from upside-down paper cups. The wind carried some of the cups away and some ballot toothpicks were rescued from floating away. The balloting was not sanctioned by international observers, but every bite of chili was eaten. Satisfaction in this result was expressed by those who voted with their teeth. - John M. Watkins

New uses for old Machinery With the depressed price of scrap iron,

there is little point in loading up some ancient woodworking machine and taking it to the salvage yard. One usually ends up bent out of shape with only a few dollars to show for all the efforL

For the boat owner, however, these relics present an unusual opportunity. Good moorings are hard to find; you either have to buy a massive anchor or pour a large concrete block in place. Why not simply put a chain around these retired behemoths and sink them where you plan to moor your boat?

Not every machine is equally suited for this purpose. Spindle molders, for example, are hard to get a grip on; steel stands rapidly corrode and cheaper models have too much plastic.

Some of the most important factors to keep in mind when selecting a machine for this use are, obviously, mass and a place on the machine you can wrap a chain around without any danger of it slipping off. Less obvious is the necessity of having the machine lie flat on the bottom so it doesn't snag fishing lines or tear the props off passing outboards. That is why an old band saw (lying on its side) makes an especially good mooring.

A table saw will settle into the mud pretty well, but I wouldn't use one on a sandy or gravel bottom. The same applies to thickness planers. Never attempt to moor a boat on rock. Even a massive machine wi l l slide around in rough weather.

Large joiners (12" or more) make excellent moorings, especially the ones with cast iron stands. You can slip a chain around the waist and they usually can be coaxed into lying down flat. Use heavy chain - at least 3/4" - with the same size

shackle at the end. Be wary of sinking a popular machine

in clear water - an old Delta Unisaw, for example. Some passing woodworker might be tempted to raise it, cutting your boat loose in the process.

The make of machine is not crucial, but you'll do well to avoid the Inca. I've used an Inca bandsaw to hold a dinghy on a freshwater lake, but I'd be very leery of using it in serious water. I've nothing against the Swiss, but am inclined to write off the Inca line completely. The machines are just too light and the aluminum castings corrode rapidly in saltwater.

My two favorite brands when it comes to moorings are the General (made in Quebec) and the Grizzly. Some people claim the Grizzly is more useful at the bottom of a lake than in the workshop, but I think that's an exaggeration.

As a rough guide, you should allow at least 15 pounds of iron for every foot of length. Thus, a 25' Folkboat, for example, needs a machine weighing at least 400 pounds. If you can't find one this heavy, there's nothing wrong with chaining a couple of 200-pounders together.

Before committing a machine to the deep, you'd be wise to check local ordinances. In navigable waterways, you'll most likely need a permit from the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.

If scrap prices rise or the particular machine you've deep-sixed comes back into vogue, you can always raise it and restore it to circulation. Barnacles and other marine growths are easily removed with a wire brush. Before plugging the machine in, do be sure to rinse the salt out of the motor with a garden hose. - Simon Watts


Three Days Aboard the Crusader Earlier this summer, a hearty crew of adventurers joined Steve and Dorothy Philipp aboard the 1926 65' schooner Crusader, for one of CWB's continuing "The Salish People and Their Skills" seminars. Here's one crewperson's report:

I thank you for the opportunity to have spent three days aboard the Crusader! I could only have guessed what a special experience this would be. Following is a brief critique of our May 11-14 adventure. Realizing I will not do justice to all aspects, I will relate some of those meaningful to me.

For me, of first interest was the schooner itself. It was a comfortable ship for the 11 of us aboard; spacious enough and properly appointed without becoming a luxury liner and thereby spoiling its basic "down to water" purpose. If I had two wishes, I would first satisfy my curiosity about what transpires in the engine room by taking a tour when not underway. Secondly, I would hope for favorable conditions so that we might sail. You can just imagine life aboard Crusader in her Bering Sea days or as a tender in Puget Sound. In 1990, I'm glad I can boast about living aboard this beautifully restored 1926 wooden ship.

How involved we became in ship life was our option. We all opted to be a working crew, taking our turns at hoisting and lowering the anchor, being helmsman and assisting in the galley. A l l of this was done, of course, under the excellent tutelage of Captain George and chefs Nancy and Todd. The food was truly healthy, gourmet feasting. Imagine baked cod, shrimp, artichoke or asparagus in special sauces, combinations of various pastas, rice and breads, special soups and fruits, ever-ready pots of coffee, desserts and snacks. Yes, you get the idea. The crew played a vital part in our having an extraordinary experience.

Our knowledgeable sea captain enthusiastically taught us and never tired of our endless questioning. During Capt George's safety lesson, I asked for a demonstration on the use of a fire extinguisher. Never did we know that Sunday morning we might demonstrate its use. Around 10 a.m., smoke was visibly pouring from the engine room. What to do? For a short time there was plenty of excitement. With engine shut down, Capt. George assured us from below deck that all he needed was containers of water handed down the hatch, Nancy at the helm and all hands on deck guiding the lines of our trailing canoe and dinghies as they bucked the tide, waves and stiff winds over our bow. We applauded Capt. George's quick, cool action and, with restored cooling system, we were soon underway to Port Madison.

The central focus for all of us was Dorothy and Steve Philipp. Steve's stories never stopped; be prepared to listen! Story content ranged from provocative to humorous. He shared his perspective of a rich life spent with the Salish people. Steve could make you feel a part of his experience. A beautifully carved canoe, crafted by his hand, became a racing craft in which he and a companion competed. A crab net with red cedar shaft, yew wood pegs, wild hazel loop bent to hold the cherry bark or nettle fiber netting or a straddle spear of red cedar shaft, a vine maple fork with elk horn barbs, again crafted by Steve, became story vehicles for adventures of real seal and salmon caught. A model of a "real" longhouse yields stories of times he really spent there. Thanks to five audio tapes of the

Phil ipp 's lessons and our crew's conversations, we can relive those adventures. We even tried our hand at making tule mats and nettle lines. The Suquamish Museum was a capstone to our brief examinations of the rich legacy left us by the Northwest Indians.

What else can I say? The days passed so quickly! Perhaps some thoughts about time and the low-key scheduling. We were never rushed; the Philipp's agenda was happenings squeezed in between meals. What a way to plan! The unscheduled times were for personal, spontaneous adventure. I remember: going ashore the first evening by canoe and sharing a mile walk to Port Ludlow; the private escape by kayak early one morning to explore a secluded cove whose waters harbored a sea otter, Western Grebes and numerous terns; all of us

quietly contemplating the universe together; the late evening alone on deck under nearly cloud-free, star-studded skies - did you see Bootes, Virgo and Leo on May 13?

Imagine waking early in your upper bunk, which means the overhead is close to one's nose and ears, and hearing elephants on deck! Closer listening reveals thunderous raindrops splattering and heavy-toed gulls strutting to plunder the cookies left inadvertently from our late evening snack. Going on deck for a closer look in the grey shrouded dawn, you discover the location of and hear two loons calling. Much better than elephants! One only needed to tune in to find unexpected surprises.

What about group dynamics? Whoever planned our crew put together a harmonious, congenial group. Ours was

the best: Eldon, Larry, Nona, Helen and Anke. Several of us have continued our newly formed friendship. A reunion is planned for later this summer.

This adventure was not intended to be an exhaustive study of the Salish people or of the Sound. It was just enough exposure to whet our appetites. We gained a feeling for and appreciation of how the lives of one of the Northwest native peoples were changed and how their lives have influenced ours. It was more than that too - a time to get in touch with ourselves and a time to test our skills. It was a three day vacation, a change from our daily routines and scenes. So, to memories of the fading strains of the Philipp's mandolin and guitar and our evening songfest, I end this day. But only the day ends, not the memories and experiences. - Jay Stoner


Why Maritime Preservation?

The funny thing about old wooden boats is why there are any around. Take a fresh-cut plank. Nail it to a couple of two-by-fours. Place it outside. Depending on the species and climate conditions, the board will have twisted, warped, split, sprung off the fastenings, shrunk loose, or rotted in a period of 20 days to 20 years.

When pieces of wood are put together in curvy shapes to make a boat, they are subjected to the same wet and dry, hot and cold-related stress, plus twisting wave stress. And then there are the possible hazards of storms, grounding, collision, fire, pirates and the killer wave that lives to pitchpole anything afloat. It's a jungle out mere and a wonder any wooden boats have survived.

Wooden boat builders have been very aware their vessels may not survive long at sea. And if they do pass through the gauntlet, after about 20 years they will be ready for major rebuilding of cracked, worn and rotted parts anyhow.

So with absolutely no hope the vessels would live to a golden age, wooden boats were built to last a millennium. They were the state of the art technology of their day - using the finest known design, best possible engineering, top quality wood, and break-your-heart craftsmanship. Even totally non-structural touches of elegance were often added - carved fashion boards, billet heads and figureheads.

This is the way they were built because people were trusting their lives to those vessels. Whether it was a Banks dory or a lumber schooner, the sailors expected the best that could be offered. It's no wonder that the pride of design and workmanship overflowed into bits of fancywork to adorn the new vessel.

Old wooden vessels are more than reminders of a picturesque, archaic way of life. They are living metaphors of

history's bright moments - when creative technology, mastery of craft, integrity and the urge to excel brought forth achievements that stand as mileposts in our cultural past.

Luckily for us, a few of those classic vessels have somehow survived in the

Northwest. Better yet, many of them are alive and well in the hands of non-profit educational organizations. To top that, most of them are not just artifacts displayed in cold, antiseptic galleries, but are being used just as they were intended.

The Virginia V is a mere youngster,

built in 1922. But year in and year out she has steamed around Puget Sound carrying passengers. She probably knows the routes by heart now. Her 1898 triple-expansion steam engine has hardly missed a beat since new. It was plucked out of the old Virginia IV when that wooden hull


got too tired and plunked into the newly built Virginia V. This vessel is the last of our famed Puget Sound "Mosquito Fleet". The Virginia V Foundation takes care that a good portion of her passengers now are school kids. I ' l l venture they will never forget the shushing engine, the smell of hot oil in the exposed connectors and the piercing cry of the steam whistle.

For 25 years, teenagers have been learning to sail on the 101' gaff-rigged schooner Adventuress. She was built in 1913 as a yacht, spent of 30 years as a San Francisco pilot schooner, and is now run by Youth Adventure, which does just what its name says. Kids learn you can't raise those monster sails by yourself - even if your name is Arnold Schwarzenegger. It takes teamwork, but a team of ants can do it, if they're coordinated. That's big schooner stuff you can't learn by reading Captains Courageous.

The tug Arthur Foss is 101 years old! That's five normal wooden boat lifetimes. What a career she's had: the star of the film Tugboat Annie, the last vessel out of Wake Island in 1941. Northwest Seaport is her keeper now, but a dozen or so faithful volunteers have earned a tanker full of sweat equity in maintaining and crewing this venerable tug. Ar thur parades to many of the waterfront

festivals. Her happy call is the thump of her 1932 Washington diesel.

Forget not the little boats of our past. The Center for Wooden Boats now has 110 of them and growing. This is about one eighth of all historic small craft in public collection in the United States. A l l but 12 of C W B ' s boats are accessible, and about half of our fleet is usable on Lake Union. Row a Banks dory, paddle a Maine guide canoe, sail a Blanchard Senior Knockabout. You will probably never have another chance to try out as many historic small craft. The Center is a museum and an adventure in one package. If you don't know how to sail, you learn. Same thing about tying knots, casting rowlocks, even building a classic small boat.

Preserving historic watercraft is preserving some of the most magnificent achievements in craftsmanship and wood technology ever done. Preserving them as working exhibits is about as noble an effort one can make, short of defending motherhood and apple pie. -Dick Wagner

Dick Wagner's life-long love affair with wooden boats is reflected in his role as Director, guiding spirit and general factotum of The Center for Wooden Boats.


A Few Good Boating Stories In a previous issue of Shavings, we

issued a challenge to our members to send in their "best" boating stories. Here's three of the "best".

Ishmael and Me Two years had passed since I'd sold

the saucy little Byline, as yare a 25' sloop as any lover of sailing could desire. Now, like Ishmael in Moby Dick, I was "growing grim about the mouth" and there was "damp, drizzly November in my soul". As the protagonist in Herman Melville's epic novel decides, "High time to get to sea."

November. Not only in my soul, but on my calendar. A wet, cold Sunday in Washington, D.C. Outside, the strong northwest wind swayed the bare branches of the oaks and maples and spat rain against our rattling living room windows.

I needed something warm to think about, and it was comforting to reminisce about Byline. She was built for me in 1959 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, by Art Hoernke, a taciturn, meticulous craftsman who had made a reputation building and racing Lightnings, a class of which I was a graduate. For some strange reason -probably his wife - Art left Lake Michigan and the boat business shortly after Byline was launched, to operate a motel in landlocked Arizona.

Byline was designed by Phil Rhodes, the noted naval architect whose many fine yachts included Weatherly, the successful 1962 America's Cup defender. Byline's hull was strip-built mahogany, each 2" by 3/4" strip rounded on top and grooved on the bottom, glued, nailed and screwed together to form a stiff, buoyant shell. With an eight-foot beam, she offered an uncluttered cabin that slept two comfortably, provided room for a two-burner stove, icebox, a head sheltered by a curtain, plenty of storage space and an Atomic-4, 25 HP engine capable of pushing through Lake Michigan's stormy, steep seas. Her cast-iron and lead fin keel gave adequate stability and sensitivity. The doghouse and trim were mahogany, her spars were of spruce and tiller of ash -all custom-made.

The only concessions to plastic were the fiberglass deck and a skin of fiberglass over the hull. The latter combination was considered new in the 1950s. Fiberglass had not yet evolved into a fully-reliable construction material for craft larger than 15' to 18' and those of that size often broke apart under stress. I remember writing to Rhodes expressing my concern about the use of fiberglass over wood. His reply assured me that, although it was a new technique, it had proved viable in other vessels he had designed.

And so it did. Byline was not only seaworthy and fast - she won many trophies on a handicap basis on Lake Michigan and, later, on Chesapeake Bay -but fun. She was a real joy to sail.

So now, on a bleak November afternoon in 1975,I had the urge to return to the Bay, to be a part of the life there -the skipjacks, the tongers, the clammers, the crabbers - to poke into a quiet gunkhole after a hard day's sail, mix a gin and tonic and relax in the cockpit.

A New Romance

My reverie led, as if by a sixth sense, to a classified ad in the Sunday paper on my lap. "Nantucket 38" the caption of the two-inch, boxed ad read. The text described a 38' wooden sloop built in Denmark, available at a "bargain". I jotted down the phone number.

Little did I know by this simple act -having jilted a fun-loving, undemanding ingenue, Byline - I was launching into an unrequited love affair with a temperamental prima donna, named Windward.

The voice at the other end had what I thought was a British accent when I phoned the next day. The owner of the accent turned out to be Graham Kerr.

"You may have heard of me," Kerr said. "I have a television program called "The Galloping Gourmet".

"Oh yes, of course," I said. Actually, I did not know his name, or the program,

although I found out later that almost everybody else did. In those days, I didn't watch much television, especially daytime cooking shows.

He described Windward in some detail: 38' overall, 11' beam and 5'7" draft; carvel-planked, mahogany hull; teak cabin trunk, cockpit and trim; mahogany and teak interior; four Pullman berths in the open cabin and two quarter berths; enclosed head and washbasin; 25 HP Atomic-4 engine; large icebox, navigation table and propane stove with oven. Windward had been designed by Alan Gurney, a distinguished naval architect whose racing/cruising yachts were well known in blue water circles.

Gurney, I found out later, had intended the Nantucket 38 to be an innovative semi-production, racing/cruising class. The prototype, Windward's sistership, did well in ocean races when launched in 1964. However, as racing organizations are prone to do, the handicap rules were changed a year later and the Nantucket 38 was almost immediately out-designed.

Although only three Nantucket 38s were built, they left their imprint. Gurney, who knew first-hand the rigors and discomfort of crewing on a long-distance race or cruise, introduced several features that have since become standard. One was a seat in the cabin beside the companionway where a crew member could sit protected from the wind, cold, spray or rain, but still be immediately

available when needed by the helmsman, permitting the off-watch to sleep undisturbed. Gurney also located the navigation table and equipment away from the galley, but just forward of the starboard quarter berth where the navigator slept.

I asked Kerr where I could see Windward. "Here where I live," he responded. "I have a place on Peachblossom Creek. You know, between Oxford and Easton?"

"Yes," I replied. "I know it. I have cruised there." I did know Peachblossom Creek, a most pleasant and secluded living area on the eastern Maryland shore. And in my mind's eye I could picture where he lived - in a graceful federal-style house, shaded by stately tulip poplars, with a lawn sloping down to a pier on the water. The dream of any yachtsman.

"Why are you selling the boat?" I asked.

"Wel l ," he replied, "I am selling everything - the boat, the house -and I'm leaving television. My wife and I are going to establish a compound in Colorado for troubled married couples. We think we can help them."

Naturally, I thought it strange that someone who apparently loved boats and the sea (Kerr, I learned, had sailed a 70' ketch across the Atlantic) would go to live in Colorado; but that was none of my business.

My immediate business was to take a look at the boat, and I inquired as to when I could do so. He advised me to call his broker. A broker had not been mentioned in the ad.

Love At First Sight

The broker turned out to be a young Marylander who had attended Wisconsin's Marquette University and had sailed with some of my friends at the

Milwaukee Yacht Club. The day my wife, Betty, and I drove over to Oxford to meet him and inspect Windward was raw and gray. But the weather didn't matter. Everything was just as I imagined: Kerr's spacious white house set on a 10-acre estate, 100-year-old trees, the lawn and the pier with Windward lying regally alongside. Her lovely proportioned bow, 52' mast and graceful sheer were exactly what I had expected. It was like meeting a beautiful actress on a movie set. I was hooked before I ever boarded her.

After I had looked her over, trying to suppress my ardor, the broker brought me back to reality.

"There's something you should know," he said. "She was surveyed earlier this year, and there's some dry rot in the transom."

"How bad?" I asked. "I know about dry rot."

"Oh, not bad, but I thought you ought to know before you make any decision."

"Wel l ," I said, "send me a copy of the survey."

On the drive home, Betty and I stopped for a cup of coffee.

"You know," I said, rather tentatively, "for the right price someone could get a real beauty. She needs some fixing up, though."

"Don't get any ideas," Betty said. "Yeah, you're right," I replied lamely.

"It's too much of a boat." Several days later, I received the report

of the survey. Except for the dry rot in the transom, Windward seemed sound. With a bit of repair, painting and varnishing, she would be fit.

I screwed up my courage and approached Betty. "Uh . . . would you divorce me if I made a bid on that boat? (pause) Kerr probably won't accept what I would offer."

"Go ahead," she replied, to my surprise. "I know you would do it anyway."

I submitted the bid to the broker. It was, I thought, ridiculous, considering the asking price and the fine quality of construction.

Three days later, the phone rang; it was Kerr.

"I'm inclined to accept your offer," he said.

For a moment, I couldn't believe what I had heard. I didn't know what to say.

"Hullo," Kerr said, "Are you there?" "Yes," I finally replied. "Uh . .. well,

fine." To my surprise, I was committed, subject to another survey and a test sail.

The sail came first. On a mild December day, we reached down Peachblossom Creek five miles, to Oxford, where Windward would be hauled and surveyed. Windward, I found, sailed as gracefully as she looked.

"Here's the boat I called you about," I told the yard owner, as he took our line.

"You call this a boat," he replied with mock scorn. "I call it a yacht."

No wonder he had one of the most successful yards on the Bay.

"Lost Treasure"

Lew Solomon was the surveyor, a veteran of the Navy and the Merchant Marine. As a surveyor, he had worked up and down the coast, appraising vessels ranging from tankers and freighters to pleasure craft. Now he was ready to retire. He was highly respected, and I looked forward to his opinion of Windward.

But when the survey arrived in the mail, it was the stamp on the envelope that caught my attention. It was a commemorative issue of some years past -a likeness of Haym Solomon, the 18th century financier who raised the money for George Washington's army.

After perusing the survey, I called Lew. We discussed what he had found in the boat, then I asked about the stamp.

"Are you descended from Haym Solomon?" I asked. "I couldn't help noticing the coincidence - Lew Solomon/ Haym Solomon."

"Aye," he replied. "Direct. When the stamp was issued, I bought hundreds. I use it as a trademark."

Then Lew told me about the "lost treasure". According to Lew, after the Revolution, the newly established U.S. Government owed Haym Solomon a huge amount of money.

"They never paid him and, when the War of 1812 came, his papers - his claims - were moved for safekeeping from Washington (the British burned the White House and wreaked other damage to the U.S. capital) to somewhere in Virginia. I think a cave in what is now West Virginia," he said.

"We heirs have tried to collect, but no one can find the papers. If they're ever found, I'd be worth millions. Maybe, since you're with the government, you could look into it."

I said I'd try. I did contact a friend in the Treasury Department, but he could learn nothing. If Lew's story is correct,


there arc some papers "worth millions" hidden somewhere in West Virginia.

Lew's survey of Windward showed more dry rot. He found soft wood in the port gunwale and deck, which led me to reduce my offer. Kerr, again, to my surprise, accepted. On January 2, 1976, I took title to Windward.

Drastic Surgery

The yard that did the work on Windward was managed by Phil Parish, a young conscientious workaholic who had risen from dockhand to vice-president of the prosperous yard. He made his own survey and found a few more spots of rot; I was beginning to think that Windward's beauty was only skin deep. But that wasn't the end of it.

Shortly after the repairs began, I drove out to see how the work was going. There was Windward up on a cradle in a shed, stripped naked, ribs exposed, transom removed and half the deck torn off. I could have wept.

What had been diagnosed originally as "spots" of dry rot had become five and ten-foot sections of crumbling planking. Disconsolate, I poked around some myself. More horror - dry rot in some bottom planks, too!

"What have I got?" I thought. "How much more is there?" Windward, which had looked so beautiful and sailed so serenely, now resembled a terminal cancer case.

"Don't worry," Parish said enthusiastically, "she'll be okay. Wait till Walter gets to her."

Walter was the yard's master craftsman, a fifth generation ship's carpenter whose ancestors had helped create the famed Baltimore clippers, Chesapeake Bay skipjacks and bugeyes. Later, I would watch Walter fit each new mahogany plank into space left by a rotted member, shaving off a millimeter here, a sliver there, repeating the process until each plank fitted so precisely, it appeared to need no glue, and certainly no caulking. To one whose technical skill is challenged by a burned-out light bulb, Walter's work was like watching Michelangelo carve his "David".

"I really enjoy working on your boat," Walter told me one day while splicing a new section of teak rail to the old. "I don't get many chances to work on wood boats anymore. It's all fiberglass now."

"Yes," I said, as I watched him fit the new piece so perfectly you could hardly make out where the old and new joined, "they don't know what they're missing."

Wayward Windward

The repairs were finally finished in May. Windward's topsides gleamed with a fresh coat of white paint, not a seam showing. Her cabin trunk, rails, hatch covers and cockpit sides shone with newly applied coats of varnish. Her mast was stepped. As Windward was lifted from her cradle and carefully lowered into a slip, my spirits rose. Whatever doubts I had now vanished. The smiles of Phil and Walter and Harry, and all the other men who had worked on her, expressed satisfaction of craftsmen witnessing the culmination of their efforts. Windward was the only wooden boat they had that season. She was special to them.

As I boarded her, I thought, "If Marilyn Monroe were a boat, she'd look like this."

My pride was not diminished when, on our first sail down the Sassafras River to

the Bay, a passing sailor, unknown to me, called out, "What a beauty!" and raised his hand in a salute.

W i n d w a r d was to draw many spontaneous compliments over the years but, as I said earlier, she was a prima donna. Unlike Byline, she 'demanded attention and, it seemed, deliberately did things to get it.

Chesapeake Bay, as everyone who ever sailed there knows, is full of shifting

sand bars and deceptive shallows. Windward found them all. I think, if I could have recorded every grounding we had, the Geodetic Service would have gone crazy.

Going aground in the Chesapeake, of course, is no big deal. The bottom is soft, and it is relatively easy, most of the time, to kedge off, backwind, power or wait for the incoming tide to float off. Windward, however, could find ways to go aground that required a radio call to the Coast Guard or a hail to a passing power cruiser.

Once, she pulled a novel trick. While sailing into a narrow inlet, the rudder failed to respond. I switched on the motor but the propeller wouldn't propel. I quickly dropped the anchor and sails and radioed the Coast Guard. As the cutter started to tow us, the rudder started to work and so did the propeller. I looked sternward and there, rising to the surface, was a sheet of plastic. Windward had apparently picked up the plastic floating under the surface, twisted it between the rudder and propeller, making it impossible to control either.

Windward's prize stunt, however, came one night during a severe electrical storm. I was at home, 90 miles away, sleeping peacefully, when I was awakened about midnight by the phone. It was Chris, skipper of a power boat moored near Windward.

"I'm sorry to bother you at this time of night," he explained. "I just wanted to tell you that Windward's okay."

"What do you mean, okay?" I asked. "I mean, she didn't sink." "Didn ' t sink? What the hell

happened?" "Well , we just had a big storm come

through, and there was a lot of lightning. A bolt struck your mast."

"What happened?" "Well , there was a big ball - like a

glow - on top of the mast. I rowed over afterward in the dinghy and saw a hole in the bow. But it's up near the deck, well above the waterline."

I asked him if he saw any other damage.

"No," he said, "the lightning must have gone down the forestay and blown the hole just below the fitting.

I thanked him and went out the next day to inspect Windward. Strangely, although the radio antenna and wind vane at the peak of the mast were damaged, the radio itself was unharmed and the rest of the boat seemed intact. When I told the insurance broker, he refused to believe what happened. He drove out to see for himself and shook his head. "I guess I've seen everything," was his reaction.

It was only my imagination but I thought I heard a gurgle coming from Windward's bilge.

Although Windward sailed beautifully, living up to her name in pointing into the wind, her engine was not up to an emergency. Unlike Byline 's Atomic 4 power plant, which could punch that little craft through stiff winds and rough seas, a similar engine couldn't do the same for the heavier Windward.

Once, with only my wife aboard, we were returning up the Sassafras River to our mooring, when a vicious squall struck. We had already dropped the sails and were under power. Being in a narrow channel with other craft bearing down, we did not have much room to maneuver. I could not leave the tiller to drop the anchor and did not think it wise to run before the wind into more crowded and shallow waters. I turned

Windward into the wind and accelerated the engine to full throttle, hoping to keep her steady. But Windward would not hold; there simply wasn't enough power. For a few seconds, we would face directly into the 40-50 mph gusts, then veer off. I would make a circle and come back into the wind, only to have the bow veer again. We repeated this maneuver several times, desperately trying to stay in the middle of the channel and praying that the motor wouldn't quit altogether. The squall eventually blew out, and we were able to proceed to our mooring without further problems.

Whatever Became Of Ishmael?

So went my love affair with a lovely, but willful mistress. Advancing age, accompanied by some physical disabilities brought me to the realization that, even though the spirit was willing,

the weakness of the flesh must take priority. I finally sold Windward and she is now, like Byline, just a photo on my wall and a memory of livelier times.

So here I am beached again. Am I grim about the mouth? Is it November in my soul? Not quite. But what's this . . . a fine old yawl on Bainbridge Island? Hmmm .. . I wonder .. . Did Ishmael ever go to sea again? - Jerry E. Rosenthal

Since Jerry Rosenthal retired from journalistic pursuits and he and wife, Betty, moved to Seattle, he's stayed in touch with the world of boats as a Northwest Seaport volunteer.

Omega 2, 1941-1989 For almost 50 years I have

remembered the enjoyment of my first "very own" boat. The 13-1/2' double-ender was a departure from the regular inboard model that my father, Ronald Young, produced in his basement shop in Poulsbo from 1932 to 1965.

The one-inch scale model that now hangs on my den wall in Vancouver, Washington, was the design and building guide of the original hull launched on June 14, 1941. The date is still where I inscribed it on the shop chimney.

At a showing of Omega One, my 16' replica of the Poulsbo boat, at the 1988 Western Forestry Center Boat Show, a renewed interest in the double-ender entered my mind. Here was a boat that would provide that second retirement project. It would also challenge my memory of the construction and design process I had only seen at the time.

A decision was made to allow one year to design, assemble the necessary materials, to provide for rainy weather (as all work would be done under plastic outside) and construct the boat

The model was used for all basic measurements and the initial side and top views were lofted on the garage wall in about a week. These drawings provided shape and form of the stems, keel knees and the line of the shaft. This full-size drawing also provided angles and spacing for ribs and floor timbers and the location of seats and their supports.

The six molds were laid up with minor adjustments that would enhance the sheer line and lower the center of gravity. The stern was given added fullness at the sheer


to give a contrasting shape to the sharper bow.

To provide strength, one-inch oak was laminated for the stems, knees and deadwood. These were fastened to the two-and-a-half-inch keel of seasoned fir that was a leftover from Omega One. The molds were placed on an adjusted two-foot center and were tied together with six fir strips that would hold the ribs as they were installed.

With the beginning of the wet and cold season, the entire project was covered with plastic and work stopped.

By March 15,1989, following a trip to China, the boiler and the steam box were reassembled for the more active construction period. White oak was sawed to 9/16" x 1 1/8" for the ribs. Over 60 were to be installed on five-inch centers. Four groups of four ribs were placed to give a landing to the scarf joints and provide "blocking" inside the hull.

Generating steam in a residential area draws attention. A utilities lineman wondered if the boiler was a still; the lady next door wondered if it would explode. The lineman was assured it wasn't and it didn't explode as the lady feared, but it did smoke a lot.

Western red cedar was used for all of the planking, most of which came from the old shop in Poulsbo in the form of two planks 18' by 16" by 1 1/2". They were milled in the early 1940s by a Mr. Schafer at Lake Ozette. Other planks were found in the Mt. Hood area, but they were of limited quantity and quality.

Each hull design calls for its own plank shape and, therefore, each individual plank was measured and shaped as the planking process continued up the hull. The ability to use the scarfing process mentioned before allowed for the efficient use of material. These joints were strengthened with epoxy adhesive. Each plank was double-nailed on each rib with one-inch bronze ring-shanked boat nails.

The mahogany breast hooks were mounted fore and aft to accept the interior and exterior oak trim after the sheer line had been established. To fasten this oak, and all other exterior wood, each fastening was drilled and plugged with half-inch oak pIUGS held in place by

epoxy. This process allowed for a smooth and attractive appearance that was not found on the hulls that came from the original shop, as this was a time-consuming process.

High-tech compounds were used over the bronze nails after they had been countersunk to a depth of 1/16" and this provided a more permanent finish than a softer material. Sussex cotton was rolled into the planking seams and covered with a flexible seam compound that would not separate from the planking. These compounds resulted in a finer finish than had been attained in the past. Final sanding was with 220 grit paper.

The painting and varnishing of the hull took almost as much time as the planking operation. A l l surfaces received four coats of marine paint and spar varnish.

A cast bronze rudder and shoe, found in the shop at the time it was closed, gave the boat a unique Ronald Young feature, as my father had had the items cast in 1965. Little did he realize that they would be used in 1989.

For power, an old Briggs and Stratton steel-block engine of approximately 1 HP was attached to a disconnect clutch. The

shaft is supported by three bearings which provide thrust and alignment. The initial propeller is three-bladed.

The building of the Omega One (the last one) and Omega Two have been among the most satisfying experiences of a lifetime. For me to see old skills not used for 40 years come back with little difficulty and to produce wooden boats again has been worth the wait.

So, for the third time in 57 years, the Young Boat Shop has stopped production - first in 1941 when materials were not available due to the war, again in 1965 when Ronald Young retired and now in 1989. But then . . . -Gordon R. Young

In addition to his boating interests, Gordon Young, who now lives in southwestern Washington, divides his time between traveling overseas (he just returned from Thailand and Nepal) and "diligently trying to lower [his] golf handicap".

How Crazy Can You Get?

A Look At A Couple Of Very Odd Small Boats During the slow development of

mankind's artifacts, great imaginative leaps have occurred from time to time in unexpected corners of the world and then simply never spread beyond one small area. For instance, development of conventional catamarans and trimarans over the centuries across the Pacific and in southeast Asia has a sort of logic to it; the raft carried as much and went faster when the outer logs were hollowed out and the center ones disposed of, a couple of poles tied across the log to smaller ones at the sides made it wonderfully stable, and so on.

But what genius in one small corner of Africa worked out the notion that stability could be achieved by dynamic lift from a flat surface rather than just another log and that leeward drift could be effectively overcome at the same lime? Why did the

idea not become widespread? We simply do not know.

Now about 10 years ago in England, I had a little 17' trimaran that came apart for trailering. I was then a member of the Amateur Yacht Research Society and, at their stand at the London Boat Show one day, I was discussing the drawbacks of packing these hulls onto one small trailer, when I was told that there was a craft in the Pitt-Rivers Museum in Oxford that I might find interesting. I knew of the research done by various A Y R S members worldwide into foil stabilizers and had read the reports in their bulletins, but it was with some astonishment that a week or two later I found myself gazing up at a dugout, foil-stabilized trimaran from Madagascar, black with age and hanging from the museum roof. No recent hightech, state of the art development this, but a genuine example of a native craft in widespread everyday use, with all the practical problems already worked out (possibly hundreds of years ago), but which had never been copied elsewhere.

It was about 18' long and the foils were solid-looking planks of about 2" by 14", perhaps 13' or 14' long, with their bows about a foot aft of the main hull bow in profile, rising some 6" from stern to bow, with a just discernible toe-in (maybe 3" or so) and angled at about 45 degrees to the water level - a true hydrofoil. Bow and stern were roughly pointed, probably to make skidding up the beach easier. The main hull was just wide enough for a man to sit in (28" maybe) and semicircular below water level with a 9" flat along the bottom, again, I guessed, to help skidding up the beach. There was a slight rocker, good overhangs and a neat sheerline. The six or seven-inch washboards sewn to the sheer raised the freeboard somewhat.

Mounting of the foils was by means of two ingeniously-made pole beams, the front one about five feet from the bow, just behind the single mast and the other about six feet behind that. Each half-beam consisted of a whippy looking pole, about 2 1/2" at the butt and perhaps 2" or 2 1/4" at the tip, 5' out from the centerline, where another short pole about 2" thick and 30" long was lashed by means of an angled crook at the inboard end. This leg projected down at about 45 degrees and the end was squared and tightly wedged into a square hole cut right through the plank foil. The main pole on each side crossed the hull, resting in a notch on its own side gunnel, and was lashed straight


down to a short crossbeam which was wedged into holes cut right through the hull just above the water level with its heel butted against the inside of the hull, resting on the crossbeam and lashed to it.

Being unable to get my hands on the boat, it is impossible to say just how whippy these poles were, but they certainly gave little impression of stiffness - only a lasting feeling that whoever worked out their dimensions knew exactly what he was doing. The lashings were of a thin cord of unknown origin, about 1 1/2" thick, very smoothly applied and neatly finished. They had the appearance of being set in some substance - resin comes to mind - but it could easily have been a few years' accumulation of gunge, fish scales, etc. There was nothing sleek about the poles or the foil plank, but it seemed as though the very greatest attention was paid to careful fits and tight lashings. The whole thing was a masterpiece of economy.

These surprisingly sophisticated boats were widely used each night for centuries well offshore in the rough Indian Ocean by a two-man crew, which demonstrates their basic ability and safety. I found the whole intriguing design stayed in my mind, but other events occurred and I made no use of the information for several years, until I found myself living in Victoria, British Columbia, where one day I saw a notice for a "$100 Boat Race", sponsored by the Naval Sailing Association. I rang the number and found myself talking to Bud Peetz, whose brainchild it was. He had thought it a fun idea to get people to build a boat for less than $100 and race it round a course in the Inner Harbor during Swiftsure Race Week. No holds were barred; you could make your boat out of tin cans if you wished (he did just that), but you were honor-bound not to cheat by using your old dinghy racing sails, etc. He had twisted the arms of his colleagues in the NSA to put up the $100 prize and cajoled goodies from various other sponsors, so you got a prize even if you sank or fell off or came last or whatever.

A l l this was just too much to take, of course, and light bulbs started flashing in my head. What was illuminated was a picture of that Madagascar canoe, hanging in the dusty museum in Oxford. I thought that if a native fisherman, who knew little advanced math and probably seldom discussed Aspect Ratios or Tip Vortices, could dream up such an elegant theory and produce such a safe and practical seagoing craft out of whatever grew in the woods, then surely I could go some way to achieving the same ends and for less than $100 to boot.

I spent some happy hours with a pencil and pad and came up with the design which, after five years of mangling and reconstruction, is still called "The Crazy Boat", for that's exactly what it is. Anyway, I doubt there's another like it anywhere in this neck of the woods.

Using the Banks dory concept, I built a 16' hull on a single 1" by 6" fir plank bottom, with sharply-flared sides of basic 1/4" exterior-grade plywood, on frames and stringers of 1" by 2" spruce. A long foredeck and short afterdeck of good old 1/8" doorskin keeps the wet out when launching down a steep bank. Crossbeams of 2" by 4", 12' long, were lashed (what else?) between doubled 1" by 3" frames and sub-frames were lashed to connect the outer ends of the beams and provide a mounting for the flat foils, each about 6' by 1 1/2', built of 1/4" plywood. Why did I not use Madagascan 2" by 12"? Too darned heavy to lug around, and too dear. But I still wonder . . .

U.F.O. urea glue and plenty of 1" galvanized nails stuck it all together and

still does so, but I could only afford polythene sheet for the sails. This proved great for seeing where to go, but not so good for actually getting there. During the first race, the jib blew out in a few minutes, making windward progress difficult. Refinements such as halyards were not possible; everything was taped tight to the mast. Concentrating as I was on getting round the windward mark, I had just turned the corner when a great blast of sound lifted me a foot in the air. I turned to see the M / V Coho ferry bearing down on me and realized what all that funny arm-wagging from the kind guys in the escort boat had been about. But now the wind was behind me, my baggy sails blew out like a spinnaker and I was off like a train with a pony tail rising up behind me.

I didn't win, of course, but next year saw the same boat with real foils, hollow, streamlined efforts that worked like a charm, and a better sail (cut from a $12 tarp). Still, I didn't win - Bud Peetz' tin can saw to that - but the third time was lucky. It was blowing hard by race time and I had a Mark III sail with an aerofoil shape, built round the mast on formers, and a crew - a 6' 2" athletic son-in-law. We had to paddle like mad into the wind to get to the start line, but made it while others were getting swamped in all directions; then we stormed off and were back before anyone else had even gotten started. The foils worked beautifully, at no time being submerged and, for the most part, only half immersed.

But the boat was still just too slow in light airs for all its high-tech sails and it was only at last year's Cowichan Bay Boat Show that I learned why. Two interested guys borrowed it for a trial sail and then the penny dropped. It was the first time I had watched her run and it was immediately obvious that the hull was just

too deep in the water and was dragging the transom badly with two aboard. So, last summer, it was time for some heroic surgery. I cut the hull lengthwise from aft for some 12' or 13' and jacked the thing open; then I cut it crossways in two and built in another 2' in the center section, so it's now 18' long, 9" wide on the bottom and about 30" at the sheer, (I call it my "doing it by halves" technique.) It is also re-rigged (again) using some old, real sails from a good friend who had no further use for them. A fully-battened ex-mizzen is now the main and the piece-de-resistance is the ex-jib, which is now a lateen foresail on a separate stumpy mast and long boom. It all works like a charm. I think it would be a handful by myself to have the two good new sails up or perhaps I'm just not used to them yet; they supply so much more drive than the poorly-cut tarp sails that some caution is indicated when the wind gets up a bit.

The whole boat structure is literally a lash-up - 1/4" and 3/16" polythene cord ties it all together, with no sign of weakness or strain in nearly five years of occasional use. The main reason is, I think, that the integrity of the wood beams is maintained by having the fastenings around them rather than by having bolts through them. Also, the main beams were re-cut and fined down to alter their angle and allow a little springiness, although this is still not detectable in use. The windward foil is now just clear of the water when sailing, adding worthwhile ballast some six feet out from center.

Now to digress a little. The "quick and dirty" boatbuilding contests that are becoming such a feature of our boat shows have their place in the fun, no doubt, but, as a builder of wooden boats, I am beginning to question the effect they may have on a public already sold solid on the

merits of fiberglass. Little by little, people are being shown confirmation that plywood boats are cheap and horrible, are unsuited to anything more than a quick, wet yip in a sheltered spot and that they disintegrate in short order.

I have never had much time for this sort of exercise and only built my Crazy Boat because I wanted something that would last and actually see serious use. It was undoubtedly cheap; even today it stands in at no more than about $200, excluding sails, and I would hazard a guess that it will still be sound and sailing in 10 years time. The point is, of course, that simplicity and economy do not preclude good construction; that a sound design has a natural integrity, and that native peoples all over the world, paying attention to these matters, have developed and refined some amazingly handy craft with great ability on the water. In marked contrast, I'm sorry to say, are the huge numbers of modern mass-produced boats that are wholly dependent on the proper functioning of their motors and which become unmanageable boxes when they quit.

My Crazy Boat is still capable of more development. Replacing the plank bottom with a strip construction and easier bilges would no doubt help its light air performance and enhance the marketability aspect in due course. In moderate winds, I can move around at will to stretch my legs, more than I dare do in any dinghy; it goes more or less where I tell it to and has stayed upright and manageable in some quite rough conditions. The the more I use it, the more confidence I have in its safety. The wide flare to the hull and the buoyant foils out there at the ends of the beams make it a remarkably dry and light boat that rides like a cork and gives that nice feeling that it will always get me home even if the mast falls off, as it paddles so easily.

That old Madagascar canoe, elegant and simple, yet so complex and innovative, was the starting point. A little help and know-how from the Amateur Yacht Research Society's booklets and a push from Bud Peetz' crazy sailors has given me a boat with more fun per dollar, I think, than anything I've ever owned. -Russ Vinden

Russ Vinden makes his home in Errington, British Columbia, where, he says, he's "engaged in trying to build up a little business (Stillwater Boats) making small wooden boats to order . . . doing repairs and coping with the curious reluctance of people to part with their money for such outmoded things as wooden boats."


The Inside Passage -By Kayak

Story and photos by Thomas "Max" Nielsen In the summer of 1989,I set out with a

friend, Phil Hawkins, to explore what we could of the Inside Passage by kayak. Our goal was to paddle from Skagway, Alaska, southward. We wanted to be able to spend the bulk of our available time exploring the regions most distant from our southern home, Victoria, British Columbia. We also had a vague but grand idea of paddling home.

From Seattle, Washington, to Skagway, Alaska, exploration of the Inside Passage by large motor vessel gives a traveller only a cursory feeling for the splendor and hardships of the passage. This waterway, traditionally a working corridor for prospectors seeking their fortunes in the Klondike and for fishermen and loggers forever pushing their way into areas of unexploited resources, has become a Mecca for cruise ship voyagers. Others travel more economically on Alaska's ferry system. From the warmth of their cabins and the ship's lounges, passengers can watch the world slip by at 15 to 20 knots. Whales can be sighted breaching and eagles can be seen perched in majestic trees, but the true feeling gained from a close encounter is missed. When on a large vessel, one cannot hear the roar of a waterfall or the trickle of a stream descending from the mountains. Nor can the cruise ship passenger see the sights near shore, be it a bear feeding in a river delta meadow or urchins, sea cucumbers and colorful starfish glistening among rocks.

To gain this, one must venture out on one's own. From a kayak, the vague and distant scenes seen from a cruise ship become vivid close-ups. You trade speed and comfort for detail. You interact with your surrounding environment in a basic

way, dependant on your skills and intuition. No one guides you through the scene. The sights, sounds, whispers, and hushes of the land, the sky and the sea become intricately interwoven into your own psyche when you choose to sea kayak and drift along the coast.

In Alaska, outings into large communities, such as Ketchikan,

Wrangell , Petersburg, Juneau and Skagway, give the traveller a taste of Alaska's various flavors, as well as a feel for how the frontier was settled and developed by each new wave of awestruck and diligent pioneers. But what of the more remote communities like Tenakee, with its hot springs bath and cafe, or the sight of an abandoned cannery, reminding one of the past impacts people have had on Alaska? These must be visited at a slower pace.

Alaska has both a cosmopolitan and a frontier style. It is boom and it is bust! Its geography is both intense and stark. Its people can be intensely brash but also kind and high-spirited. For me, the starkest reminder of this duality occurred when a fish boat heading back from sea approached us on Cross Sound. The Doors were playing full blast from its PA system. Somehow the music fit aptly into what Alaska stands for and what its people and vistas give you.

In the fall of 1985, while sitting in a lecture hall of an East Coast school, I found myself doodling on a photocopied map of North America, a method of escape from that classroom. A boring professor droned on about some now-forgotten subject and, my mind elsewhere, I first envisioned crossing the continent by a meandering footpath and then gliding through the waters of the West Coast. The journey stuck in my mind and became an escape when a class dragged on or I was marooned indoors by inclement weather.

My daydreams continued, although somewhat subdued, until I visited a classmate's dorm room. My classmate, Phil Hawkins, was completely engrossed

in a similar dream. On one wall was a huge map of North America, crossed and crossed again by lines drawing possible routes throughout the continent. Through the ensuing discussion, we decided then that we would do a kayak trip together in Southeast Alaska. It took four years before our paths crossed in such a manner that we could pull off this trip, though I suppose we had actually left the moment we decided to go.

Our kayak trip to Southeast Alaska started by way of a strange path. We took a month-long sojourn to New Mexico in March, 1989. Personally, I needed the break; I had just spent three months cleaning up oil drenched beaches on the west side of Vancouver Island. The oil had drifted up from a December spill off Grays Harbor, Washington. I was numb from the destruction and the lack of genuine concern by the authorities involved with the cleanup. To them, it was not a ecological tragedy, but an event that fit into a scenario in a policy guide. The o i l and its wastes were removed accordingly.

A spell away from the ocean was needed. We started in Victoria and drove Phil's 1972 Volkswagen van down the West Coast. Our first and only real destination, other than Gila National Forest in New Mexico , was Port Townsend, Washington. I wanted to order a kit for a Queen Charlotte 19 from John Lockwood, owner of Pygmy Kayaks in Port Townsend. I was feeling particularly ambitious and capable, but somewhere during our three hours of conversation, John talked me out of building the boat on top of Phil's van as we headed south. So, the kit was left behind in Seattle.


On our return trip from New Mexico, we stopped for several days to trek in the Sierras. On our return to the van at the trailhead, we discovered a broken side window and experienced both an empty feeling inside the van and out - lucky I didn't decide to take my boat south!

Back in Seattle, I had a month to organize our trip and build my boat. Now I am not a minimalist but, with the loss of much gear and working from limited cash, I decided to replace gear by making much of it myself and to purchase little that was not going with me to Southeast Alaska.

To build my boat, I recruited the basement of a friend's house. A narrow space with one aligned window provided both a building way and a tight-to¬maneuver launch ramp.

When John Lockwood says in his construction manual that his boats can be built with a few inexpensive tools, he is not kidding. I used my Swiss army knife, a pair of scissors I found on a hot roadside near Cliff, New Mexico, vise-grips with side-cutting capability, a metal spatula, sandpaper, duct tape and a 1/16" drill bit glued into a piece of doweling. (I eventually did locate an electric drill but, by then, I was near the end of construction and had already stitched the boat together.) Most of my tools remained the same. In fact, I took my dowel drill north with me as part of my repair kit.

For those of you who question the importance of duct tape, I offer a counter argument. Duct tape is excellent for making temporary C clamps; just tape two sucks of wood together with a small block placed at one end to separate these jaws. Various sizes of blocks can be used to customize the opening size of the C clamp. For those unfamiliar with the Pygmy Kayak Kit, it is important to note that about 10 or more C clamps are required to fasten the cockpit coaming to the boat's hull.

Building went smoothly, first on the floor of the basement and then, after hull and deck were joined, from slings hung from floor joists. Because I have a bad habit of breaking things, I added more cloth and resin than provided in the kit. I also coated the boat's bottom in an extra-thick composite of cloth, resin and one pound of graphite powder. I have yet to harm my boat seriously, even though it has been accidentally dropped, dragged over the mudflats off Gustavus, Alaska, dragged up a cliff in Taiya Inlet and seal-landed - a radical technique of beaching on mussel and barnacle encrusted rocks, refined by British kayaker, Derick Hutchinson, and described in his book Guide To Seakayaking.

Southeast Alaska is a wonderful place to paddle if the weather cooperates and if you haven't contracted giardiasis (an debilitating ailment caused by the waterborne parasite Giardia that disrupts normal intestinal function in humans). I, unfortunately, went to face bad weather in Alaska with a case of giardiasis, yet I still found Alaska spectacular. Clearcuts, visible from the water, are small when compared to those further south in coastal Brit ish Columbia. One can almost imagine that companies logging in Alaska practice responsible land management. In Alaska, wildlife seems abundant. If you keep your eyes and ears open and your motor off, you find yourself amazed at the natural sights.

To get to Southeast Alaska, Phil and I loaded our kayaks onto the M / V Matanuska, an Alaska Marine Highway ferry. Our kayaks were snuggled in under a tractor trailer and we found an ideal enclave on the ship's stern, away from the overcrowded sun deck. Here we set up camp. For three days we steadily traveled northward. The ferry carried us along

freely while we conversed with other travellers: Linda from Montana, who spent her summers in Alaska working for the National Park Service; an elderly couple from the East Coast whose cabin window looked out over our campsite and who were simply just taking in Alaska. We ate the wonderful foods that our friends had given us as departing gifts in Seattle. We enjoyed good weather, with only the occasional rain-bearing squall striking down on us. Then, as we entered the last stretch of the ferry journey from Haines to Skagway, up Taiya Inlet, the weather changed dramatically. Thick cloud cover obscured the tops of the surrounding mountain peaks. Catabolic winds raced across the water surface, tearing the wavetops away in froth. A cold chill crept over us.

We departed the ferry at its northernmost port of call, Skagway. Our gear lay scattered around us. Travellers setting off across Chilkoot Pass in their motor homes stopped to videotape the two crazy kayakers. They stood around in their winter jackets braced against the wind while we stripped down and got into our wetsuits, preparing for the first paddle. The wind abated. We loaded up the boats, heavy with gear, and set off. For the next three days, we battled our way toward Lynn Canal. One day we paddled into tremendous headwinds, which deposited us back ashore half a mile from our put-in site. Four hours on the water could have been an hour's portage along the beach.

Chilkoot Inlet - the upper reaches of Lynn Canal - was a welcome sight. The weather changed for the better and, after our struggles against strong headwinds, a light breeze, though still blowing in our faces, now felt like a tail wind. The good weather, however, did not stay with us. We were soon paddling in a light drizzle. The next day, an early start, followed by a long day on the water in calm conditions, found us 30 miles south in Boat Harbor, a spectacular basin that provides good protection from the wind. Though it had drizzled all day, the paddle had been spectacular. It was almost pleasant being tucked down in the kayak's cockpit, lower body warming the inside of the boat and the upper body warmed by the motion of paddling in a wool sweater, hat and weatherproof anorak.

A Minke whale joined us silently. For most of the day, its speed through the water closely matched ours. It was contour feeding, swimming at a particular depth scraping its jaw along the sea floor, feeding on what it was dislodging. At first, we could hear the occasional whoosh from behind us as it surfaced to breathe. Within about an hour, it was alongside us and just inshore. As suddenly as it had entered our world, the whale disappeared. We paddled on, attention again focused on steadily moving onward.

Lynn Canal soon gave way to Icy Strait We spent much of a day camped on Couverden Island, really a collection of islands that provide moderately good protection. Signs of past settlement were apparent and, eventually, we came across some present-day inhabitants. We were moving on a good current and, with favorable winds at our back, proceeded on toward Glacier Bay. The wind did not stay favorable for long; soon, strong gusts blowing up Icy Strait drove us ashore. We waited for the wind to die. When it finally did, darkness had arrived. It was a clear night and we could see the beacons on The Sisters, two small mid-strait islands, and on Porpoise Island. After some discussion, we set off in the dark, making a quick passage of the six-mile crossing. We found an adequate campsite below a tangle of logs and slept until first light.

Until now, I had been experiencing


only marginal amounts of discomfort from my intestinal infection - a little weakness, an inability to truly warm up and a slightly wavering temperament. I had disregarded these somewhat, explaining them away as normal adjustment to the surrounding terrain and conditions. I would soon experience the first full effects of the illness.

The day began just like the previous ones: overcast sky and low temperatures. Soon though, the cloud cover disappeared and it became warm in the brilliant sunshine. We paddled on with upbeat spirits and felt we could be in Glacier Bay by late afternoon. We stopped on a sandy beach on Pleasant Island for lunch and rested a while. When we went to return to the boats, I felt cold and particularly stiff. I suggested to Phil that we camp for the night but, with the favorable conditions, he wanted to push on. He was right, I thought. I shrugged off the nausea I was feeling and dragged myself down to my boat. We returned to the water and paddled on, skirting the shore of Pleasant Island until we got to its northwestern tip, where we would cross Icy Pass to Gustavus. I soon began falling noticeably behind Phil. He would stop paddling, waiting for me to catch up. I remember feeling angry about this. I disliked that I had to play catch up and felt it was unfair that he got to rest. We paddled on. I was getting irritable about our pace and decided to cut across Icy Pass, hoping to find an eddy that would ferry me across to the far side before Phil made it. We arrived at about the same time. Sharing food and water helped my spirits; I suddenly felt great. This passed as soon as it had struck, but I tried not to show this reversal of mood to Phil.

On a falling tide, we paddled toward Glacier Bay. I felt exhausted and let my head hang down, not watching where I was going. Suddenly, Phil was yelling at me; when I looked up I realized I had gotten too close in and was in the outer breakers. Somehow it didn't bother me, even though I realized that a capsize was possible. The next time Phil yelled at me, I was still in the breakers, but I had grounded the bow of my kayak up against a partially-submerged stump. We were paddling in desperately shallow water. Phil was trying to get my tow rope so he could maneuver me further away from shore. I felt strangely complacent. Phil offered my some nuts and chocolate, but I

couldn't stomach them and told him to let go of my kayak.

I paddled away from him, back toward the breakers, feeling irritable. I had told him that I wanted to camp on Pleasant Island. He hadn't wanted to and now he would have to deal with me in my current state. Suddenly, I felt elated; it passed quickly and the cold feeling of slipping into the black void of unconsciousness overtook me. It was like the rush you experience on a roller coaster when you pass over the crest at high speed. I regained consciousness slumped over in my cockpit, surfing toward shore. Phil had realized that he could not get a hold of my boat and, even if he did, that trying to turn it around to tow it seaward away from the surf would be, at best, precarious. The first thoughts I remember as I regained consciousness were about the merits of boats with good initial stability and those with good secondary stability and how glad I was that I had chosen the latter. Fear of my immediate state was far removed from my presence.

We grounded on the mudflats we had been paralleling. I could not have chosen a worse place to become an invalid. I got out of my boat and just walked away from it. Phil intercepted me, handing me a pack containing my sleeping bag, pad, water and food. He pulled the boats away from the water, tied them to a partially-

submerged branch and accompanied me up to the beach. I wavered up the beach in my rubber boots and somehow found a solid path to the grassy shore. We set up a form of camp in the rapidly-encroaching darkness. I was in the raw state of action, oblivious to what was going around me. For Phil, the next five hours were hell. He dragged our boats and gear up the beach, unable to retrace our original path, slogging through the thick, blue mud that made up the tideflats. We rested here for several days and then, on a high tide, set our boats back into the water and headed for Glacier Bay.

When we got to Glacier Bay, we were told by the ranger there that we had camped in prime grizzly bear territory. And I had been eating and storing food where I had been sleeping! We spent a week paddling around the bay, exploring Muir Inlet up to the glacier. I felt weak, but content. I was trying to work myself back into shape and was convinced it was working. I left Glacier Bay feeling good.

The eight-mile stretch of water between Point Gustavus on the north side of Icy Pass and Point Adolphus to its south is a long stretch of open water to traverse in a kayak. It is aptly named Icy Strait. You risk bad weather and strong currents. Phil and I crossed Icy Strait on a helpful flood current, in a light wind and with sunshine blazing down on the distant

shore. The eddy we caught carried us along at close to four knots and soon deposited us on a cobblestone beach in Pinta Cove.

This experience was idyllic. Paddling in the eddy line was like a trip through a marine zoo! As we exited Glacier Bay, we were greeted by breaching Humpback whales. We watched these marine mammals slip their smiling flukes and bodies skyward from our tiny floating boats and felt both awe and a little terror. In the offshore kelp beds, curious sea otters let us paddle up close to them (no wonder they were easy prey for fur hunters). The eddy line, with its flotsam and small fish, was a banquet table set for gulls, scooters and birds. In Pinta Cove, just south of Point Adolphus, the trees lining the beach were filled with bald eagles; I counted 48.

The wildlife encounters in Alaska made paddling in bad weather, and with poor health, worth it. Our constant encounters with animals broke the seemingly unchanging horizon of 60-mile-long straits such as Lynn Canal. Icy Strait and Chatham Strait also go on for days with little change in scenery. Fortunately, the paddle could be broken up with a diversion down Port Frederick, across a portage and out Tenakee Inlet

Approaching Hoonah, a community at the mouth of Port Frederick, a Humpback cruised past me, showing off the marvel of its flukes. In an odd way, I felt like I was being passed by a fish boat or, perhaps more appropriately, a submarine on its way out to sea. The whale's quiet glide and wakeless path left me awestruck and with a feeling of humility. Whales do that to me. I sense them before they come into sight, like a cold sensation creeping up the spine.

Paddling down narrowing Port Frederick brings you to the tangle of a saltwater marsh. The tideflats must be entered on a flooding tide if the portage is to be reached. The flood tide we caught was not quite high enough to carry us all the way, so we dragged our boats, first up a creek bed and than across a swamp. At the upper reach, we found ourselves most definitely in mud.

The portage consisted of two parts with a small pond in between. During our first crossing, we came upon a grizzly feeding on grass. Since our boats were sitting on the mud flats, we had no chance of escape, so we remained calm, though


with slightly elevated heart rates. The bear stopped feeding, squinted its eyes and looked at us over its shoulder. It held its nose high in the air to better smell our presence. The expression on its face transmitted its dismay at being disturbed, as if it was thinking "there's a couple of those two-legged animals again". It returned to feeding on grass, ignoring us. Then it turned fully around to look at us again. With a look of disgust, the bear moved away from the open grass back into the trees. Phil and I quickly crossed the set of portages, never losing the feeling we were being watched.

For me, my paddle southward was almost over. I had been struggling with my case of giardiasis. The constant cold and damp weather were taking a toll on my body. Passing out on the water again worried me. I was feeling the effects of dehydration, diarrhea, mild hypothermia and general lassitude. For several days, I had been experiencing an ever-increasing pain in my torso. We would stop for a meal and then, when we returned to paddling, my arms and chest would cramp and finally just become limp or excruciatingly painful to use.

Phil and I completed a strenuous crossing of Chatham Strait. I signaled that I wanted to land. We dragged our boats up a gravel beach. Sitting on the beach in our wetsuits, I broke the news to Phil. He had felt it coming, but wanted me to make my decision. We shared our last jar of souped¬up peanut butter, a frightful mix that included whatever we had plenty of. I believe this jar was one-third peanut butter, with the rest composed of sesame seeds, flour, brown sugar and sunflower oil. At the time, it was good; now, it sounds more like raw cookie dough to me.

We paddled into Angoon, where we

sorted our gear so that Phil could carry on. I planned to take a ferry to Juneau, see if I could hang out and recover and then decide on a course of action. Phil and I cooked a Final supper and the following morning Phil headed out alone (his normal mode of travel for those of you worried about such seemingly rash action), while I waited for the ferry. In Juneau, I wallowed around for several days. A couple offered me their boat to stay on when they found me asleep on the seaward side of their boathouse. Gerry Dixon and his wife, who are Alaskan kayakers, stopped by, interested in my kayak as well as my trip. We talked and shared experiences. They went on their way, but later returned with dinner and

fruit for me. I was grateful for their kindness. The compassion shown by others led me to begin to realize that I was probably down and out, in hard shape, but not on a bench in Pioneer Square either. Still, I did not get any better.

Several days later, I got on an Alaska Marine Highway ferry heading south, after having slept through my original choice of sailing. In Prince Rupert, I switched to a British Columbia ferry that took me to Port Hardy, at the north end of Vancouver Island. Port Hardy is pretty isolated and I figured I could leave my boat there, hitchhike home, recover and then return to get the boat. For six weeks, I hung out, rested and went to get tested for what was ailing me.

My kayak, meanwhile, hung upside down, packed with gear, in a salal thicket; my food bag remained hidden and almost undisturbed in a nearby hollow tree. When I finally returned, I first searched for the green garbage bag in which I had stuffed my rain gear and rubber boots. I had thrown it up behind a prominent rock to hide it. I didn't want to carry this gear south with me but had needed it to bushwhack from the boat's hiding spot to the highway. Garbage bag located, I dressed in the moldy clothing.

Retracing my struggle through the bush, I eventually came to the right cove and found my kayak. I pulled the boat out from the salal thicket and loaded it with the remaining gear. Returning out onto the water, I felt at home. Briefly, I toyed with the idea of heading south down Queen Charlotte Strait and beyond. As I exited the cove where my boat had remained hidden, I vacillated back and forth between the merits of the Craziness in my head. I had a choice of turning south into the unknown or returning to my vehicle in Port Hardy, where I had left my girlfriend waiting for me. I looked south, my glance met by the thick fog obscuring the way, then north, where the sun was dazzlingly bright on the water's surface, and paddled into the light. I was here to recover my boat and then explore Cape Scott, not to vanish into a fogbank.

When he undertook his Alaskan adventure, Thomas Nielsen was on leave from the Canadian Coast Guard. Now Thomas and his wife, Lise Glaser, live in Seattle, where he's involved in designing outdoor equipment, rehabilitating older homes and, of course, kayaking out of CWB.


The Center for Wooden Boats CALENDAR

MARINE SKILLS WORKSHOPS

July 6, 7 & 8 - F O U R T E E N T H ANNUAL L A K E UNION WOODEN BOAT FESTIVAL, 10 a.m. till 6 p.m. each day, CWB and adjoining sites. Our annual wooden boat extravaganza at South Lake Union - classic watercraft, boat races, skills demonstrations, videos, music, food - celebrates its fourteenth year! Fundraising Auction - Saturday, July 7th!

July 20 (Friday) - CWB MONTHLY MEETING, 8 p.m., C W B Boathouse. Travels in a Willits canoe since 1934. A slide talk by John and Jean Henry on their long-term relationship with their canoe White Star in Northwest waters.

August 17 (Friday) - CWB MONTHLY MEETING, 8 p.m., C W B Boathouse. Thomas "Max" Nielsen will give a slide talk on his recent adventurous kayak voyage in Southeast Alaska. Max built his kit Pygmy Kayak with a Swiss Army knife, vise-grips, scissors, 1/16" drill bit and duct tape.

October 7 (Sunday) - F A L L ZUCCHINI REGATTA, 12 Noon til 6 p.m., C W B . Wait! Don't pick that zucchini. Let it attain its full growth for the Third Annual Giant Zucchini Boat Contest! Boat races, potluck luncheon, lots of good talk, show and tell.

Workshops at the Center for Wooden Boats are open to members and non-members. Fees indicate member/non-member costs. A $100 refundable deposit is required for all boatbuilding workshops. For workshop reservations, call (206) 382-2628 between noon and 6 p.m. seven days a week.

LEARN TO "SAIL NOW", 12 noon every Saturday, C W B Boathouse. Fee: $100 per person (includes a one-year C W B membership).

Students wil l learn to sail our classic boats in five easy lessons. One hour of classroom work and four hours of hands-on instruction wil l enable you to sail our small boats. You may begin any Saturday, space permitting. Maximum of four students.

M O R E "SAIL NOW" - EVENINGS, 5:30 p.m. - 8 p.m. Monday through Friday, C W B Boathouse. Fee: $100 per person (includes a one-year C W B membership).

C W B ' s "Sail Now" training program now is offered on weekdays too. Complementing the weekend classes, which began last January, this innovative program trains students in boats 12 to 30 feet. Upon graduation, all students will be certified to handle sailboats at C W B .

LOFTING WORKSHOPS; 8:30 a.m. -5:30 p.m. Saturday and Sunday August 4 and 5 or October 6 and 7. Fee: $115/125. Instructor: Eric Hvalsoe.

Students wil l draft scale lines drawing of a 12' dinghy from a table of offsets,

followed by doing a full-size loft. This workshop will enable students to read plans and understand the arcane mysteries of bevels, rabbet lines, deductions and construction drawings. This class is highly recommended as a prerequisite for our boatbuilding workshops. Limited to six students.

BUILDING A LAPSTRAKE BOAT, 8:30 a.m. - 5 p.m. each day, July 14 -21; Launching July 22. Fee: $360/$400. Instructor: Eric Hvalsoe.

Students will build a classic rowing boat. The instructor has led many C W B workshops and has wide experience in traditional boatbuilding. Students must have basic woodworking experience. Maximum six students.

WOODCARVING, 10 a.m. - 1 p.m. each day, August 11,18 and 25, September 1,8 and 15 (six Saturdays). Fee: $90/$110. Instructor Tom Parker. Students will learn the A B C s of carving from a master of techniques and design. Sessions wi l l focus on increasingly advanced hands-on projects, with minimal chalk talk. Some tools required. Maximum 10 students.

O A R M A K I N G , 9 a.m. - 4 p.m. September 22, November 10 (same class, two sessions). Fee: $50/$55. Instructor: Rich Kolin.

Students will learn how to design and build these most basic items of boat propulsion. Rich is an experienced boat, spar, and oar builder. Maximum 12 students.

M A R L I N S P I K E S K I L L S , September 29, October 6, 13, 20, 27 (Saturdays). Instructor Dennis Armstrong and other guest experts. Classes can be taken separately or as a series. Series fee: $50/ $70.

September 29, 10 a.m. - noon. Unraveling the mysteries of basic sailors' knots. Fee: $10/$15.

October 6, 10 a.m. - noon. Making the monkey's fist, whippings and seizings. Fee: $10/$15.

October 13, 9 a.m. - noon. Dispelling the mystique of splicing yacht braid and laid line. Fee: $15/$20.

October 20, 10 a.m. - noon. Construction of mats. Fee:$10/$15.

October 27, 9 a.m. - noon. Making the classic rope fender. Fee: $15/$20.

Documents

Shavings Volume 12 Number 3 (July 1990)