The cycle of (boat) life . . .

. . . is complete.  Jeff Brown at the boatyard, waiting to get his bowsprit taken off (a nasty job I'm not looking forward to) and come out for the winter.

Apart from a few photos I might take if he makes it to the "red shed" for winter storage, we will see you next year.

Because boy did I have fun!

Getting the hang of it . . .

Paul and I were trailed by papparazzi today, including my cousin John, who took the photos, while his son Chris tried to keep up with us in the Whaler. :)

 I'm kind of starting to like this, although the physics of wind still eludes me. Going upwind to catch a breeze . . . somehow seems wrong.  Thank goodness for the little red-yarn telltales I tied to the shrouds. And why "head off" means "pick up speed" I have no clue.  Paul says I think too much.  Probably.

Jeffie is really a pretty boat, isn't it? Uncle Jack was a genius.

Who would have thought . . . ?

. . . that after 4 months, 10 tons of epoxy, 3 dutchmen and a million mistakes, Jeff Brown would be in the water and sailing?  But thanks to Paul we did it, and I confess that now I want to go out all the time.  Which I know I can't.  Other people will sail Jeffie.  But in a way he will always be a little bit mine.

tick-tick-tick

It's getting a little ridiculous.
Paul and Don and I put the sails on two weeks ago,

then Paul fixed the shims on the tiller, then . . . then . . .
Paul has no time during the week to go out with me.  Too busy, he says.
Probably just doesn't want to be embarrassed by my nautical stupidity.


Napping on the boat yesterday, I hear a  groan and a creak, and woke to find the Amistad lumbering up the river to the Seaport for its winter maintenance.

As my cousin Jen says of those on shore, "They watch."

And I'm just the fixer.  I don't know nothin' 'bout sailing these big monsters alone.  So Jeff sits patiently on Paul's mooring, probably permanently for this year anyway, waiting for me to get in at least one sail before the summer is over.  And what great weather for it lately!

Lots of people have told me (and the Historical Society) how much they love seeing Jeff Brown in the harbor again.  So now we get lots of photos by fantastic photographers.

But I go out every day to make sure the solar pumps are working, and just read the Times and nap.  It's quite soothing.  I still feel a bit maternal.  Actually, I think Jeff is the one who feels maternal now, and I am just an infant in the cradle rocking . . .

The mast is on!

So now is tomorrow (even though I posted both of these posts today) and Paul and I and his two friends did it!  (with Paul talking us through every step of the way, of course) And look how pretty!!!

In a couple of days we’ll put Jeff on his proper mooring and put the sails on.  This weekend are the wooden boat races but I guess Jeff will be sitting them out.  Sadly. Be nice to see if the boathangs together first, I guess.

And can you believe that this came out of Paul’s basement to be Jeff’s dinghy?  This is going to be the envy of every waterfront creature in the area.

Still leaking . . . but ready to leap on his mooring

So do not think I have been idle these past two weeks.  Jeff is hanging out at Bruce’s marina, sans spars, swelling up as fast as he can, and I have been charging the battery and pumping out those teeny compartments in the stern where crud gets into the coat-hanger-size hole that allows the water to flow to the section where the pump is.  Three days ago Paul put in another pump to see how long it took to fill up to above the floorboards—3 hours.  Not great.  But since then, things have gotten better and we have switched to a solar pump for today’s trip out to “the barge,” a mysterious floating object on the other side of the train trestle where  we will bring the bowsprit and attach it.  

     Which, as you can see here, we did.

Tomorrow is mast-stepping day; for some reason we cannot do it today, probably because it takes a while and  Paul could only get out there this afternoon—also, Jeffie could only get out there this afternoon because the tide’s too high before 3-ish today. And then the day is shot, apparently.  So tomorrow will be the big day but today is equally exciting.  It’s especially cool because about a week ago I went over to the shop where the spars were and saw that 2 were missing—and I immediately thought that Paul had gone and started to do this himself, or with his waterfront pals, and I was relegated, as usual, to the person who did not count.  How could I count, anyway?  I’m new here, even though my family has been here a million years; I don’t know diddly about sailing or boats; I’m not a guy so the hail-fellow-well-met card can’t be played . . . all I was good for was taking care of Jeff Brown until more competent, more deserving people came along.  And this made me so sad on so many levels. Because once again, I realized I did not matter.

But no, that was not the way it was at all.  If I had stopped feeling sorry for myself for 10 seconds I would have seen that Paul had moved two spars to the side of the shop because he needed to use the sawhorses.  And apropos of nothing the other day he said, “Don’t worry; I won’t do it without you.”  And when I looked at him funny he said “You were thinking, ‘that sonofabitch went and did this without me and I don’t count’” and he’s smiling as he says this and I think, “How does he know this about me?  Am I that transparent, that needy?

I have got to get a grip.

I just hate the not knowing, the not having had the experience or the credentials or the time served to belong to the club.  And there are so many clubs where I am outside looking in.  Feeling sorry for myself.  Because I do that really well.

What, after all, did I do but what a hundred other relatives and residents have done for the past 50 years—paint and sand and varnish and caulk and love this old boat?  I have no cause to feel possessive.  Yet when I look out in my yard and there is this big empty space, I feel . . . bereft.  Jeff Brown will be on his mooring but now he slips back into the public domain, far away from me or any claim I have, especially any expertise I have regarding What Comes Next; our relationship is no loner intimate, or no more intimate that the relationship he’s had with all those others who’ve actually sailed him and known what they were doing.

My cousin’s husband said to me the other day, regarding one of my uncle’s other boats, “I can’t sail.  I’m too old to learn.  I can’t.  Okay?” and the way he said it, I heard that hard edge, and I felt a kinship with him somehow—we who grew up on the water and around boats and because of family prohibitions or insistences on making your living off the water and not just lounging around on it, we were denied this. It would have been different if we grew up In Nebraska.  It was all around us, and we couldn’t touch it.

And now that we can—or at least I can, it seems as out of reach as it did 25 years ago: I am starting too late, I am foolish to think I can be good at this, I am a rank amateur in a world of professionals and time is not on my side . . .

But today, at 3pm, I get to be a tiny part of things again.  And again tomorrow.  And I guess that’s good enough.  At least Jeff is happy.

Hasn’t sunk yet!

I feel a bit bereft.  There’s this hole in my yard where a big boat used to be.  Too much space.  Bruce and Red came this morning and away went Jeffie down to the marina and over the side, where it sat in the straps half the day but then was deemed un-sinking and so is now resting quietly at the dock until the spars are finished.

 

Started on them today, in Paul’s warren of a shop.  Boy they are huge!

I am using lots and lots of 80 and 120 grit sandpaper, just trying to get the shine off them.  It’s taking longer than I thought.  Saved the biggest for last (tomorrow).

Take a look at that bowsprit, willya?

I’m getting really scared.

Also quite territorial and protective.  What if other people now want to go on it? It’s not fair, I tell you . . . and yet it is.  I just wish I was a better sailor.  The nautical types are going to come out of the woodwork now.

I guess I just want to be counted, instead of patted on the head and then ignored. 

Feeling a little post-partum depression, I guess.

The little birdie is ready to fly the nest . . .

. . . and now all there is remaining is to wait for Bruce to get back from wherever he’s hiding, come on over with his big truck, and drag Jeff Brown to the boatyard.  Paul says that he may not launch it that day (which we pray is tomorrow), but I’m hoping I am there when he does.  I’m feeling rather motherly.  Paul was a blaze of activity yesterday and today, despite the heat, making adjustments to the “worm shoe” and setting up the two (count ‘em) bilge pumps.  I’ve been watering Jeffie 3 times a day for a week, like a flower, trying to swell up the planks from the inside.  He looks like he’s weeping.

Before

 The cockpit and deck are all painted now—and boy did I learn some lessons about trowel cement and what to do different next year to get the edges smooth for a better line.  Also, perhaps next year we can take off some of the brass parts and sand them so all the old paint comes off.  Paul says Jeff will look better and better each year.  Who knows where ‘ll be next year.

 

 After

I know where I’ll be next week, though, while Jeff is at the dock—in his barn, sanding and varnishing the spars. Cousin Jennifer has donated a dinghy so we are all set.  I am sure Paul has some oars hiding somewhere.

Before

After

And of course there is the transom—finally the letters arrived and I practically made a customer service rep cry; I could not understand the application instructions for the life of me.  Frankly I think they made ‘em too complicated.  It’s just basically peel and stick.  I almost got 'em centered.

I’m told of a new, enthusiastic helper for the spars.

We’ll see!

Jeff is looking spiffier . . .

. . . but boy have we got a ways to go.  My goal is the end of August, but I just don’t know if I can get the deck all caulked and painted by then.  Although I am about ½ way done.

Paul put the cotton in the stem last week, and I did my now-favorite trowel cement trick, and a coat of epoxy (the yellow stuff, also called fairing compound I guess). 

You can hardly tell the bow was hacked to pieces.

Well, from 10 feet, anyway.

Painting the bottom took most of the day--and I've done it before so I am no stranger to this boat's bottom.  Still, what a $#@! pain.  But thanks to "Frog Tape" and a really well-scribed waterline, I think it came out okay.

Paul says next year they will re-install the worm strip below the keel; it's mostly gone now.  Geez, I hope the worms stay away!

I’ve started applying, or finishing, the trowel cement with the plastic yellow blade I was using for the fairing compound, with great results—it’s a lot smoother and uses much less goo.  Paul apparently has an endless supply of trowel cement in his magic basement, which is good since I’ve already gone through a can of it and as I mentioned, Interlux doesn’t make it anymore.

Here are the tricks of the caulking trade—three little irons, which Paul showed me how to use and which I’m using on the deck, where mistakes don’t exact such a high price, like sinking.  But fortunately on the deck there aren’t that many gaping holes all the way down.

After the trowel cement is done on the deck I think I will paint all the white, and then possibly sand and paint the cockpit (yawn-inducing gray). Then on to the deck (light tan) while Paul wrestles with the (ulp) keel under the cockpit, which he says has gotten a little “mushy.”  Will this poor boat’s trials and indignities know no end?  And for this we have to drill out holes and put brass pins in there along with epoxy, which apparently will do the trick until such time as Jeff gets a complete keel transplant.  Or sinks.  Or both.

The boat-letterer, who does it every year, just told me she won’t be able to do it this year, so I’m going to see if a $15 gold boat stencil will do the trick.  I can do it but it’d cost me my sanity, I think, and several hours.  This is the best one I could find. I wanted gold but all this company had was dark yellow.  Other companies had the gold but the letter choices sucked, and the one in England was going to charge over $50 so forget that.

The yellow will be just about fine, I think.  Unless it should be white.  I dunno.

Here's the transom:

And here's the letters (42' wide, 4' high:

When it goes into the water, I have about 2 weeks to sand and varnish the spars. Ad then of course we’re into September.

It’s funny; I now know just about every plank and nail and peculiarity of this boat, but I cannot picture myself on it under sail.  I stand on the deck and look down toward the bow, trying to gauge whether this is a small boat or an incredibly huge one, sailing-wise.  I have no idea.  I keep getting the feeling of this immense power, and all that old wood, everything straining in the wind, and the big keel and all those rocks in Fishers Island Sound just waiting to get a crack at it . . . I want Jeff to get in the water but I fear the next step.

Especially if I’m involved in it.

poco a poco . . .

Although I took a trip to Mexico, the days I was gone were not marked by idleness.  Paul came by a put in a big fat Dutchman, which Don helped me plane and sand so it now looks like this with primer—pretty good even for a 5-foot paint job.

And I painted the port side and the stern—and ran out of green.  So tomorrow more green will come.

Paul also finished reefing out both sides of the stem and will put cotton in there, as well as parts of the deck, which I have started to fill in with trowel cement. Which I am going to run out of.  Paul says there's more . . . somewhere in the bowels of his cobwebby basement, no doubt.  I can only do this after 2pm when the sun stops beating down on the deck, so I get about 1.5 hours in per day.

Still no helpers.

But the only other awful part is the reefing of the keel, which judging by Paul’s deflated “oh, it's you” whenever I call him, will be the worst part.

The gold leaf turned gray, which I think means it soaked in, so I gave it another coat and will put some varnish on it.

Also started cleaning the bronze rub rail (which you can see lying on the deck in the photo above), with Brasso and a scotch brite, just to get the gunk off.  It’s gonna be brown, like bronze is, but at least it will be clean.

Build Me Straight

Well, this film got me a little depressed because it shows how much painstaking work and detail goes into a wooden boat (and skill which I am sorely lacking), but it is so cute and dear, and I adore a Scots accent.  It is called “Build Me Straight” and it is about a MAGNIFICENT wooden Scottish fishing boat built in 1963.  The 15-minute film won the “Amateur Cine World Ten Best Competition Gold Star Award” in that year. 

http://ssa.nls.uk/film/6753

“Description: Building of a wooden fishing boat. The draftsman is seen working on the plans, then slowly we see the men in the yard building the vessel up from the keel. Finally the boat is launched and taken out to sea.

This is the “Shot list” which I am reprinting because you practically have to have an English translation, and the sound isn’t great.

Gosford Films Present shot of intertitle in thistle-shaped logo (0.09) Title (0.16) gvs man drafting plans of a boat at a flat desk, with a model ship [classical organ music, badly warped] v/o reads first lines of the poem "The Building of the Ship" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1.28) gvs man building dowelling frame on timber, then sketching an outline in thick pencil while overseen by older man (1.58) two men cut down tree using chainsaw (2.28) v/o 7th stanza of The Building of the Ship; gvs men working with skeleton of the boat's hull, sanding and preparing elements of the timber frame, then building the boat from the keel (4.11) v/o continues with 9th stanza, planing wood, building the walls of the hull, treating the inside of the hull to preserve the wood, (with tar?), includes gvs men using adzes, men shaping wooden planks to bend their shape to fit the hull (5.12) gvs men drilling holes into the hull , and then hammering in rivets, gvs men caulking the joins between planks (6.21) gvs men building the deck, and waterproofing it (8.07) gvs Men metal working, including soldering and drilling (8.31) Treating the deck with sealant (8.46) ints man chiselling wood (8.56) gvs heavy sections of the boat are craned into position including the engine (the crane has been hired from Bernard Hunter of Leith) (11.58) gvs men prepare boat for painting, includes shot of hull being sanded; gvs men paint the boat; (12.19) gvs boat is prepared for launch; launch of boat (12.51) Boat travels to harbour, includes brief shot other boats and c/u boat's name: "MARYEARED" (13.31) gvs Boat is prepared and goes out to sea; gvs on boat; v/o continues with the final lines of the poem (15.22) Gosford Films Production (15.27)

Jeff Brown and Bob Marley: Separated at Birth?

This weekend I worked my butt off to paint the part of the starboard topsides that I could while staying out of Paul’s way so he could fasten the planks to the stem.  But I didn’t mind it because I was laughing the whole time.  Paul had dropped off some paint, and it was the most marvelous stuff I had ever painted with (Interlux, I love thee), especially the gold leaf.  It was so bright I had to keep the can out of the sun because it was blinding me.

These photos are after one coat.  I did the second coat today.

Still have more to do on the deck but I really wanted to see how this looked.

Frankly, I think it looks like a Rastafarian pirate ship.

Hope Uncle Jack is not rolling over in his grave.  Or twisting with the tide around Ram Island, where he technically is.

Mario the cat’s new favorite sunning spot.

I have to put more fairing compound on the transom and then sand and paint it quick so the name can be painted on.  Paul says there’s a woman who loves to paint boat names.  She can have at it.

Perhaps gold leaf this time . . .

From the ridiculous to the (in perspective) sublime . . . and back to the really sublime

 Maryan and I kayaked around the wooden boat show at the Seaport on the 28^th—seen from the cheap seats (the water).

Here’s me kissing the stern of the Emma C. Berry, whom I’ve grown to love (and through editing the book have come to know more about than any boat I’ve ever heard about).

Then we went up the river a bit to see the 1920’s-era Klang II, a hapless collection of planks calling itself a “channel yawl,” and having been rescued from where it had sunk (for the 6^th time) in the Connecticut River as few years ago.

Apparently it was pressed into service in WWII to cruise about looking for submarines, and the two lads who rescued it, at no small expense, have now started a 501 c 3 to raise money to keep it afloat http://www.klang2.org/

I have to confess, it did my heart a bit of good to see that there were some ancient wooden boats out here that need lots more help than Jeff Brown.  Mean of me but there it is.  As Maryan said, “I’m glad we got to see it before it went the way of, presumably, Klang I.”

  So slowly, slowly I sand and prime, sand and prime.  Wonder about the massive caulking that will have to be done.  Paul assuring me he will come this week and do the major repairs.  July 4^th came and went and Jeff did not get a chance to be out there eliciting envy on his mooring.

Don and I kayaked around Ram and Gates Island on the 4th looking for bass (none) and came back by way of passing the 1915 sardine carrier Grayling on her mooring.  My god what a phenomenal job they have done.  That hull has GOT to have a fiberglass shell on it—there is no way the planks could be so fair.  I wept with inadequacy as we passed. 

Hopefully this week I will finish priming the deck and then can paint the bulwarks and sheerstrake to show “my public” that at lest something is happening.  I will have to paint around Paul’s repairs a bit, but so what.  Take that, Grayling!

The incantation of whining has forced progress on the deck

I had a bit of a meltdown yesterday.

It looks as if nobody else is going to help with Jeff Brown.  There he sits in my yard, waiting to go into the water, and the days have been gorgeous!  So much time he could have spent on his mooring, being the envy of tourists, fiberglass boat owners, and lovers of old Noank sloops.  (the Mysic wooden boat show is this weekend—he should be out there at the mouth of the river showing off!) As a matter of fact, Chip Anderson’s boat Winsome just got an article published on it in the paper. Chip and I are in the same boat (ahahahaha) in that Winsome isn’t in the water yet either.  Chip says that the designer of Jeff Brown (back in 1888) was also the designer for the plans for Winsome, which makes sense since they are both the “Noank sloop” model, quite famous here.  But who gets the glory?  Not Jeffie and I, noooooooo.

So yesterday when Paul came over I gave him an earful about not having enough time (which I don’t), and it being too hot to sand the deck (which it is) and that none of the sanders worked well enough to get it smooth (which they don’t) and the heat gun wouldn’t get the paint off easily enough (which it didn’t) and that I was just about as sick as I could be with this project (which I am) and what was he going to do about it.

Actually the coup de grace came the day before yesterday when, fighting with the 8” disc sander, it flew out of my hands and bit me on the leg.  That was the end of the 8” disc sander.

Or so I thought.

Paul is an old water rat and nothing fazes him, especially a hysterical woman whining about a boat.  He then said “Well, if it were me I would have just slapped a coat of paint on it and put it in the water, but you wanted it all smooth . . .” at which point I wanted to smack him but I refrained, and said “Is that really okay?  To just paint it even if it’s lumpy?”  He said “Fine with me.”

I also asked if I could sand and prime in sections so I wouldn’t get too discouraged, since the frigging paint peels right up again if you leave your nice sanded work for a day without priming.

He said sure.

He also said he’d come by this weekend and “see what he could do” in re: the 8” disc sander which he thinks will work like a charm on this deck.

I followed him down the driveway vowing that I could undo his cheery and positive attitude if I tried hard enough, but he just chuckled and got in his truck.

So last night I dragged all 3 sanders, Papa Bear, Medium 5” Bear, and Detail Bear, up with me on the deck along with the primer, a broom, and a dental pick, and, holding all VERY firmly, sanded the bejeezus out of the area from the prow to the whatsis—the metal bar that holds the jib line and lets it slide back and forth.

Bow not so bad.  Note the whatsis.  What IS that thing called???

You can see what kind of a fun time Jeff is going to have with me at the tiller, can’t you?

Anyway, when I was done I was quite proud—the sanding job proved way smoother than I thought it would be (I made sure to use "Mr Green"--an 8" disk so nubby I thought it was going to cut right through to the hold), a section was done, and I am looking forward to section #2—all the way to the front of the hatchway.  Then on to caulking, which I am getting quite good at, and doesn't involve any round 8" discs leaping out of my hands and aiming for my shins.

Paul has also promised to bring paint soon so I can do the parts he is not farting around with (like the stem).

I realize that I do this a lot, this response of mine—it has been a lifelong habit—scream and kick and whine and say I  can’t do it it’s too hard, then breathe a little, look at the thing again, wade in, and it’s never as bad as I think it will be.  But why do I still need the screaming and kicking part?  It’s almost like a ritual, a spell.  The incantation of whining, to insure a positive outcome.

There must be a pill for this.

Transom almost done . . . and a visit from the Master

It has been a rainy week, but a Sisyphus-like despair more than anything has kept me from picking up the enormously heavy Bosch 5” sander and re-sanding for the millionth time the battered hull of poor Jeffie.  However, this weekend brought progress, if not joyful things.

I finally stripped, sanded and primed (1st coat) the $%$#@! transom (thank you Maynard Bray and the how-to book of Sanding and Painting for the Truly Anal-Retentive), and now the trowel cement must do its magic. 

Paul has reversed his earlier dictum of “no sanding after the trowel cement goes on,” which I ignored anyway since I found that there were spots I had not alcoholed off that could be sanded/feathered right out.  Plus, I had to put another wad of it in all the seams.

 The four errant planks have been re-fastened to the stem, but Paul now has to put the cotton back in and apparently do it on the other side—which I conveniently troweled right over.  He tried to teach me how to “listen” for loose planks with a plastic (electrician’s) hammer, but I did not get the hang of it (apparently safe-cracker is not a good choice for me for future employment).

After I fill up the cracks in the transom, there’s nothing left for it but to tackle the evil deck, since I have been deserted by my one helper and my tentative second helper has only given me a “maybe” on Facebook.

The good thing about the deck is that gravity can do some of the work, and the sanding should not be so bad.  Except for the bulwark.  That way madness lies.

Paul has been vacuuming out the keel, which in my mind points to a reefing out of the keel soon.

If Jeff does not go in by August I’ll fill up the hold with water and drown myself.

Interlux: trowel cement as old as Jeff Brown

The wonderful thing about Jeffie is that it is being fixed up with things that have been lying in boathouses and in woodshops and in cellars since Dad ran Spicer's Marina in the '70s.  So when these rusty cans of goo show up on my doorstep I feel a tinge of recognition, in a way I never would for anything out of a West Marine catalog, and the smell of brain-cell-killing vapor takes me back to those many summers I spent underneath hulls slopping red copper bottom paint on 40-foot "yachts" for 3 bucks an hour.

The term "trowel cement" had a faintly non-nautical whiff to it, however, so I Googled Interlux trowel cement and found this super cute ad for it, c. 1964

and another, from 1946 made me take heart that I would be almost ready for race day if I used it. And have great hair!

Plus, the Wooden Boat Forum had a plea from someone so desperate to find more (since it is no longer made) that I figure when I'm done I can auction off this can for thousands!

Paul, AWOL but in communication, says that this will also push out of the seams when the boat swells, which is good.  But those ads also said that it was good for touching up dings  and gouges, so I went a bit overboard with it.

Still looks the same, but not as many . . . gaps.