Sula Latest

With Mattis away now, it's up to me to keep up standards as Sula enters her final stages of building. After a liberal soaking with linseed oil, I followed up with another of Varnol, pure turpentine, a generous dose of CooVar (Yacht & Seaplane) varnish, with a dash of bitumen, much  like adding Tabasco to a stew.

Meanwhile, if Shetland boats are your thing, then pick up a copy of Alison Munro's excellent booklet, available from the Unst Heritage Trust, Haroldswick, Unst, Shetland ZE2 9ED Price £14.99
email: info@unstheritage.com

Taking Over

Mattis Voss, who first approached me via a well-worded letter of introduction, is off to Norway next week, leaving me the task of finishing the Shetland yole he began - or rather which I began by making the stems a few months back.

It's a strange thing working on a boat that someone else has built and put heart and soul into. A boat, until it's delivered, belongs to the builder even if the money's been paid. You form a strong bond with that inanimate object through hours of head scratching, planing and hammering which is hard to break. And now, after little or no head scratching, just the occasional word of advice, I will be charged with bringing it to fruition - like fostering someone else's child.

In contrast - and what a contrast it is between the Shetland boat and the faering - the faering I built is off south soon and although I will be glad to see it safely delivered, part of me would like to keep it a little longer, even to the extent of paying back the fee.

"Pity. I'd like to keep this one for myself..."

In truth, I'll be sorry to see it go. In so many ways it is different to the yole; the one being as precise an interpretation of the plans as Mattis's skills could make it, vs the faering for which the brief was to build a boat that looked like it could have been built many centuries ago, hence the darkened oiled finish and the tool marks. Much else departs from the plans, both in basics such as length and sheerline as well as details, like the breasthooks and frames. It feels more like my boat, rather than the designer's. I like that!

But it is not, of course, my boat. The owner whose instructions I tried to follow will soon take possession of her and I hope that my interpretation of what he wanted will be the same as his, if you see what I mean.

Honesty

Coming to boat building from a different angle than some people; ie the world of journalism, I have always felt it my duty to report the truth about what I do. "Journalist writing about the truth?" you say. Well yes. And it has sometimes been counted against me, for instance the occasions when I bear my soul about mistakes or, as I like to call them, "things that could have been done better".

I have in the past pointed out deviations in the line of planking; less than fag paper fits and such like in the hope that by pointing out flaws, people will realise not how difficult it is to build a clinker boat, but how hard it is to make it perfect. If you tried to find perfection you would drive yourself crazy, for it is often in the so-called imperfections that true beauty and originality are found.

Take plans, for example. Building a class dinghy and, of course, tolerances have to be adhered to, but in the case of a custom commission then it's important not to become a slave to plans. In any case, even the best designers often expect clinker planks to conform to the most impossible curves. Left to their own devices, planking will achieve its own fairness, so long as you impose strict but benign discipline or boundaries; rather like young children, I imagine.

That means not allowing them to creep up the moulds at the quarters, especially - a danger point in all clinker boats. But to an extent you can trust them to tell you where they are happy to lie and the worst thing you can do is apply too much force or, to stretch the child analogy, unnecessary cruelty or punishment.

And yet this honesty has its downsides. Who wants to hear that their boat could have been built better? Who wants her flaws, however minor or trivial or imperceptible, flagged up? I could pretend that everything went to plan, effortlessly, and yet I know for a fact that very few boat builders achieve perfection and certainly not without extreme effort and thought. So, why not, given the complexity of the task, admit that the line of rivets near the bow is uneven; the second strake down at the stern could do with another 1/8th in or even mention the tiny split that appeared at a hood end fastening but which will never, ever give any trouble? I like to think that it humanises the process of boat building; demystifies it a little because, let's face it, building boats has always been surrounded in unjustified mystique.