Choose Your Poison

I have just been asked to contribute a piece about modern methods of restoration, you know, how to epoxify your old boat for the next decade. But I found it impossible not simply to reiterate that old mantra: "Restore like for like". If she was copper fastened, with oak timbers, then replace with copper rivets and oak timbers. You can probably justify a little high-end mastic, rather than some ancient, highly toxic concoction, and I would say that epoxy for plank splits, and certainly over a plywood sub deck, are an old boat's life savers, yet generally the traditional stuff is best.

Six litres of Varnol went into the Honduras mahogany planks of this skiff, inside, while the numerous splits in the hull planks were fixed with an epoxy/dust mix, and the topsides then primed with Woodseal before varnishing wth Hempels' Classic

The exception to the rule was my devotion to the now-defunct Woodseal, a single pot clear primer by Hempels, which was great as a first coat under varnish and paint; a really tough first layer, which gripped the wood fibres like egg to a non-stick frying pan (at least ours, until we discovered that frying eggs in butter is the answer). Now it's back to old technology, and Varnol (sometimes mixed with a little Cuprinol) as a first coat under anything, varnish or paint. It also is magic for revitalising old, dried-up, brittle timbers.

 So here is my list of poisons. What are yours?

Paints and finishes

Varnol to prime bare wood surfaces, revitalise old, dried up timber and provide a basis for a paint or traditional varnish finish, which can be anything good from International, Epifanes, Hempels etc. Varnol, thinned up to 75% with pure turpentine, provides a superb foundation, which to some extent penetrates into and sticks to the bare wood, and the subsequent paint/varnishes. It can also be left as a final coat, which can easily be touched up by misting with thinned Varnol.

Underwater primer, as a base coat for bottom paint. I don't buy the expensive stuff from the top makers, as it's a pretty simple concoction and my local stockist, Norlands, have a perfectly good alternative at half the price. I'll try and remember the name...

Varnish, best quality from Hempels, (Classic or Favourite), International, Ravilak or Epifanes. No two-pack products. Again, Norlands do an excellent varnish, which is thick and brown and is called Sea Plane varnish, which I like the sound of. Good for general use, and nowhere near as pricey as the posh stuff.

Primer undercoat, (Hempels or International Pre-Kote) often mixed with proprietary enamel to give a semi gloss before the final topcoat. Norlands do a cheap one which is fine.

Hempels Multicoat (for a semi gloss finish that requires one coat, primer/topcoat: bilges in clinker dinghies, for example). Highly rated: tough and easy to apply.

Enamel, best quality ie International Toplac or Hempels.

Black bitumen, to seal the bilges on old boats, after soaking in Varnol, or as a last resort.

With the demise of UCP and Woodseal I am looking for a bulletproof, high tech clear primer, ideally one pot. I suspect I will need to go for International's two-pack clear primer UCP replacement, or the equivalent Epifanes, and try not to waste the mix.

Glues

Collano Semparoc for all laminating. I have also used it as an epoxy substitute when building a clinker ply pram (with epoxy fillets to strengthen joints and seal end grain). Much better than Balcotan, which bit the dust for some reason. I do not mourn its passing...

Epoxy, to mend splits in planks (mixed with wood dust from the plank itself).

A Poem for November

THE SEA-KING'S BURIAL

by: Charles Mackay (1814-1889)

"MY strength is failing fast,"

Said the sea-king to his men;--

"I shall never sail the seas

Like a conqueror again.

But while yet a drop remains

Of the life-blood in my veins,

Raise, oh, raise me from the bed;

Put the crown upon my head;

Put my good sword in my hand;

And so lead me to the strand,

Where my ship at anchor rides

Steadily;

If I cannot end my life

In the bloody battle-strife,

Let me die as I have lived,

On the sea."

 

They have raised King Balder up,

Put his crown upon his head;

They have sheathed his limbs in mail,

And the purple o'er him spread;

And amid the greeting rude

Of a gathering multitude,

Borne him slowly to the shore--

All the energy of yore

From his dim eyes flashing forth--

Old sea-lion of the north--

As he looked upon his ship

Riding free,

And on his forehead pale

Felt the cold refreshing gale,

And heard the welcome sound

Of the sea.

 

They have borne him to the ship

With a slow and solemn tread;

They have placed him on the deck

With his crown upon his head,

Where he sat as on a throne;

And have left him there alone,

With his anchor ready weighed,

And the snowy sails displayed

To the favoring wind, once more

Blowing freshly from the shore;

And have bidden him farewell

Tenderly,

Saying, "King of mighty men,

We shall meet thee yet again,

In Valhalla, with the monarchs

Of the sea."

 

Underneath him in the hold

They have placed the lighted brand;

And the fire burning slow

As the vessel from the land,

Like a stag-hound from the slips,

Darted forth from out the ships.

There was music in her sail

As it swelled before the gale,

And a dashing at her prow

As it cleft the waves below,

And the good ship sped along,

Scudding free;

As on many a battle morn

In her time she had been borne,

To struggle, and to conquer

On the sea.

 

And the king with sudden strength

Started up, and paced the deck,

With his good sword for his staff,

And his robe around his neck:

Once alone, he raised his hand

To the people on the land;

And with shout and joyous cry

Once again they made reply,

Till the loud exulting cheer

Sounded faintly on his ear;

For the gale was o'er him blowing

Fresh and free;

And ere yet an hour had passed,

He was driven before the blast,

And a storm was on his path,

On the sea.

 

And still upon the deck,

While the storm about him rent,

King Balder paced about

Till his failing strength was spent.

Then he stopped awhile to rest--

Crossed his hands upon his breast,

And looked upward to the sky

With a dim but dauntless eye;

And heard the tall mast creak,

And the fitful tempest speak

Shrill and fierce, to the billows

Rushing free;

And within himself he said:

"I am coming, O ye dead!

To join you in Valhalla,

O'er the sea.

 

"So blow, ye tempests, blow,

And my spirit shall not quail;

I have fought with many a foe;

I have weathered many a gale;

And in this hour of death,

Ere I yield my fleeting breath--

Ere the fire now burning slow

Shall come rushing from below,

And this worn and wasted frame

Be devoted to the flame--

I will raise my voice in triumph,

Singing free;--

To the great All-Father's home

I am driving through the foam,

I am sailing to Valhalla,

O'er the sea.

 

"So blow, ye stormy winds--

And ye flames ascend on high;--

In the easy, idle bed

Let the slave and coward die!

But give me the driving keel,

Clang of shields and flashing steel;--

Or my foot on foreign ground,

With my enemies around!

Happy, happy, thus I'd yield,

On the deck, or in the field,

My last breath, shouting 'On

To victory.'

But since this has been denied,

They shall say that I have died

Without flinching, like a monarch

Of the sea."

 

And Balder spoke no more,

And no sound escaped his lip;--

And he looked, yet scarcely saw

The destruction of his ship,

Nor the fleet sparks mounting high,

Nor the glare upon the sky;--

Scarcely felt the scorching heat

That was gathering at his feet,

Nor the fierce flames mounting o'er him

Greedily.

But the life was in him yet,

And the courage to forget

All his pain, in his triumph

On the sea.

 

Once alone a cry arose,

Half of anguish, half of pride,

As he sprang upon his feet,

With the flames on every side.

"I am coming!" said the king,

"Where the swords and bucklers ring--

Where the warrior lives again

With the souls of mighty men--

Where the weary find repose,

And the red wine ever flows;--

I am coming, great All-Father,

Unto thee!

Unto Odin, unto Thor,

And the strong, true hearts of yore--

I am coming to Valhalla,

O'er the sea."

Winter is Icumen In (Loud Sing What on Earth Do We do to Amuse Ourselves...?)

The Flying Fifteens have all gone to their winter quarters, and the keelboats are chocked up against the storms that will soon batter our shoreline, so what does one do in the winter? I have been toying with the idea of going rowing, something I only ever thought useful for getting from A to B (ship to shore; yacht to pub, etc) and now I see that folk in Ullapool positively relish setting off in their skiff of an afternoon just for the hell of it (and presumably the exercise).

I have it on excellent authority that skiff rowing is addictive. "I get these withdrawal symptoms," one friend told me "if I don't get out on the water at least once a week."  And it is not, definitely not the menfolk of the village who feel the need to brave the autumnal weather; but the women, who seem to have taken to skiffing like, well you tell me? Ducks to water sounds a bit sexist. Nevertheless, it is a phenomenon. Defies analysis. Is it the desire to keep fit? Escape household drudgery? The children? Husbands? Develop biceps big enough to wallop them with impunity when they stagger home from the pub?

Photo copyright Chris Perkins

I strongly suspect a bit of all that, but mostly a way of getting afloat without being shouted at, the curse of so many water-borne relationships. Five women in a boat and you have a crew. Add a man and more often than not he'll just start yelling and telling everyone how it should be done (although this is absolutely not true of our A team whose cox is the acme of calm and quiet authority) and arguments inevitably ensue.

I have it in mind to study this phenomenon more closely over the winter with a view to publishing a paper in the Journal of the Institute of Human Behaviour under the title "The Ladies Who Launch [OK, not an original title] or Why Women Prefer Rowing to Rowing.

And I might even go rowing myself... Alone.

Back Again

Nothing much to write about so I didn't these past few weeks, and yet, strangely, the stats tell an interesting story. It's as if those who chance on this blog have taken the time to catch up on all the stuff they may have missed in the past. Certainly there seems to be no discernible let up with the graph showing a steady three or sometimes as many as four people a week popping in.

No, it's more than that, he says immodestly. To date nearly 23,000 people have taken an interest, or maybe that's 23,000 hits from 1 stalwart? Who can say. Whoever you are, thanks.

News afoot, with the possibility of another faering to build, a launch for the South of France, another Tammie Norrie and a rowing boat for an estate up north. If all come to fruition I'll eat my apron. Indeed I hope they do not, as it will leave precious little time to celebrate a 75th birthday which falls next year. Yes, Sally II will have passed three quarters of a century, quite a feat for any boat. And last time I had a peak in her bilges, all was as sound as the day she slipped down the ways at Elkins in Christchurch.

Pitch pine planked with steamed oak timbers between grown timbers, copper fastened with a lead keel, the secret perhaps of her longevity is her strap floors, which tie the centreline together, basically, bridging the planking via the keel and bolted to the timbers. Tungum; that's the name of the stuff her first owner specified, for he'd read about this miracle metal in some journal, and its use in Wellington bombers' hydraulic pipes.

I've seen many bilges from that pre-war era, and most have a mixture of iron floors, copper and bronze fastenings, oak timbers and mahogany planking, which is a recipe for disaster down the line. So, a little foresight, and an extra £15 10s 6d in 1937 has ensured that Sally is still afloat (or was the last time I saw her, this morning when I drove to my shed to varnish the mast on the new dinghy).

New Day, New Photo

This is one of my favourite boats, and the smallest I have built to date. Built on spec, she's now owned by the young lead guitarist of one of the world's best-known singer's backing band. I have it on good authority that he's often to be seen out in the bay, on his own, presumably as far from the mad world of gigs and tours and venues and screaming fans as it is possible to be.

The design is by Karsten Ausland, in effect a small version of his Jan sjekte, of which I have built two 18ft versions and a couple of 16-footers, tweaked as to midship section but essentially as they came off his drawing board in the 1930s.

But it's this little son of sjekte that I like most. She's a bit unstable on her own, alighting on the water like thistledown, and stiffens up beautifully with a little body weight. Just like a fast rowing boat show be. And she just flies along. I can't think of a nicer little rowing boat. After all, what do you want? A boat that's stable and sluggish or light and fast? And she' a delight in a seaway, riding the waves like a bird.

Wish I hadn't sold her sometimes as she's the kind of boat that one day I will build for myself. Why would you want anything else and, just so as you don't think I haven't forgotten my old prejudices, why on earth would you want something made of plywood, when you can have the real thing? There, just so you don't think I've gone soft on the awful stuff.

Lapstrake (but not as we know it)

I suppose it has some similarities to building clinker boats, yet Oh how I wish it were that easy. Some people think the planks on a boat are simply that: planks, parallel sided, and all you do is slap them around a set of formers. Now, we all know this will not a boat make; more like a box, which is what I've been up to these last few days, namely a log cabin.

Have to say that all those straight lines did not come naturally, or the need for absolute squareness. Not that boats are not meticulously trued at every stage, or you'd get one side rising faster than the other. It's just the absence of curves that made me glad I was not engaged in the business of house building rather than boat building. It becomes kind of monotonous after a while laying down identical lengths of spruce, notching them into each other and banging them with a mallet.

But it's done now and the result is pretty good; a place to sit and admire the view. What's more it's light, whereas croft houses up here tend to be dark, with small windows dating from a time when the view was the least of your concerns. It was more a case of coming in from the fields, wolfing your porridge in front of a meagre peat fire and scuttling up to bed with  Morag holding a guttering candle. Must have been a miserable experience as these little cottages are hardly the best insulated, and certainly not in those days with earth floors and only thick walls to keep out the cold, rather than good old Kingspan thermal insulation.

I was told that a few inches of modern insulation is equivalent to a few feet of stone wall. Our log cabin has 130mm thick walls, a sandwich of spruce and insulation which means it's like one of those cooking boxes filled with straw in which you put your caserole in the morning and it's done to perfection by supper time.

Back to boat building next week with the added bonus that the third instalment is now safely in my bank account. Nothing like dosh to inspire you. And once again, an owner who is a joy to deal with. I'll work out how many boats and owners I have worked for in the last ten years one of these days but what I can say is that none of them baulked at paying; there has never been a formal contract with any of them and, with one exception, they all seem to have been happy with what I built for them. At least no one has come back to me with anything more than the usual wooden boat problems such as what varnish to use; and why is one side of my boat six inches higher than the other, to which I reply "natural movement of the timber. Quite normal."

Only joking...

Plus ca change...

Back from Brittany (balmy breezes, bright sun, baguettes, crepes, galettes, wine, flowers) to wall to wall gales, driving rain and Tesco's best. Why can't they bake French bread in Britain, or at least in Ullapool? Why is their cheese so bland? And their tomatoes tasteless, and, and...

We have a great local baker (struggling no doubt against the odds) but there's nothing like the taste of a baguette bought in the early morning from a boulanger, carried home on the handlebars of an old bicycle and eaten with unsalted butter and French jam. We live like peasants up here. Well, I wish we did. French peasants eat far better than us, with the exception of the sea food available here, most of which is shipped off to France and Spain. (And personally I hate crabs... indeed most things that crawl about under water).

 Sometimes it's hard to understand why we choose to live up here. Visitors go "ooh, what a lovely view... and we saw a deer too" and trip around the hills marvelling at the wild beauty. Those of us who live here see a landscape blighted by sheep grazing and denuded of trees by those same overpopulated deer, tolerated simply because shooting brings in money for the estate owners and adds to their value (and to hell with the damage to the countryside, let alone vehicles that habitually meet with them on dark nights).

No, for all the wild beauty of the Highlands there are some serious imbalances up here. Don't get me started as I would then have to enumerate all the blessings we enjoy: viz no cars, clean air, fresh water from those same hills (albeit tainted a wee bit at times by sheep and deer poo) good company, honest friends, great sailing (sometimes) etc, etc.

Anyway, enough of the post-Brittany blues. There's a dinghy awaiting a mast, and a lot besides so it's back to the grindstone and the charms of a draughty milking parlour and rain splattered iron roof. Once the radio's on and the coffee brewing it won't be too bad. It's just getting back into it after ten days that's the problem.