Camping Trip to End All Camping Trips

 

"It is my sad duty to write down these unpleasant tales, but there is nothing stopping you from putting this book down at once and reading something happy, if you prefer that sort of thing."

          -A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Bad Beginning  by Lemony Snicket

          It all began with a Boston Harbor Islands camping trip with my youngest son Stephen--our one-on-one adventure last year--when Stephen suggested we do such a trip again, only this time with his older brother Trevor.  We left from the same ramp in Hingham that we'd used last year, but this time with a reservation for a camp site on the newly-opened Peddocks Island.  Like Grape Island, where we'd stayed last year, and most of the other islands of the Boston Harbor Islands park system, Peddocks is a stone's throw from the mainland, has areasonable anchorage, composting toilets, eager park rangers, and both regular ferries to Boston and inter-island taxis.  Although the park information calls this "rustic camping," I think of it as luxurious.  Peddocks Island lay only 4 or 5 miles from the ramp in Hingham, so this would hardly be an adventure.

          Of course, last year's trip had turned out to be more of an adventure than we'd bargained for: grounded on a falling tide on Georges Island, finally getting off at night only to discover the centerboard case was jammed with sand and gravel, sailing for our site on Grape Island until we couldn't point, then anchoring for the night; a morning visit to the nearby shore to get a rock big enough to hammer the centerboard loose, and finally arriving at Grape Island at check-in time--but a day late.

          For this year's trip the first sign of trouble was a forecast of rain.  The NOAA forecast for Boston Harbor was characteristically brief: Winds of 5-10 miles per hour.  Rain.  I had reserved the campsite over a week in advance, not having learned that the BHI campsites are not as sought-after as, say, seats on a cross-country flight.  Now we would pay for this.  But how bad could it be?  We had mild winds, roomy tents, lots of good food, and we all love to read.  Surely we could do some nice hikes and visit other islands during the drier bits.

One consequence of having to go back for the cooler is leaving Hingham Harbor at dead low tide, snaking out between sandbars.

Here are some lessons learned, in roughly chronological order.

·        Hingham Harbor is a lovely place and easy to sail in and out of.  unless you have to come back to the ramp for the forgetten cooler.  and it's dead low tide, which features a beach with an incredibly deep and sticky ooze studded with broken shells, and a channel that threads the mud banks fit to break a snake's back. 

·        It's better to lose a sandal to the muck than your life.  Especially since we're unlikely to recover the sandal either way.

·        Threading a harbor's mudbanks at dead low tide takes much longer than sailing straight across them just an hour or two earlier.

·        Although park rangers are always on call, they can be pretty scarce at 8:30pm.  And the phone numbers printed on the BHI registration confirmation don't reach live humans outside business hours.

·        The surest way to get a ranger's attention is to put your tent up in plain view but completely outside the official camp sites.

·        Rangers are Very Nice and Excruciatingly Helpful people--especially when you are the only campers stupid enough to come to their island to camp in the rain.

          The boat securely anchored, all our stuff ashore, safe from the hordes of mosquitoes in our tents at the officially-sanctioned site, we ate a simple midnight supper as the first drops began to fall.  We drifted off to sleep to the pitter-pat of rain drumming on the nylon.  Yes, I said "drumming."

          Awake in the middle of the morning, we discovered that our tents weren't entirely waterproof--little puddles were dealt with using drinking cups and a washcloth.  I went out in the light rain to put up the free-standing umbrella and folding chairs I'd cleverly stuffed in the cabin.  If I arranged it right and the wind didn't shift, I could keep one chair mostly out of the rain and a second about half out of it.  If I needed a good stretch, this would be the place.  Breakfast was granola, oatmeal and coffee without sugar (forgotten on the boat).  After eating, we went to check out another possible shelter: a little house built on the dock optimistically equipped with some dozen or so bench seats for tourists waiting for water taxi or ferry.  It would be an adequate book nook, and came with a view of nearby Hull and the bay we'd sailed across yesterday. 

The view from our campsite.

View inland from the dock: the old chapel, the portajons, and our campsite near center.

Beatrice Ann is anchored on a short rode only 20yds off beach.  No worries: light winds!

          Spying a schedule on the dock and feeling hopeful about the small drizzle falling, we decided to chance a tour of nearby George's Island, home to a historic Civil War-era fort cum military base cum prisoner-of-war camp, etc, etc.  Stephen and I had gone last year and he had put it on this year's itinerary also, partly for Trevor's sake, and partly because he wanted to return with flashlights to explore the darker and scarier recesses of the big granite structure.  Of course, we forgot the flashlights in the tents.

Leaving Peddocks Island and heading across the Gut to Hull, then on to Georges Island.

          The (free!) water taxi brought us the mile or two through Hull Gut to George's Island, which strategically commands the only original deep-water entry into Boston Harbor.  We wandered the well-designed exhibits of the visitor's center, then ventured into the light rain to explore the fort itself.  Funny story: the fort was originally built as part of a huge network of congressionally-authorized coastal defenses designed to protect us from attack by ships-of-the-line that might mount a hundred guns up to forty-two pounders.  When it was completed in the 1850s, there was only enough money left for one gun. 

          The design was all but obsolete even as it was being built: a memorial to the star-shaped French designs of Medieval days.

          Of course, Ft. Warren eventually mounted respectable batteries and was updated many times over the next century--always for the last war, of course--playing a role in the Civil War as a training base for Union recruits and later a notably humane prisoner-of-war camp for Confederate soldiers.  (Another story: the the camp commandant was so highly-regarded by the confederate soldiers imprisoned there, that when his son went off to war he carried with him a letter signed by many of them which desired that the son be well-treated in the event of his capture.)  Later the fort was ready for the Spanish-American War that fizzled suddenly after the Spanish fleet was destroyed, and became a base for remotely-operated mines that protected Boston from submarine attack during the world wars.  (With all the shipping that comes through Boston, the thought of Coast Guardsmen at the fort with their fingers on mine detonation buttons makes me shudder.)  In the end, the fort never saw an attack. 

          On this second day, we learned yet more lessons.

·        The water-resistant "Dri Ducks" rain suit works pretty well, but isn't very durable.

·        Cheap plastic ponchos are as apt to rain inside as out, and also aren't very durable.

·        If you are repeatedly approached by rangers who tell you that ferry service will be shut down early due to the weather, you should enquire further about the developing weather.

·        Often times NOAA marine forecasters cannot get wind directions right even one day out, but can generally be relied on to tell you maximum wind speeds.  But sometimes they do it backwards: right about wind directions,  wrong about speeds.

·        A thirty-foot catamaran water taxi with twin 225HP engines can be scarily unsteady in biggish waves and twenty-plus mile-an-hour winds.

·        Cheap, leaky tents in an open field generally fair even less well as winds build to almost thirty miles-an-hour.

·        A twenty-foot boat should not be anchored near a lee shore in such a wind--unless the anchor can get a good grip on something more immovable than sand.  (More anon.)

·        Even if you were not present to witness it, you know your boat grounded at low tide if you find your rudder afloat from its gudgeons, and your centerboard jammed in the trunk by sand.

·        Despondency is a powerful enervator: I had equipment I could have used, but couldn't get up the energy to look thoroughly through my wet gear.

Outside the outermost wall of Ft. Warren in the rain and fog.

          Back on Peddocks, we returned to our tents to discover they leaked a good deal more than we'd thought.  I bailed over a gallon of water from the floor, one quart sauce pan at a time, as more rained down on me from the sides and roof.  Eventually I discovered I could sort of sqeegee the water out the door, saving the bailing for the puddles in corners and edges.  Luckily I had brought a cushion from the boat that enabled me to sit without being in standing water.

          It was about this point, sitting on my cushion and wondering what to do next, that Trevor commented that it wouldn't be an adventure if we weren't cold and wet.  Never mind that I maintain that hot and wet can be just as adventurous--my heart was warmed by his fortitude and good humor.  As we laughed and joked about this, I reflected that at no time did either of my boys whine about the situation or ask to go home.  I can think of no child of my acquaintance who would show such spirit, and I was immensely proud of both of them.

          With nothing to do but feel sorry for ourselves as we watched the tent walls shudder with the wind, showering us with rain, then occasionally collapse almost flat with gusts, I decided it must be time for a story.  Fortunately I had thought ahead, choosing from the shelf on the way out a book I had never read: Peter Pan.  It's well worth reading--especially the beginning, with its description of Mrs. Darling whose "romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was, perfectly conspicuous in the righthand corner" and Mr Darling, who "was one of those deep ones who knew about stocks and shares.  Of course no one really knows, but he seemed to know, and he often said stocks were up and shares were down in a way that would have made any woman respect him" and who "got all of her, except the innermost box and the kiss.  He never knew about the box, and in time he gave up trying for the kiss."  Over the flapping and clatter of wind and rain I read aloud, stopping only every other chapter to rest my voice and bail water.  Interrupted only by a belated supper (the lighter refused to work for a while) and a visit from the rangers, I read 10 chapters before we tried to sleep.  Both boys were quiet, but whenever I paused both insisted on hearing more.  The rangers came to give us a positive weather report for the morrow--wind slackening to 5-10mph and less rain--and to suggest we move the tents into the shelter of nearby rose bushes, which I promptly did.  (This made a difference in that, instead of near-constant drizzle inside the tents, less-frequent gusts meant heavier downpours of accumulated drops.  Also, the rose bushes were hell on my bare legs and feet.)

          We awoke about 8 the next morning to find rain and wind both much diminished.  Breakfast was even more delayed: the lighter took an hour and a half to light, refusing to work until after warming in my pocket and being tried until my trigger finger began to cramp.  After that it was time to pack.  I wanted to get into Hingham near the 1pm top of the tide, to avoid the difficulties of the outbound trip.  I worked away steadily at my tent and wondered what was happening inside their tent.  Eventually I found out: nothing, since both boys had decided to take off their wet clothes, and there were no drier ones to put on instead.  Eventually I got the stove going and found a solution.  More lessons learned:

·        A few minutes in a saucepan on a hot stove is enough to warm wet clothing enough to put on.  (Not dry it, mind you--just make it feel less miserable going on in that critical first minute.)

·        Don't try this with nylon.

·        The organizational skills of children with ADHD are not improved by being tired and cold.

·        Yelling may make you feel better, but won't necessarily improve the outward situation.

I did not manage our departure well at all.  After my instructions went unheeded and I found the boys throwing apples at each other three separate times, I decided to leave the remainder of the packing to them while I paddled out to the anchored boat and brought it to the beach.  The last equipment came on board very tardily, out of order, and covered with sand.  The boy's tent was a random bundle trailing tent stakes and pieces of pole.  (Bags for all of these came separately later on.)  I kept the boat on the beach--its bottom grinding against the shingle with the wake of every passing boat--for an hour, to do a loading job that should have taken ten minutes as first one boy, then the other, shuffled to the beach with an arm-load of miscellany.  I'm afraid all my shouting did not leave a good impression with the rangers, who wisely kept out of sight.

          My inability to get the deeply-buried anchor off the bottom meant that I had brought the boat ashore by bending on additional rode to reach the beach.  Now we hauled off, rigged to leave, and stood taut-rode and directly above the anchor. which I expected to do the trick fairly quickly.  It didn't.  Even taking up the slack and cleating off in the troughs of boat wakes so that the full buoyancy of the boat was on the rode didn't unearth the anchor.  Squinting, I could just see the end of my six feet of chain standing above the bottom.  More than an hour later, I finally had the whole anchor chain hanging below, but still the boat did not move.  More pulling, and the chain came to the gunwale in the 8 feet of depth, but still the boat felt stuck.  If you do the math, you'll see the anchor must have been above the bottom--what was going on?  All at once we realized the boat was adrift, with the magic anchor seemingly still pulling nearly as hard as ever.  I cleated it firmly below us and we sailed very slowly and unsteadily out into Hull Bay.

          Finally, by passing my painter through one link after another in the chain and using it as a two-part hoist, I managed to get my anchor into view: it had hooked solidly through a big rusty Danforth that had fouled with its own chain.  The old chain-and-anchor had formed a loop that my own Danforth had gone right through the middle of.  Unwilling to try any further to hoist it on deck (having already chewed-up my gunwale in the exercise), I gave up our efforts as lost and cut the whole mess loose in the deep waters of Hull Bay.  But at least the mystery was solved.

Stephen is positively cheerful at the tiller.

Now we can read Peter Pan in the sun!

Nearly sunset; Boston skyline at right.

Sunset over the Hingham Yacht Club.

More lessons learned:

·        I have a lousy sense of direction, and--for all my experience--can't read the shoreline for beans.  --I'm a poor navigator with a gps in hand, a worse one without.

·        The spare gps isn't much use if you can't find it.

·        A "simple straight shot" might not be so straight at low tide.  It's even less simple at night.  and even less simple when the buoys marking the winding channel are unlighted.

·        A wife and mother who will put hot food on the table for you at

any hour is a priceless treasure.

·        I don't care if it is only 4 miles--BRING THE GPS NEXT TIME!

A busy July has ended

I spent July running a summer program building boats with kids at St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, New Bedford.  Yesterday we launched the boats, culminating an experience that pleased the kids, their parents, the church, and even the occaisonal passer-by.  It left me feeling a bit smug.  Take a look at http://standrewssummer.blogspot.com/

Two days and nights in Buzzards Bay

After a few years of treating Buzzards Bay as a road to Woods Hole and points beyond, I've finally toured the Bay itself.  Trevor and I launched in New Bedford Harbor early in the evening of June 26 with light winds and a beautiful sky.  We rode an ebb tide and fair wind down the Acushnet River and hooked east around West Island in the failing light; as fog closed in we sought a place in the shelter of the island with the help of gps.  We anchored inshore of Whale Rock about 9pm, ate a quick dinner of stew, chowder and cookies, and settled in for a quiet night.

The gps track goes counter-clockwise around the Bay.  It is a rough track: not fine-grained enough to show shorter tacks.  The red line I added is 5 nautical miles.

A panoramic view of our anchorage in a little bight on the east side of West Island.

The morning was beautiful, though the midges were biting.  We had coffee, scones, and granola as the terns around us dove for their own breakfast.  I rowed us ashore to walk a beautiful and unpeopled salt marsh, where a nesting mother flew at me, angrily calling bdip! bdip! bdip!  We were underway again by 10:30, sailing southeast 5nm across the Bay for Quissett Harbor, where we'd stayed overnight several years ago.

The terns are a blur here, or too small to show up easily.  They dive obliquely with a great splash, then struggle to get airborne once more, then repeat.

Beatrice Ann on the beach. 

The salt marsh.

Momma bird on her lookout rock, just right of center.

Whale Rock, which we saw in the fog last night.

 From Penzance beside Woods Hole, we sailed sedately north along the Bay's eastern shore, passing Quissett, and Great Sippewisset Marsh and its wind turbines, and putting our nose into Wild and Megansett Harbors.  All the while I relaxed at the tiller with the chart book in my lap and my cruising guide in my hands, reading about each place, while Trevor took his nose out of his book long enough to take the air on the foredeck.

Penzance

Stone Point dike and the entrance channel to the Cape Cod Canal.

Soon after 4pm we passed the "traffic light" for the Cape Cod Canal on Wings Neck--and it WAS a traffic light, apparently appropriated from some street intersection somewhere.  Soon we were passing the end of Stony Point dike, which marks the entrance channel to the canal.  It suddenly occurred to me that we could make Sippican Harbor  that evening --a destination I'd been looking at since last season--if we were quick.  After an afternoon of broad reaching and running, we turned hard on the wind, and cleared Butler Point by sailing over the shoal inside lonely Bird Island, opening Sippican Harbor at 5:30pm. 

Bird Island looks too exposed and frail to exist.

Marion's harbor is long and lovely and chock-a-block with moorings.  The harbormaster's office, (scoped out by land long ago) is a small room raised above a veranda near the top of the harbor--but was hard to spot amid the clutter.  We dropped the hook a mile away in a marginally protected spot off Ram Island (after an abortive attempt to close to some sort of shellfish farm around the corner).  With so much daylight left, I sprawled out in the cockpit with a book, while Trevor polished off his in the cabin.  We ate our stew and bread and turned in relatively early.

Ram Island

Next morning, I recovered from a sleepless night (back pain) well enough for a cheerful paddle to the town dock, where we abandoned the inflatable for a walking tour of downtown Marion.  We spent a long time in The Stall, where I perused the nautical section, Trevor added to his Fablehaven books, and we utterly failed to find a book on the famous and mysterious Mary Celeste incident.  On a bench in front of the Historical Society (alas, closed) we ate a lunch of sandwiches from the General Store, then followed it up with ice cream from the shop around the corner.

Lunch stop.

Trevor eats ice cream in the shade.

Back aboard in the early afternoon, I got the anchor aboard and stowed while Trevor sailed us out.  Without actually planning it, he ended up sailing the whole way home, working us to windward of points and shoals, taking us up the river, and sailing through the hurricane barrier back into New Bedford harbor.  I mostly lounged about the cabin, looked at the chart to plot strategy, and napped a bit.  Trevor was quite pleased with himself.  Fog came and went as the day wore on, and even the hurricane barrier was invisible from more than a hundred feet away--giving us quite a start when it loomed suddenly up.  We landed before 8pm and tucked-in to a late supper at home shortly after 9pm.

Trevor practices with the inflatable as I begin to rig for sail.

Trevor has the helm for six hours straight.

Trevor, the chart shows the daymark at the eastern end of a rocky shoal--let's keep it to starboard.



Dots, Connected

I've now connected the last remaining unconnected dots in Narragansett Bay, I think.  As I built my first boat, ambition grew in me to to sail, over time, as much coastline as possible.  Over the succeeding seven seasons I've covered all of Narragansett Bay from ramps in Oakland Beach, Fall River, Narragansett, Bristol, Tiverton, Newport and Little Compton.  I have sailed around Prudence and Patience Islands, around Conanicut Island (Jamestown) and Aquidneck Island (the original "Rhode Island").  I've been up the Providence River as far as the hurricane barrier and then a few miles up the Seekonk River as well.  I've been up the Taunton River (or drifted down it) pretty much as far as it is navigable.  I've been up and down both East and West Passages and been all over the Sakonnet "River."  I've spent time sailing Point Judith Pond.  Finally, I've used the Bay as jumping-off point to sail to Block Island (from Narragansett) and New Bedford (from Sakonnet Harbor, Little Compton).  Taken together, my tracks have interlaced into such a webwork that--tracing with a finger--you could go from anywhere in the Bay directly to anywhere else without picking up your finger from the chart. 

-except one small but nagging gap: Although I have sailed up and down the Sakonnet "River" many times, I had never been to Sakonnet Harbor (my launch pad for excursions to New Bedford and Newport) from anywhere else.  These are the dots now connected: a rainy day's sailing from Fogland, Tiverton to Sakonnet Harbor, Little Compton, six nautical miles away.

Of course, you could argue that one trip up and down would "cover" Narragansett Bay, but for me the shoreline includes every navigable cove and river--which for a 20-foot sailboat that draws less than a foot of water, covers a lot of ground.  Even more if you're careful with tides. 

Moreover, it is the shoreline that makes sailing a shoal-draft boat worthwhile: there is an endless variety to be found along open shores, little coves, and peaceful rivers that is not to be found in open water, and is only hinted at in views from the deck of a deep water boat.

I made the day trip that connected these last dots on a rainy May 17th with rare northerly winds, delighting in the idea that Surprise would get a workout in the conditions I built her for: those that involve keeping me comfortably enclosed.  The forecast was for showers, and in preparation I had made a little cover for the one remaining hole in the boat's slot cover: the 3 1/2-inch square hole for the mast.  Although Surprise will keep her crew dry once aboard and underway, I expected rain on the road down, and wondered how I could load and rig in rain, not to mention get underway and anchor in the rain.

It turned out to be dry all the way to Fogland, dry while I heaved the boat off with the tide just a few inches too low for the trailer, and dry while I rigged.  Beginning after noon, I had a glorious fast sail (5+ knots almost the whole way, with excursions into the 6s and once touching 7) south to Sakonnet Harbor.  In fact, so fixated was I on the imposing Sakonnet Light that I missed the little harbor entrance and had to back-track a quarter-mile from the toothy shoal the light marked. All this in dry weather.  Darn!

It took me a good long while to get the boat comfortably anchored since I wanted to be able to step ashore dryshod in rubber boots but didn't want the boat pounded on the shingle by the waves.  (Sakonnet Harbor is well-protected from any wind except the rare northerly that sped me south that day.)  But I finally went ashore with my thermos of coffee and a nice (if somewhat squashy) sandwich from Provender, a lovely dessert-and-sandwich place in Tiverton.

I had no sooner sat down on the rocks with a beautiful view of the Light, when the sky opened up.  I stuffed the last of my sodden sandwich into my mouth as water streamed off the waxed paper in my lap, then high-tailed it for the beach and my dry cabin.  Back aboard, I was grateful for the foresight that led me to button-up tight before going ashore.  As I sat and ate my dessert and finished my coffee, I reflected that a dry boat isn't nearly as comfortable when you're clothes are damp.  I considered the need to remove the covers that were keeping the rain out in order that I might make sail and get the anchor up, and wondered how much wetter I (more importantly the boat) would get in the process.  But the rain stopped long enough for me to get underway and well out of the harbor, only coming down with a satisfying patter on the roof and dimpling of the sea when we were well underway about 4pm.

The trip back north was much slower than the one down since it was "uphill" in rising wind and seas.  I kept full sail up and the boat made best speed heeled so her chine (rather than the flat bottom) was presented to the waves.  Even so, the pram bow makes it difficult to keep way on in a tack, and I had several times to wear around (jibe) to come about.  One of those times I laid the boat right down in the water--starboard windows submerged.  This isn't nearly traumatic as you might suppose, and I've had to get used to it.  I anticipated this particular problem, what with the wind and waves and lack of my usual crew for ballast, and when the windows went under (accompanied by the sound of all my gear shifting and crashing), I released the sheet and scooted as close to the bottom as I could.  After a long 5 or 10 seconds we were back upright and quickly under way on the new tack.  Surprise's pram shape dislikes chop--especially tacking through it--but moved briskly in the smooth water sheltered by various spits.  Surprise hit the ramp at about 7:30pm, the rain holding off once more while I got the boat packed up on the trailer, ending a modestly successful excursion.

By George, I Think I've Got It!

Fussing and fiddling had finally gotten me my OWN design:

• 13 1/2 feet long,
• with 13-inch-high sides for adequate freeboard heavily loaded,
• 26 inches wide at the bottom of the center frame (for a modicum of stability)
• 33 inches wide at  the top of center frame (for modest rocker and not too wide to paddle easily),
• double-ended to be paddle either way and so as not to drag much with ends immersed,
• with exterior chine logs to fasten bottom to,
• inwales to stiffen the sides without adding width,
• canoe-style seats (in addition to the center frame) to help the hull hold its shape

(Exterior chine logs are not only easier to make, but might also help the boat keep from sliding sideways in a breeze.)  Two people can paddle it comfortably.  If someone goes solo, reverse the boat so you're on the forward seat facing aft (the usual "stern" being the new "bow") for better one-person balance.  (Not an idea original to me, by the way.)

I started measuring the sides on ply this morning and came to an abrupt halt: this boat is so close to being a two sheeter!  If I continued, once I cut the 13" sides from the long edges, the resulting <22" wide center is a few inches too narrow to cut the bottom from--the more so because exterior chine logs add 1 1/2 inches to the width of the bottom.  At the same time I sat Stephen on the deck and measured up his side: even one-foot-high sides would make it difficult for him to paddle.  (Granted he wouldn't usually be sitting flat on the bottom, but either on canoe-style seats or cushions.)

The plywood layout plan implied by my original design.  Look at all the wasted wood!

So: reduce the sides to 12 inches.  Still too little left for the bottom--even if I narrowed the center frame to 24", since the ply thickness and chine width must be taken into account. 

Ah--but cutting out the sides leaves three feet or more untouched at one end of one sheet: can I work out a way to get enough of the widest part of the bottom to fit in that few feet?  Lots of drawing, and figuring, and measuring of models later, I have a plan:  keep the bottom of the center frame at 26", making total width of bottom 28" at the middle (assuming 1/4" thick ply and 3/4" wide chine logs).  Take advantage of the stems' rake of 45 degrees (1' in from ends).  Work out how the big end of one ply sheet and the small end of other piece are combined: 4 1/2' total from edges to bottom of stem cuts.  Divide this half, making center of bottom be 15" in from edge of bigger remains piece.  Now turn to the balsa model and figure out how many inches the bottom would narrow in the 27" from middle of bottom to where the bottom would be constricted by cutting the sides.  Leave a teensy bit of slack for the saw kerf and a wandering cut.

Drawing: the overall rectangle is two sheets of plywood laid end-to-end. The sides are cut from the top and bottom edges of the ply, and the two parts of the bottom are cut from the middle beginning at the outside edges.  the leftover bit in the middle of the two ply sheets could form modest decks at the ends, with advantage advantage taken of the wedge-shaped cutouts for aesthetic affect.  The top shows the finished boat in profile and end-on.

DONE--26" full width of bottom would narrow to about 22" at 2' from the middle.  That's a little short of constriction (at 27") and still leaves a bit for errors or a more gradually-narrowing bottom!  The remaining pieces of ply would amount to 3', which (after removing 4" in the middle for a bottom butt strap) could become fore and aft decks of 12" and about 20" on centerline, but much longer on the sides because of the taper of the bottom at the ends.  Little coamings following this inside curve could make this boat look rather pretty!  There should be enough left for side butt straps, and maybe seats!  One final structural test: lining up the joints and framing, the sides are butted together over 1' forward of the center frame, and the bottom is butted together about 2-3 inches forward of the center frame, so no joints align to make a weakness that extends through the entire hull.

Boat Design for Dummies

(No, not the book, if there is one.)

I have been invited by a kind pastor to run a summer program for upper elementary kids at her church.  Since I have pretty much free rein, I have decided to make it "the Boat Science Experience": we will investigate floating and sinking, buoyancy, stability and the like, building and testing paper models along the way, and finishing with the building of a real paddling boat (maybe even more than one).  To this end, I have been investigating designs for boats that would hold two kids or one kid and one adult, be a good enough performer not to be frustrating, and be simple and cheap to build.  A Michael Storer (Aussie) design called the Quick Canoe 150 seemed to fit the bill, and I bought a set of plans.  The plans--all metric--require a good deal of meticulous measuring and drawing of curves, which might be good practice for using metric units and doing careful work.  Or not, with kids this age.

Then I started asking around on-line for advice on building boats with kids and got a lot of good responses--some of it related to the ins and outs of doing this kind of class (keep it SIMPLE), some of it related to the choice of designs.  I was impressed by the simplicity of the designs suggested: some are made of two perfectly straight-cut sides attached to a trapezoidal center frame and bend around to form the ends of the canoe/kayak.  Though the wood is straight, the boat develops lovely curves because the sides are held at an slight angle (called "flare").  This makes the boat wider at the top than at the bottom (as most boats are) so that the ends curve gently upward both at bottom and sheer (top edge).  (The fore-and-aft curve of the bottom is called "rocker.")  The ends of the sides are cut at an angle to accommodate this flare and giving the boat more or less pointy ends as the designer wishes.  The greater the flare, the more the ends would curve upward--that is, the more the rocker and curve of the sheer.  Gunwales, sometimes inwales, and one internal frame and maybe seats give the hull enough stiffness to hold its shape.  The bottom could be experimented with to establish a shape and measurements for pre-cutting, or simply cut to fit the sides.  The designers of these "straight cuts" boats--all amateurs--could alter beam and length independently or scale the whole hull up or down as desired without altering the drawings that much.

This was a revelation.  Here were nice-looking hulls very simply drawn and built.  You could play with such designs easily with pencil, ruler, cardboard and scissors.

Top ("plan") view: from the right, the first two boats are  the published designs Wacky Lassie and Lazy Weekend Canoe, the others are my modifications.  Actual lengths are about 13 feet for most.

Except for Wacky Lassie, all the designs have a similar amount of "flare" (angle of sides from the vertical)--

--which gives them a similar "rocker" and sheer line (curve of bottom and gunwale)

Now-- I have always been of the opinion that boat design was for pros and really experienced amateurs.  I would never trust my money and time to a design of my own--I would want to be sure the thing would GO once I had spent all that money for materials and put in the months of labor.  But for a simple boat like this, I'm beginning to change my mind.  You see, the designs I've looked at aren't quite what I want: good capacity but not too much length, wide enough at the chine (bottom edge) not to be too tiddly but narrow enough at the sheer for a child to use a double paddle, and light enough for a couple of pre-teens to handle and car-top.  Hmmm...