Category: ALL POSTS

Perception is everything. Trust me. I have an old friend who argues: “Reality is perception and perception is reality.” In other words, how you see the world is arguably how the world operates. This bit of philosophy works at the micro-level, but what happens when you scale up to whole societies? Then you are at the messy game of politics and policymaking—at lot of fudging and working on smoothing off edges. The art of compromise.

My long introduction to the fact we are now at lofting. Lofting, for those of us new to boatbuilding, is the art of taking a design (recall we accomplished the scale model a couple of weeks ago) and turning it into a full-sized craft on a shop floor, in pencil, and a lot of erasure marks.

The first step was to take out all the work benches and tool kits. A lot of groans as students hauled the collection of saws, planes and chisels back to one’s vehicle. Then it was time to drag off the work benches (500lbs a piece) and prepare the shop floors for a skin of door sheeting.

Door sheeting is the veneer one finds on the surface of most modern interior closures within a house. It comes in 4×8 foot sheets and is approximately an 1/8th of an inch thick. Works well for providing visual barriers, an appearance of fine finish, or a smooth surface for pencils and an occasional crayon. (Your children will draw on doors—an inevitable consequence of turning three years-old. Or so my mother tells me.)

Now, back to the project at hand.

We laid out the sheets on the shop floor and proceeded to very carefully line up the edges and ends so as to provide a baseline (almost as precise as that found on the desk-sized drafting paper). A few pounds of staples and paint later, the appropriate palate for lofting a 16 foot sailboat was available to 30 teams of students.

Time to draw stations, grids, diagonals and butts. (Yes, butts…another set of grid lines, not a bad joke.) At this stage we have a full-sized version of the drafting station that once measured 11-24 inches. As you can imagine, the batons and drafting tools have all had to scale up as well. Instead of plastic rulers and fancy French curves carefully stowed in a pocket, the lofting job requires 20 foot strips, tick marks spread along an 8 foot plank, and a lot of endlessly sharpened pencils. Oh, did I mention the nails?

Once the lines are read off a table of offsets or derived from previously crafted measurements, one must lay out batons to “connect the dots.” This requires a bucket of finish nails and more than a bit of hammer work. In other words, don’t try to loft at home, your significant other will not be impressed with the sea of holes left in a hardwood floor. Add to this the fact you are compelled to wander about in socks so as to avoid marring previous lines and, well, this is not a project for one’s living room.

And so we proceed in vanquishing the mystery of lofting. As best my unpracticed eye can tell, the class of 2016 is well on its way to crafting a full-sized 16 foot sailboat. The Jedi masters, however, want to be sure all tricks of the trade are passed on to a new generation, cueing Jeff Hammond and his thirty-plus years of experience.

 

Now we are back to my observation on perception and reality. While the perfectionists among us would like to have the entire lofting process precisely match the offsets and lines indicted on the scale plans, Jeff is quick to remind us each wooden boat is a reflection of the lofter and builder. In other words, no 16 footer in the shops is going to be exactly the same. Somewhere in this process human interaction with pencils, paper, nails, door veneer and batons is going to result in slight deviations. To say nothing of then going into construction with a less than perfect medium—wood.

It’s more than a little humbling to keep this in mind after having precision driven into the brain via endless dovetail practice, but reassuring for those of us who can swing a mean paintbrush while struggling with straight hand-saw cuts. So on to the lofting we continue. A figurative exercise that could produce that elusive target—a floating object lovingly referred to as a wooden boat.

 

Eric Anderson is a retired Air Force officer who can be found puttering in his shop when not scribbling on the keyboard. A new resident of Port Townsend, he is an avid sailor, struggling carpenter, and would-be writer.

About the time I was lamenting absence of contact with nautical craft, we get a reprieve. Escape one came with a trip to Port Townsend’s “Boat Haven.” A working shipyard with an interesting collection of commercial, military, and recreational craft. If it floats—regardless of hull material—a boat in the Northwest is likely to be found in the Boat Haven at some point or another. This is a field trip for adults absent the ubiquitous yellow school bus.

Adding further intellectual amusement to our days at Port Hadlock, we were subsequently offered the opportunity to wander through Edensaw Woods and the Port Townsend Foundry. Edensaw Woods is an “adult” store for woodworkers. Opened by a pair of Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding graduates, Edensaw claims to have approximately 1 million board feet of lumber on hand and provides access to a sea of tools. Throw in access to their millwork shop and…well…you have a collection of awestruck students.

The Port Townsend Foundry is a story in and of itself. Opened in 1983, the Foundry specializes in casting marine hardware. These are artisans of the metal world; keeping in mind many of their models are first developed in wood. In essence, becoming a Foundry specialist means you will have to master some of the same skills we are honing on a daily basis. An eye-opener for people who thought wood was just a quaint construction material employed in homes and floating objects.

Thinking of floating objects, escape from the drafting wizards meant we were dispatched to construct a half-plane model of the hull so laboriously sketched out on each desk in the classroom. Sounds simple. Take the plans you have just developed, select an appropriate 10 feet of 1 x 11 inch pine, and then draw each of the water line breaks on a stacking basis to arrive at a three-dimensional artifact of the drawing you have come to loath.

Sounds simple—execution is another story.

The lines for each of the eight pieces you are about to sketch and then cut from the pine planks are resident on those carefully drawn drafts. Just pick up a pair of calibers and start transferring the dimensions from paper to wood. Then casually wander over to a band saw and set about cutting out each of the pieces. (As you might suspect, I am using the term “casually” quite sarcastically here…the sawing process is mentally and physically challenging…no one wants to have to cut a second set of waterlines…even when they are only 16 inches long.)

Now for the fun part. Stack the resulting pieces together so they may be glued and carved into a model reflecting your drawing. No mean feat. Welcome to the common toothpick. What quickly becomes apparent is that stacking all that lumber and glue is a slippery affair unless you figure out a means of keeping the various levels attached while going through an assembly process. This is where the toothpicks come in.

As you are going to have to carve the hull shape into this collection of pine slicings, screws are out. So for each layer a couple of holes are drilled to insert the toothpicks and then glue is applied. Works like a charm, but I never thought I would be using my claw hammer to drive toothpicks into lumber. Back to that whole thing about being a boat school where one is in danger of learning new things here.

Once the basic shape is glued and clamped it’s time to work on the next skill. Dovetails.

Sigh.

I am no “natural” at dovetails. The Jedi Masters (aka instructors) torture us with a film of the dovetail savants. There are people who seemingly cut perfect dovetails without employing measurement or marking. Not me. At this point I must have cut 50 dovetails and the glue is not yet dry on the half-plane model. Practice, practice. Homework for the evening. I just wonder what the neighbors think when I sit in the shop and turn perfectly good lumber into scrap.

Back to the boat. Once glue has set and the resultant product is clamped into place it’s time for the draw knife, spoke shave and hand plane. All that sharpening time is now going to pay off. I will get to spend the next eight hours carving the rough cut form into a hull form worthy of running hands over a baby’s bottom.

Yes, you read that correctly. A well-formed half-plane hull model should feel as smooth as a baby’s behind. It’s an instinctive thing, not easily explained. For some reason, many of us just come to the realization the hull shape is right because it feels right. Some things in life defy science and mathematical explanations.

Don’t laugh. More than one old master of this craft built a model and then backed the design off onto paper after sensing the dimensions were perfect for sliding through water.

And with that we come to the end of another week at the Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding. Oh, before I depart to work on more dovetails, a positive note to keep motivation in proper trajectory. The livery class has now provided all of us an opportunity to employ rowboats constructed by previous students. Suffice it to say there is nothing more satisfying than messing about in boats—off to row.

Eric Anderson is a retired Air Force officer who can be found puttering in his shop when not scribbling on the keyboard. A new resident of Port Townsend, he is an avid sailor, struggling carpenter, and would-be writer.

No one ever said boat school would be all sawdust and hand tools. Oh, you would like to believe that was the case, but truth of the matter is new designs require drafting…and drafting means sitting at a desk while figuring out how to create a three-dimensional model on a two dimension surface. The computer guys have figured out how to accomplish this task with a relatively simple set of keystrokes. We are doing it with pencil, compass and a table of offsets.

Enough to keep even the most grizzled carpenter humble.

Think of it this way. Take the blue print for your home. Set it on plane form (what it looks like from the side), then add the front view. So far so good. Then add a perspective pulling in the rear shot (where the bar-b-que grill will go along with your hammock and lawnmower.

Not done yet.

To make life more challenging, tip the entire design onto its left front corner and then draw lines for the basement and roofline from a gopher’s perspective. Did I mention it all has to stay on one sheet of paper measuring 18 x 24 inches? Daunting was the first word that came to my mind. I think some of my fellow students had equally mind numbing terms passing through their cerebral cortex.

Coffee and lunch become the mental health break. Coffee is an excuse to walk back to the pot and look over everyone’s shoulder. Ah, that’s how you derive the following measurements. It’s also an excuse to see just how good some of the classmates are at waging battle with paper and pencil. Suffice it to say, more than a few of my cohort should become architects. I would just be happy to pass civil engineering.

Alas, I forgot to mention what we were drafting. A classic hull for a 16 foot sailboat, drawn over a century ago be people most Americans will never come to know. The lines are remarkable, performance was likely capable of delivering endless smiles, and the entire process was accomplished without wind tunnels, water tanks, or computer models—those old guys were smart in a means that simply does not translate into today’s society.

Unless you are on the far edge of programming cellphone apps or still trying to create new furniture out of wood, absent a 3D printer.

This all begs the question, did we accomplish the mission? Yes! Some of the work will almost certainly land up behind glass in a picture frame for others to admire. Mine will become a sketch for a model that leaves a thousand compass pin pricks in the outlines. Regardless of ultimate disposition, the lesson came across loud and clear, here is how to envision a boat before turning to timber selection.

In my own humble observation, more “visionaries” would be well-suited to a lesson in working through this exercise in imagination and exacerbation. Who knows, it might have save the Ford Motor Company from the Edsel. A story for another day.

Completed draft in hand, we are back to the shop. Time to construct the classic half-plane form model one can find in endless antique stores. My bet is most of those “antiques” came off a basement bench and never resulted in a finished craft. Our task is less benign, but equally as dusty.

So we reach the end of week four and lean into the next set of skills. I, for one, am wondering when I will finally cut a set of dovetails that will allow for me to construct a box sufficient for hauling tools into a shipyard—less set my hands on an actual floating boat.
 

Eric Anderson is a retired Air Force officer who can be found puttering in his shop when not scribbling on the keyboard. A new resident of Port Townsend, he is an avid sailor, struggling carpenter, and would-be writer.

Welcome to week three of wooden boat school. By now you’ve been entertained with joints of all variety, made a few hand tools—including a mallet sufficient for whacking any chisel, and struggled through a variety of power tool lectures that leaves one wondering if any of these devices may be employed without risk to life or limb…or at least all the digits on either hand. (More than one instructor has threatened that graduation is dependent up leaving a year from now with the same number of fingers as when you started. If the number was 10 on day 1, it better be 10 on day 365. Same is true if you enrolled with nine digits.)

With that bit of wisdom firmly in hand—pun fully intended—we are encouraged to learn the fine art of making square timbers into spars. (For those of you not afflicted with a sailing addiction, the spar—boom or mast—is a stick upon which a sail is attached in a manner sufficient to create proper form for lift on a vertical plane. Aircraft depend upon a horizontal lift pattern—sailboats work on a vertical. In essence, you are “flying” sideways along the water. Ok, ok, enough of the nautical, back to woodworking.)

Just when you thought power tools are dangerous, welcome to the draw knife. Featuring a blade students have been encouraged to hone down to shaving quality, a draw knife will make short work of pine and fir in a manner of minutes. It also creates a pile of shavings that beg for a bonfire. Given Port Hadlock’s history, we are strongly discouraged from considering the option of burning—but a bag of the material did make it to my backyard. No need for gasoline when granted access to this kind of material.

So there we are, taking a perfectly good 4×4 and turning it into a rolling pin via the sharpest hand tools one can accumulate. Sounds simple. Take a sequence of measurements that turn the square into an octagon, then 16 sides and, finally, 32 that are shaved into a smooth feature perfect for rolling pie crust or pizza dough.

Right. Sounds simple. Execution is an entirely different manner. Particularly when sandpaper is off the agenda.

The class whizzes pull this off in a manner of hours. The rest of us get to ponder what constitutes circular and why the damn timber will not roll easily over a table top, less pass with the Jedi Knight (aka instructor) standing at the bench in front of us neophytes. Suffice it to say, much pine was left on the shop floor and more than one 4×4 went into the scrap bin as a failed rolling pin.

Frustration aside, this was not a gesture of futility. Many of the finest tall ship sticks in the world are still working with timber spars and similar masts. Someone has to retain the skill necessary to manufacture replacements or we will all be condemned to fiberglass and aluminum. (Hmmm, perhaps “condemned” is too strong a term—what I meant to say was “constrained.” Must have been a Freudian Slip—my subconscious effort to preserve the world of wooden boats when confronted with the reality of modern convenience.)

In any case, something approaching round finally came from my knotty 4×4. It rolled across the table saw with minimal wobble and was suitable for squishing spiders and other insects that meander through the shop.

Such are the days of learning to recreate skills so common to those who resided in this area just a scant century ago. Fortunately the Ford 150 does not need a saddle or to be brushed and shoed on a regular basis—I would never make it to class on time if that were the case.

On to the next week of challenges—drafting up lines for a sailboat. Perhaps I can glean some of the secrets that made the Herreshoff name famous. Sketching has to be easier than sharpening and planing a 4×4 day after day.
 

Eric Anderson is a retired Air Force officer who can be found puttering in his shop when not scribbling on the keyboard. A new resident of Port Townsend, he is an avid sailor, struggling carpenter, and would-be writer.

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For more on the Herreshoff family and their boats, I strongly recommend reading: Roger C Taylor, 2015, L. Francis Herreshoff Yacht Designer, Mystic Seaport, Mystic Connecticut. A thoroughly engaging text, the story is woven together with a wonderful collection of pictures and the designs for a number of craft familiar to all of us who wander the sea.

I was once asked why spend time on “free” projects when there is so much work to be accomplished at a billable rate? The answer—at least for me—is relatively simple.  Without the generous contribution of time and money from no small number of “strangers”, I would not be granted the privilege of residing in the American northwest, to say nothing of attending a boatbuilding school.

So I find myself in the company of fellow military veterans, working at the Port Hadlock Community Boat Project. For those of you who have not had the chance to wander the campus, the Community Boat Project occupies a space just above the large boat workshops.  Providing a workspace for high school students, artisans seeking to share their skills, and a collection of the curious, this is a haven for people who enjoy wood, water and good company.

The trick, of course, is finding funding and ensuring basic labor and maintenance is accomplished on a schedule that meets program requirements. Occasionally, this means recruiting volunteers to haul trash or move lumber.  On other days it means standing on a ladder or scaffolding while assembling a covered space to store or construct the next project.

Confronted with the forthcoming winter—also known as the “great northwet” in this part of the country, the Community Boat Project requested assistance from vets attending the Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding. A few of us have practice in general contracting—others are just learning to swing a hammer.  Ultimately, it makes no difference.  You will learn to construct and assemble on the fly.

Tear down the old lean-to. Build arches for a new storage area and then stretch canvas and plastic to keep out most of the elements.  I use the term “most” very loosely.  Oh, you can keep the rain off topsides and block a majority of the prevailing wind, but, there is no eliminating the humidity and cold.  Mix the last two in this climate and there is space for everyone to experience the joy of arthritis.  Just ask the twenty-somethings who are standing next to us condemned to be labeled “baby boomers.”

Enough whining.

To keep this project in perspective, consider the option of cutting 17 foot long rafters, hauling them up 20 feet into the air and then assembling in a manner that hopefully will not blow away in the next wind storm. Add to this a covering that is 32 feet wide and about 50 feet long.  Maybe I should have taken the optional course on sail making.

Fortunately, the whole plan came to fruition. Even with a few stumbles in measurement and sawing—Japanese saws prevailed—the structure went up in record time.  It gives one a greater appreciation for what a barn-raising would have been like in the Midwest back at the turn of the century (think 1890) or what might happen on an Amish farm any given Spring or Summer to this very day.

With dogs underfoot, bagels in the belly, and hammers in hand, we partnered the boatbuilding school’s talent with local volunteers in a manner befitting the task at hand. The shelter is up and no one went home with hurt feelings.  In other words, the contribution of time giving to a new generation of woodworkers was worth every minute.

All of which leaves me asking, what are you doing to return the assistance and opportunities provided over a course of a lifetime—be that 20 or 70 years.
 
 

The talents found at a boat school may be quite different from those found in a kitchen or sewing room, but all are equally valuable when it comes to enabling those who have not the same chance to pick up the skills we have come to master.

 
 
With that said, it’s time to pack my lunches for the next week of lessons, tools, and wizened insights from the Jedi masters.

 
 

Eric Anderson is a retired Air Force officer who can be found puttering in his shop when not scribbling on the keyboard.  A new resident of Port Townsend, he is an avid sailor, struggling carpenter, and would-be writer.

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The Community Boat Project’s mission is to build a stronger Community by intergenerational Maritime Education.
To give youth a “sense of place” by connecting them to the Environment, the Economy, and the People of their region.

They are a partnership between the Puget Sound Voyaging Society, Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding, Port Townsend School District (#50), Chimacum School District (#49), and Jefferson County 4-H/WSU.

To learn more about the Community Boat Project, visit www.communityboats.wordpress.com/ or at facebook.com/CommunityBoatProject

    

Ah, we made it to week two of boatbuilding school. The morning lecture is in danger of imparting wisdom, while the remainder of any given day has been a lesson in relearning the art of simplicity, or so it would seem.  Joining disparate planks is hardly a new avocation.  Want a chest, house, or ship to come together?  Outside of plastics and Three-D printing, the time-tested solution is cutting timber to appropriate dimensions and then securing planks to one another.

This seems a relatively straightforward process, until someone takes away the power tools and renders Mr. Edison—the man who brought us saws that don’t make you sweat—a pleasant memory that will not be indulged anytime in the immediate future. Confronted with a request to create half-laps, mitered joints, dove tails and a scattering of variations of the same, the dash is on to master chisel, plane and Japanese saws.

I like to think I am a relatively patient person—at least when it comes to woodworking. Rather than demand an expediency afforded by the latest laptop, router and wizards at Google, I am satisfied with assembling projects large and small via imagination and a table saw.  Alas, the latter has been removed from my life, at least for the time being. Joints that would require 15 minutes and some careful adjustment of the blade and table fence now burn up three hours of my day. To be forthcoming, I have rendered a hefty white pine sawdust and firewood scrap assortment while in search of a perfect straight line and a “simple” flat surface.

Another note of wisdom, BEWARE THE CHISEL. Having spent no small amount of time preparing the chisels via 500 grit sandpaper and a wet stone, these tools are ready for a close shave. Timbers are less cooperative, particularly when you add knots and a grain that does not match across the width of a plank.  The seemingly sharp chisels are now blunt instruments that, when even slightly misapplied, become a great way to cut nifty slices on the end of one’s fingers. Despite this fingernail art, no band aids or blue paint tape (a general contractor’s solution to on-site emergencies) on my fingers, yet. Oh sure, there are a few odd slices and indentations in my fingernails, but nothing worthy of a trip to the medicine cabinet or—worse yet—an emergency room.

Having managed to complete the week’s tasks in a semi-timely manner—the bevels took me four tries and more than a few choice of under-the-breadth comments—it was time to step back and contemplate what had been accomplished. A self-critique of my own work suggests there is reason aplenty for more practice.  Standing in a space that rests over waters adjoining our Pacific coastline, I can think of no better place to indulge in this endeavor.

But before I wax poetic, back to the lessons learned. As much as I would like to think years of power tool exposure would have taught a few valuable lessons—14 inch band saws do not come from the store preassembled—the safety gurus lead a how to in handling seemingly benign hand tools followed by  a lecture and quiz  to demonstrate mastery of a drill press and band saw.

Think I passed.

So far I can drill holes about where they should be located and the band saw has a blade rotating with cutting teeth pointing in the right direction. Time to take a break and see the world.  Off to Canada for turkey with family and a chance to wander the marinas of Vancouver.  You can take the kid out of boat school, but you can’t take boats out of the kid.

 

Eric Anderson is a retired Air Force officer who can be found puttering in his shop when not scribbling on the keyboard.  A new resident of Port Townsend, he is an avid sailor, struggling carpenter, and would-be writer.

 

Looking around the classroom, I had recollections of a mosh-pit at a Nirvana concert I attended back in the late 80s. “Seattle chic” was all the rage. You know the look; Black knitted watch cap, beard that was trimmed sometime last summer, flannel shirt, pair of dungarees (color not important), but no fashion designers, and working boots. Very fashionable with the college co-eds intent upon making a “statement.” Standard attire for this set.

Almost.

Welcome to the Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding class of 2016. In our midst stand recent high school graduates, college success stories, more than a few veterans, the odd cardiologist, veterinarian and a few wayward souls for whom I have no explanation. Sixty-two strong, we represent more than former day laborers, fishermen, general contractors, and fifty-somethings seeking an “encore career.” (I kid you not, this is the latest catch phrase for those of us who turned on, tuned in and dropped out—after competing round one, two or three in the world of gainful employment.)
Not exactly what one expects. Well, on second thought, exactly what one expects when entering into a world that makes little sense to people who seek to make a career of sitting behind a keyboard and hoping the service sector will continue to blossom. Can’t blame those folks. Good common sense dictates a computer cubical, air conditioning and an anatomically correct chair which is preferable to standing in a shipyard mulling over a challenge the Vikings could likely comprehend.

I’m with the Vikings. As, clearly, are many of my classmates. Hell, half of them look like they just stepped off an oar-powered long ship. (Not that I am one to talk. Been a while since my chin saw the sun or a barber clipped my hair.)

Appearances aside, a quick round of introductions reveals what a true wooden boatbuilding school is going to draw. A crew of wood-working enthusiasts of varying skills and temperaments who all share a single desire—get a lot better at a skill that does not involve computer coding, a restrictive dress code or the BMW 700 series to impress cubical counterparts. (I lied about the computer coding—seems even woodworking has dropped into the digital world, the rest is cold-hard truth…trust me.)

Having stood in front of a classroom on a few occasions, this lot has to be a daunting proposition for the faculty and staff. It may be, but as the old adage goes, never let them see you sweat. However, there’s no evidence of a bit of hesitation which is always reassuring when thinking about going back to school. Who wants a faculty that openly asks questions about their own capabilities? Not me. Certainly not my 61 other counterparts.

But, keep in mind the faculty has leveled this playing field. Most of us have mastered a variety of power tools and learned no small number of bad habits. You want a half-lap joint? No sweat, give me a tape measure and table saw—takes about 15 minutes. Not so here. Rather than indulge our rip-saw fantasies, the whole student body has been out shopping for Japanese saws, planes, and spoke shaves. Yup, spoke shaves.

Seems the plan afoot is to help us learn the art of wood working back at a stage your grandfather or great grandfather would have understood—nay, had to practice. Add to that the complications of boat design—this is a boatbuilding school after all—and the time spent framing square homes is going to encounter a new reality. Curved is the new square.

 

 “I’m standing on a whole new planet, one that drops off
the horizon 12 miles out from a coastline.
And this is just day one.”

 

With that I invite you to join us on a one year adventure that will certainly feature band aides—damn chisels are sharp—failure, frustration, and a lot of learning. Along the way you may pick up a few tips and offer insights necessary to ensure this odd lot steps out into the modern world with a sense of craftsmanship vaunted at many business schools but only longed after at Harvard.

Eric Anderson is a retired Air Force officer who can be found puttering in his shop when not scribbling on the keyboard. A new resident of Port Townsend, he is an avid sailor, struggling carpenter, and would-be writer.