Agia Kiriaki, Pelion, Greece 2004
This is a variation from my usual image of a single vessel.
It is my thank you to AA who has taken the time to send me details of wooden boat-building in Greece.
I find myself drawn deeper and deeper into the subject – and more and more intrigued.
For the origins of this image series, here
The removal of old trim, the rounding off of wooden edges and a first coat of white paint has transformed Blue Mistress’ main cabin.
So much so that she has become a different boat.
Up to now, I have gone along with the cosily unfinished state below decks. It was always going to need more work but, on the whole it was ok.
Now the work is being done, which means decisions have had to be made.
The first was whether or not to fit a proper sea toilet (Jabasco compact) instead of the portable loo which was boxed-in midships in the entrance to the fore cabin. The traditional bucket would have suited the skipper but he had to fall in with the expectations of those guests who prefer a more conventional approach. It did occur to him that one way of weeding out prospective crew would be to note their response to “By the way, you’ll have to use the bucket . . .” followed by a long pause. On the other hand, he remembered that he rather liked some of those who might turn their noses up at it so the least he could do would be to see whether something more formal was possible.
As there is little head room immediately forward of the bulkhead, the only feasible plan would be to shorten the port-hand bunk – (in effect, remove it), and install the device at the forward end, immediately this side of the bulkhead. He designed a box to contain it which would have a double hinged lid level with the shelf behind. This would be useful as a worktop – (and somewhere to put down a mug of coffee). Painted white with the rest of the cabin, it would only be slightly intrusive – even if we had lost the widest and most comfortable bunk.
At the same time, there is no chart table. The “thunderbox” lid could be used as one but would require the occasional removal of everything on it, whereas if we used the middle part of the bunk space for a regular chart table with chart storage and lockers beneath – keeping it level with the aforesaid worktop and varnishing it as contrast, then we would add considerably to the facilities aboard.
By leaving space at the aft end for one person to sit facing across the cabin while being able to twist round to use the table – (there would need to be some space beneath this end of the table to accommodate knees), it would still be possible to enjoy a convivial evening. The design also intended there to be a pull-out table for those sitting on the starboard bunk.
Moving the heads would have opened up the entrance to the fore cabin which had been tricky to enter because of the way the portaloo was boxed in and the lack of headroom just inside the forecabin.
But we’re not doing any of that.
Why? Cost mostly – and time. In doing the planning, I discovered where the limit lay. (This was before the economic crisis had taken hold. I’m even more sure now.)
What we are doing is less complex, and, by the look of the work completed so far, the result will be better for it.
More on this in a later post.
Port Vendres, Roussillon, France 2008
For historic images of Les Barques Catalan taken in Banyul, the port a few miles south of Port Vendres – here
For the origins of this image series, here
“Watch carefully, Bill.”
Aged about 12. We were leaning against the rail looking down at the water.
A small, elderly man was descending the wooden steps from the quay next door. He was dressed in a blue fisherman’s jersey, baggy grey trousers and canvas shoes.
Half way down, he nodded a good morning to us, untied the end of the frape and gently hauled his dinghy to the tiny landing stage beneath him.
It must have been about half-tide to have exposed this platform. Along this side of the harbour, dinghies were moored on frapes to allow the boat to ride the considerable tides and also to prevent them going aground at low water – (in all but the lowest of low spring tides), so that they were always ready for use.
He untied the boat from the frape, remoored it to the ladder and stepped neatly into the middle of the boat. It barely moved.
The thwarts were wet from the previous night’s rain. He found a cloth and dried them.
Then he raised a bottom board and bailed the small amount of water collected there. He sponged it dry.
Facing aft, he sat down on the middle thwart, shipped both rowlocks and then the outside oar.
Twisting round, he untied the painter, coiled it into the bow and gave the boat a gentle push. Now he had room to ship the other oar.
As the boat drifted further away from the ladder, he was able to pull on the port oar turning the boat towards its destination.
With barely a glance over his shoulder, he took the weight on both oars and glided effortlessly away to the quay across the water.
The oars dipped with barely a splash – an economy of movement that gave the sense of a single unit – man and boat.
Even I could see the natural focus, the self-possession and the strength of someone doing what they have been doing for decades – a master in his element.
This was Randolph Johns. He was probably in his late sixties. That seemed ancient then – I no longer think so.
Over the next two or three summers, there would be the occasional lesson in our pram dinghy or a few words on shore.
From watching and listening to him, I learnt how to row and how to handle a small dinghy.
There was never any formality in his teaching – just the passing on of knowledge and the acquiring of some skill by doing.
I will never forget Randolph Johns. I learnt from him what it meant to master an activity – to have reached a point where the movement itself ceases to be an aspiration and becomes part of your being. He wasn’t a man who went out for a row – rowing was part of how he lived. He didn’t think about it much.
Had I rowed every day since, I doubt if I would ever have been as capable of doing this deceptively simple task as well as him. Even in those days, outboard engines had taken the necessity out of rowing and were turning it into a leisure activity. There was now choice – the attitude behind it had changed. Most of the masters of rowing nowadays will have mastered a sport, not a means of transport.
At 12, of course I didn’t understand this. But I did begin to look at how other people did those things I wanted to do – and I did learn a little from doing this . . . and then a little more . . .
“Watch carefully, Bill.”
Fowey, circa 1959. I took the picture. See the number of moorings compared with today. The tug on the right is St Canute which later went to the Exeter Maritime Museum.
I have been reading and enjoying Jon Wainwright’s book. He spent nearly four decades sailing a traditional wooden boat – locally referred to as a nobby (although he wasn’t totally convinced) from the north west, which he brought through the canals across England to the east coast and down to Felixstowe and the south east.
Aged forty he found himself getting excessively tired and discovered he had a heart condition. This had the prospect of slowing him up considerably. Nevertheless he kept sailing – both cruising and racing with the Old Gaffers.
A particular passage resonated:
“Obviously, time was not on my side, and it made me realise that there were only so many tides that Deva and I were going to catch. That is the problem of having a real concept of mortality. I see so many people who embark bravely on big rebuilds of smacks and other larger vessels, reckoning to take five years and often taking ten or more. I could not conceive of that possibility. Even if I survived the effort of rebuilding a boat, how fit would I be to sail for much longer afterwards? Some of the rebuilders who are fit when they start probably are not so when they finish; the broker’s advertisements feature vessels from such situations. But they do not see it in that way. They laugh about being knocked down by a bus, but do not believe it will happen to them.
So my situation meant that work on Deva is not a cabinet-maker’s standard. It is fit for purpose, not built for posterity. The decks are painted, not laid teak. Some jobs are neglected . . .”
I know how he felt.
Time and tide . . .
When you buy a boat (or a house), you see it as you want it to be rather than as it is.
It is rare that it is complete at the point of sale – you set out to put a bit (or a lot) of yourself into it.
So it was with Blue Mistress.
This is the third stage of the work that I thought we would need to do when I first saw her in 2006.
I’m not such a visionary that I could have said then ‘right, we’re going to do this in three stages’, but I could see where we would need to go and, now that I’ve learnt a few ropes, this is how it has worked out.
Broadly speaking, in stage one, we worked on the deck – reseating fittings, sorting out leaks, recoating it in to a finish that is hard and durable.
Stage two, involved a new engine housing, installing a new fuel tank and moving the batteries to a locker of their own, as well as upgrading the electrics and installing a new VHF/DSC unit.
Now, in stage three, the top sides are getting repainted (five layers of epoxy primer so far),and the rudder rehung, to include a new upper pintle.
Down below, the main cabin is being upgraded, detail seen to, edges rounded off, surfaces smoothed and repainted, a couple of locker lids reworked and so on.
So is this a totally rebuilt boat? No, all good boats have a character that can be encouraged and brought out.
A little bit here a little bit there transforms them. In keeping them up to scratch, they gain a new lease of life.
Blue Mistress was lifted out of the water last Wednesday. While waiting for the lift, she was stripped of everything aboard (except for the cqr and anchor rode).
The boom was also unshipped.
Although that was not the intention, it meant I got a picture of her motoring light.
So, we’ve got the much-talked-about ‘heavy’ rudder, two large riggers, and a Yanmar engine placed fairly far towards the stern – (the front of it stretches approximately 6 inches into the main cabin).
In the event, she is only slightly down at the stern. Normally, there is heavy gear (inc. spare water containers) in the fore cabin lockers to counteract this.
They removed the mast and rigging – the boom and spinnaker pole are lashed on deck.
The deck has grown green patches over the past few months thanks to the weather. The lines of the halyards over the cabin top are clearly visible. I will remember to clean here more often.
The bottom was fairly clean. Weed is on the anode, propeller (not enough use his winter), and the edges of the keel and rudder.
The Raymarine log has not been working this winter. There was a small colony of barnacles around the ‘propeller’ housing in the bow which was stopping it turning.
The strop is only just on the keel, showing how difficult it is to judge the rake of the stern from above.
A last look at the cheeks on the rudder and the hull shape from the stern.
There is more growth on the starboard waterline. Moored fore and aft, this is the part of the hull that faces away from the sun for most of the time. Earlier in the year, I spent some time in the water trying to clean this off – with little success.
Talking of freeboard, the following is from Jon Wainwright’s ‘Only So Many Tides’:
“We compared the two craft. Deva was less than a foot of freeboard astern, fine lined and low in superstructure. The cabin cruiser with twice the power, three times the freeboard and four times the superstructure appeared to her owners to be far safer; they couldn’t believe that freeboard at sea is like a chin held up to a punch.”
You better believe it.
Beyond Steeple Point 