Lakeside Santa

Sign to the North Pole

I always thought Lakeside was a big out-of-town shopping mall by the M25 where it crosses the Queen Elizabeth 11 Bridge between Essex and Kent, but today on visiting the complex I discovered Santa in his grotto at the North Pole! This was news to me, because I thought he lived in Lapland with gnomes and pixies that made all the toys there ever were. The signs at Lakeside showing the way to Santa’s grotto clearly led to the North Pole.

Bewitching Pixie

My three young grandsons wanted to see Father Christmas to ask him for the toys they would like this Christmas. Dutifully, their Nanny and I took them by car to the frozen North in search of the bearded gentleman they had dreamed of overnight. First we had to pass through Santa’s garden which was full of strange things, including pixies dressed in green and red costumes. They entertained the tiny trio and introduced them to the Man himself who was almost hidden behind a flowing white beard.

Solemn moment

Being the real Father Christmas, he knew their names and spoke to them in a quiet voice. Attentively he listened to what they had to say, but made no promise that he would attend to their requests. Instead he told them to be good children, so that their wishes may come true. ‘twas a very solemn and serious moment that was recorded by the pixie camera. Later there were smiles all round as Santa presented each child with a colourful parcel.

Prezzies

Outside of the grotto there was no restraining of tiny hands itching to discover the contents of the packages. One contained a shiny, red racing car, and from the others, there were identical silver cars. Father Christmas had cleverly chosen the very things the boys would like.

Racing Cars

Links

Lakeside

http://www.lakeside.uk.com/

Father Christmas

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Father_Christmas

http://www.santatelevision.com/santaclaus/en0533/en0533.html

Christmas Decorations

We couldn’t put it off anymore; the opportunity arose for doing the Christmas decorations. Our grandchildren will be with us for the night and all day tomorrow. They will love the miniature Father Christmas that has appeared in our hall for the past umpteen years. He carries a sack of presents that last for ever. He can speed through space faster than light to deliver a multitude of gifts to children all around the planet. Time is of no consequence to him, because his supersonic reindeer break through the barrier of time.





Our TESCO Christmas tree is in its third year, a real evergreen that never fades, but with changing decorations according to the whims of the Mother of the House. This season he is draped in silver trinkets to match the lounge! At the very top there’s a large silver star above twinkling lights that will fire the imagination of three tiny tots, who will go to bed dreaming of a white Christmas, and of a strange, frowning man with a beard of pure white, dressed in a rich red cloak and a golden gown.





Lurking to one side by the TV, there’s a cotton wool snowman with a carrot nose. He wears a woollen scarf to keep him warm. Deep within his belly he hides a secret of mouth-watering candies and soft chocolate fudge, reserved for tiny tongues.





Over the fireplace there’s a snowy scene of green fairy lights and miniature glistening conifers, above an arching grotto where two woollen Christmas gnomes keep their watch, anticipating the opening of stockings stacked full of prezzies, and small hands tearing patterned paper from mystery presents. They await the sound of laughter, and cries of joy from delighted children who will show approval by shouting and clapping their hands.


For the older ones who look on, mums, dads and grandparents, memories of youthful Christmases will traverse their minds and their hearts will be full of thanksgiving for the grace of time and for the gift of life.

Building ‘Sharpy’ Part 37

Sharpening the plane

Sander


Yesterday I shaped the boom from a piece of Douglas fir; this was principally done with a hand plane and finished with a hand sander.


My plane is a Record No 4, 9 inches in length, with a 2 inch blade which holds its edge for yonks. After 5 hours of planing the blade remained sharp! That says a lot for a plane that was manufactured prior to 1998, after which date the handles were no longer made from rosewood, but were moulded from resin. I split the upright handle several years ago, but I wouldn’t exchange my plane for another. I liken it to Goliath’s sword; for in the words of King David, “There is none like it.”* Yes, my plane is one of many that were mass-produced, but mine is unique, because it is valued by me as David valued Goliath’s sword.


Split Rosewood Handle



The other useful tool I used for shaping the boom was my homemade hand sander. This was designed by Don Elliott who produced a booklet on building Matt Layden’s Paradox. The sander is 15 inches long and it is fitted with a 3 inch (75 mm) wide grit pad made from the abrasive belt of a handheld belt sander.


Close-up

Sander Handle




*Goliath’s Sword – 1 Samuel 21:9



Links


Record Hand Planes

http://www.recordhandplanes.com/

Don Elliott

http://bills-log.blogspot.com/2010/09/don-elliotts-illusion.html

Belt Sander Reviews

http://www.beltsanderguide.com/reviews/

Building ‘Sharpy’ Part 36

Douglas Fir as delivered

The weather forecasters got it right. Today was fine and dry, at a temperature of 6 degrees Celsius - ideal for shaping the boom. The low temperature helped keep me cool as I planed the Douglas fir. The aerobic activity was good for the old ticker. I thoroughly enjoyed the exercise.


The boom is more or less finished; only the ends need rounding, and three holes have to be drilled through it for the sail lacings and the mainsheet attachment. The spar is quite sturdy, being 1 and 9/16 inches thick at the centre, tapering to a diameter of 1 ½ inches at the ends.


Workbench braced

Robbins Timber of Bristol did me well, by supplying a really straight-grained piece of Douglas fir, sawn slightly larger than the maximum dimension at the centre of the boom. They taped it to a much thicker piece of timber to protect it during transportation. I used the extra piece of timber for making a brace to keep the Black and Decker workbench from moving. Without the brace, there would have been nothing to stop the bench moving when I planed the wood.


Almost finished



Link


Robbins Timber of Bristol

http://www.robbins.co.uk/

Building ‘Sharpy’ Part 35

Comparative size of keel

Both pieces

I have tried cutting aluminium when I have made gimbals and fire shields for galleys, but with the limited tools in my possession, I was not very adept at it. If you are cutting a straight edge, you can do it well with a suitable guillotine, but try doing it with a hand saw, then the result will be nowhere near as good. Cutting irregular shapes in sheet aluminium requires a skill that I do not possess.


Since the keel is made from a sandwich of two pieces of aluminium on the outside and a piece of plywood between them, I opted to have the metal cut to shape by a professional. He used a laser cutter to do the job and came up with a first-class finish. Because he hadn’t read the plans correctly, he made the holes at the bottom for the ballast retaining pins too large. The solution was either to make another two pieces or infill the holes with welded aluminium and re-cut the holes to the correct size. This appears to have been done successfully.


Now that I have the aluminium parts cut to shape and to size I can get on with making the plywood infill. There’s nothing to stop me from cutting and assembling the lead ballast laminates when I obtain the flashing, and I can go ahead with the keel box. All I need is for the weather to improve so that the temperature is OK for working out of doors. The forecasters predict cold weather for the middle of next week, so the prospects are not promising. I’ll have to be patient.


The photo gives a pretty good idea of the size of the keel. The length from top to bottom is 42 inches, and it has been cut from 3 millimetre aluminium, which is half a millimetre thicker than the plan specifies, but my plywood is 9 millimetres thick instead of being 10 millimetres as per plan; therefore the nominal thickness of the keel will be the required 15 millimetres, plus a little more for the thickness of the adhesive.

Busy Day

We are all likely to have very busy days, particularly at this time of year as we draw near to Christmas. There never seem to be enough hours during the day to fit everything in. A part of my day was spent on a mercy mission trying to get a broken denture mended for a dear old lady who is bedridden. Can you imagine what it must be like to eat a meal without your lower dentures? Furthermore, imagine how she felt when the dentures were broken in two. Maybe they had been a part of her for the last thirty or so years; then all of a sudden they went missing.


Well, you will be pleased to know that the mission was accomplished, and the very grateful lady was able to eat her dinner today.


Besides doing loads of other things, I’ve at last found time for my Blog which I like to do every day. I find myself searching for something relevant to the usual subject matter of small sailing boats. Here it is: The ocean sailor could well prepare for emergency dental treatment when at sea, so here are a number of links to sites advertising dental repair kits.


Links


First Aid for Teeth


http://dnausers.d-n-a.net/dnetQUQA/dentanurse/

http://www.shopwiki.co.uk/Dentanurse+Dental+First+Aid+For+Teeth+Travel+Bag+/+Kit

http://www.dentalkitfortravelers.com/

http://www.dentistinabox.com.au/

‘Acadia’ Photos

Paddling


The Sail


Impromptu, spontaneous outings on the water are best done with small boats, as they seldom need elaborate preparations before one can get afloat. In this respect, my ‘Acadia’ decked paddling canoe (kayak) that was equipped with a sail and rudder was the simply the best. If I had a few moments to spare, I could load the canoe onto the car’s roof rack, and within minutes I’d be sailing on my local River Crouch. She was easily carried on the hip, so that putting her in the water could be done without much effort. Her rudder was permanently attached to the stern and I usually left the leeboard housing in place on the side deck. This could be removed in a matter of seconds by undoing the retaining nuts. Rigging the sail was done by placing the mast into the support tube in the foredeck. I only had to snap the leeboard onto the housing and put a few turns on the retaining nut, and the boat was ready for the off.


Leeboard housing


She was a very handy vessel, because I could sail or paddle her and get to a location by road with comparative ease. I could store her in the garage on slings attached to the rafters were she was out of the way. Getting her on a roof rack was dead simple, because she only weighed 24 kilos. Obviously her performance under sail was not brilliant, but if the wind was from the beam or from astern, she zipped along. She would go to windward, but nowhere near as well as my 50/50 decked canoe designed by Paul Fisher. On the other hand she could be paddled to windward far more efficiently; I could even paddle her when her sail was stowed on the side deck, and I could set up or take down the rig when sat in the cockpit.


Leeboard stowage



There was only one drawback for me, and that was on account of my slower reactions than in my youth, I felt she was really for a younger man, and correspondingly sold her – one of the reasons why I am now building ‘Sharpy’, a ballasted, roof rack sailing sharpie. I shall not be required to balance ‘Sharpy’ to prevent her from being capsized.


Leeboard up



Here, I’ve published a few photos of ‘Acadia’ that have not been shown before. For more photographs, copy and paste the links below to your Web browser’s address box.



Statistics


Length 374 cm, Width 72 cm, Weight 24kg - Maximum load 180kg



Links


Sea Kayak Sailing

http://bills-log.blogspot.com/2010/09/sea-kayak-sailing.html


Acadia

http://bills-log.blogspot.com/2009/12/acadia.html

Building 'Sharpy' Part 34

Further Progress


There’s no way I can make practical progress by building ‘Sharpy’ at the moment; the weather is far too cold for me to work in the garage, but as soon as the outside temperature rises to about 10 degrees Celsius the heating will be sufficient for raising the temperature within the garage to the critical 15 degrees for epoxy.


Progress is being made in other ways; for example, I have given the go-ahead for having the metal parts made and for having the sail cut and sewn. Getting a quote for the metal parts required some persistence on my part, because the firm who has agreed to manufacture them has been flush with orders! After six weeks of worrying* them, they have finally given me a quote and agreed to do the job. A local sail loft at Burnham is very pleased to cut and sew the sail, which should be finished by the end of March, 2011.






The important parts for further progress are two pieces of aluminium that sandwich the plywood keel and the pintles for the rudder. I need the aluminium pieces for ascertaining the final thickness of the keel so that I can build the keel box with the correct dimension for the slot. I want the pintles fairly soon, to avoid delay when it comes to attaching the stern deck. I cannot fit the deck until the pintles have been bolted onto the transom.


When building a boat, it is important to assemble each part within the planned sequence. However, there are items that can be made at any time, such as the rudder, the spars and the sails. In this respect, the Douglass fir for the boom arrived a few days ago. I shall need to have space for shaping the wood by using a plane, which will mean working out of doors, because there isn’t room in the garage. I’ll be able to work outside when the temperature reaches 10 degrees, which will be ideal for keeping me cool as I labour at the task.


The temperature for the weekend has been forecast to rise; therefore I may be able to start shaping the boom on Saturday.


Link


*The Importunate Widow (What pestering can achieve.)

http://www.comportone.com/cpo/religion/christian/parables/luke/18_1-8.htm

Melonseed Skiff Again

Photo extracted from melonseed.com (See link below)


Only a year ago, I can’t believe I was so much in love with a maiden named Melonseed. She has the sweetest lines of any dinghy I’ve ever seen, but she’s not the cheapest to acquire, and in the UK, virtually impossible to find. If I lived in Lafayette, Louisiana, U.S.A., it may be a different story, for there I know of an enthusiastic owner of a Melonseed Skiff who has reminded me of his dinghy’s beauty by sending me a Christmas card featuring photos of her. The card also contains this little poem:


AUTUMN SAIL


Brisk Wind
Stiff Sail
Icy Chop
Dipping rail
Bracing spray
Tugging sheet
Red nose
Cold feet
Roaring bow wave
Frozen fingers
Big grin
Joy that lingers!


For more information about Melonseed Skiffs, see the links below, one of which takes you to my article of a year ago.



Links


My Article on the Melonseed Skiff

http://bills-log.blogspot.com/2009/12/melonseed-skiff.html


Roger Crawford’s Melonseed

http://www.melonseed.com/


Nancy Lee Sailing

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SoEndV_NJ54&feature=related


Melonseed at Cedar Key

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gz4DgN5TvZo&feature=related


Melonseed Skiff on Maxinkuckee

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6ZEm09uWQ0&feature=related


Melonseed Sailing

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsM7BF4iGcQ&feature=player_embedded#


Melonseed Skiff2

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8FYtr7rADM&feature=related


Midwest Melonseed Rendezvous 2009

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEsW5J90KT4&feature=related


Wooden Melon Seed

http://www.windfallwoodworks.com/wooden-boats/melonseed_skiff.htm

Checking ‘Ladybird’

Cadets being Prepared for Racing

Forlorn River Crouch


‘Ladybird’ was set aside for her winter hibernation on Saturday, 30th October. Since then there have been gales and snow; therefore I thought it would be prudent to check her over. Accordingly I motored to Burnham-on-Crouch and had a look at her. She had been taken off the trailer that the boatyard people had used when craning her out of the water, and placed on four blocks, to keep her off the ground. I was a little disappointed that she hadn’t been chocked higher, because I had requested this to be done. Obviously, the message had not been communicated to the men who moved her. Unless she can be lifted higher, I shall find the job of antifouling her a bit tricky.



Still, I must not grumble, because until now all of my requests have been carried out, and no doubt if I ask for the boat to be raised further off the ground, the guys will do it.



I was relieved that her covers were in place and that they were doing their job of protecting the yacht from the elements. Ice and snow are particularly bad for her, because they strip off the varnish, leaving the bare wood vulnerable to attack by rainwater.



That Saturday, was bitterly cold, but after checking the covers, I thought I would have a walk beside the river, as far as the Marina. Only a few hardy souls were out sailing - mostly youngsters racing their Cadets. The majority of moorings were vacant. The river looked rather forlorn, and there was a distinct lack of sunshine. Those fine summer days I spent sailing at Burnham seemed far away. I could only dream of summer days to come in 2011. Maybe by then my new boat will be finished, and I’ll have fun sailing her, but now, it’s far too cold to work on her.


Link


‘Ladybird’ Layup

http://bills-log.blogspot.com/2010/10/lay-up-2010-ladybird.html

Icicles and the Ice Fairy

In a recent Blog* (Tuesday, 30th November) I mentioned that the Ice Fairy had transformed my garden into an Arctic fairyland of sparkling, shimmering brightness. Snow lay several inches thick and a piercing wind from Siberia imparted a smooth crispness to the surface.


Yesterday, the cold-hearted Fairy waved her wand again to bring a warmer waft of air with the express purpose of melting some of the snow before cruelly freezing it again. By this cunning ploy she hoped to wreak havoc; for nothing is worse for motorists than having to drive over white ice, i.e., black ice disguised by a layer of snow. This solidified, lethal frozen liquid lies hidden beneath the snow; the unsuspecting driver discovers he has lost control of his vehicle which slithers and slides until it ends up at the side of the road, or by good fortune continues in the direction the driver intended.


On opening my curtains to survey the scene early this morning I was surprised to see long icicles hanging from the guttering above my bedroom window. I was reminded of the blizzard of 1963 when the Country was paralyzed by thigh-deep snow, and icicles three feet long precariously dangled from guttering and power lines. I’m even old enough to remember the bitterly cold weather of 1947 when I went tobogganing with my friends and my hands felt like blocks of ice. I certainly remember the pain when their circulation was revived.


Later in the morning my daughter arrived in her car with her three children. They were appropriately dressed in snowsuits. She remarked that she had had difficulty in manoeuvring her car into the driveway because of the thick snow and ice. The car became stuck through loss of traction. The remedy was for me to shovel the stuff away, which I did, and I felt better for the exercise, but when she came to leave, the car still would not budge because the snow and ice directly under the wheels had impacted. No matter how she controlled the revs, her car remained put. The solution was for me to push the vehicle at the same time she gently reversed. Hey presto! Off she went, but I noticed a balding tyre, and pointed it out to her.


Incredibly, her car had passed its MOT only the day before! On her arrival at home, she examined the tyres and confirmed that despite having paid for a new nearside front tyre, it had not been replaced. Can you believe that this could have happened?


At least, the matter can be rectified. Meanwhile, the beautiful, but deadly Ice Fairy continues casting her spells, intent upon wreaking more havoc, even disaster and loss of life.


Never trust a pretty maiden with a cold heart!


(Please note that I do not believe in fairies, even Fairy Godmothers, except for the panto variety.)


Links


*Snow

http://bills-log.blogspot.com/2010/11/snow.html


Famous British Winters

http://www.netweather.tv/index.cgi?action=other;type=famwint;sess

'Micro's' Cruises No 7 Chance Made Good Part 3

Day Three


Wednesday, 26th June.


Although there had been cloud overnight, the morning was fairly clear. As the day progressed, so the sky became bluer, and only a few fluffy white clouds resembling frisking lambs remained. They jumped with joy; likewise, I inwardly jumped with joy, because I was alive!


This time I had got it right. I had chosen a spot where 'Micro' would remain afloat at low water. There was zilch wind; therefore I set off under oar. The time was 0630, and low water at Harwich was scheduled for 0700. Making use of the last of the ebb, I took the boat over the shallows of Shotley Sands. I was delighted that I could row at about two-and-a-half knots. Thus, I was able to make progress against the weakening ebb from the River Stour.


I kept well clear of a huge catamaran manoeuvring into Parkstone Quay. She was awesome and intimidating – intimidating, because she resembled a large sea monster with a shark-like mouth, and awesome, because of her size. A small boat like ‘Micro’ that happened to be in her path would not stand a chance. Silently, and without assistance, she docked at the quay.


Gradually the wind filled-in from the southwest. I made sail. Unknown to me, I was to experience the most exquisite sail of the season. Words are inadequate to describe how it felt. Every now and then the wind momentarily increased, not suddenly as with a squall, but with a steady acceleration until reaching a peak, before easing off. This periodic, rhythmic fluctuation, made the exercise of sailing to windward a real joy. The flood took hold of 'Micro', so that she sped towards Manningtree.


I discovered how sensitive she was to trim. If I moved forward, weather-helm increased; conversely, if I moved towards her stern, weather-helm decreased. By adjusting my position I could eliminate weather-helm altogether. Balancing the boat in this way, improved her performance to windward. Strangely, other vessels I have owned have performed better on the wind when I have moved forward.


‘Micro’s’ headlong rush, over the tumbling waves, excited me greatly. I looked for trailing weeds near the surface of the water. At the first sign of them I would tack the boat into deeper water. Further up the river, port and starboard hand buoys were better indicators of where to find deeper water.


Because of the fluky wind at Wrabness, brought about by the bluff of land, I kept well clear of the moored yachts to give me space for changing tack. In the event, this was a wise precaution. By keeping a wide berth I was able pass without mishap.


This time, Wrabness was more hospitable than when outward-bound. A man was repairing one of the piles supporting a waterside chalet. His presence made all the difference. Before, there had been an absence of life, causing the place to look like a ghost town.


The strength of the wind had increased. No longer were there gentle fluctuations, but proper squalls, requiring me to ease sheets. Things were getting lively, and I needed to respond. It was time to reef. Why take chances? After all, the ramp at Mistly Sailing Club was but a half-a-mile away, and there were moorings to negotiate. My priority was to concentrate on keeping to the channel which was best found by taking a course between the moored yachts.


Ahead, an elderly couple in a Wayfarer let go their mooring, and their dinghy drifted astern. They had not been vigilant, or if they had, they had not anticipated they would become a hazard to me and my boat. This brought about an adrenalin rush. I immediately downed the sails, and fortunately ‘Micro’ ended up by the side of a moored yacht to which I attached a painter. Not in the least concerned, the unwitting sailors set off to enjoy their afternoon's sail.


High water for Mistley was at 14.00. That gave me plenty of time for beaching the boat and for preparing her for her trailer, but three cars were blocking the ramp! There was no need to panic - I simply needed to think things through, and do one job at time.


Needless to say, all went well, and I phoned my wife to reassure her that I was safe. She would not have to put in a claim for a widow's pension, nor make arrangements with an undertaker for the disposal of my body.


I had not regretted the opportunity of taking my three-day cruise. I had learnt how to get the best out of the boat, especially, when sailing her to windward. I had been refreshed, mentally and spiritually, and I had benefited from the fresh air and exercise.


I had taken my 'Chance Made Good'.

Micro's' Cruises No 7 Chance Made Good Part 2

Day Two


Tuesday, 25th June.


After a restless night, partly because of river traffic and partly because of noise from the container docks at Felixstowe, I awoke with a slightly heavy head - not a headache - just a feeling that I would need to make an effort to get going. The question was, "What should I do?" Should I return to Mistley, or should I explore the River Orwell? I would decide over a cup of tea.


Because everything was close to hand, I was able to make the brew with very little effort. I listened to the Shipping Forecast and decided it would be best to return to the River Stour. I could spend the day exploring the river and find a place for anchoring overnight.


There was to be a southwest Force 3 to 4. I was certain to find an anchorage in the lee of the south bank, where I would have a quiet night, but as things turned out, nothing of the sort took place. To start with, 'Micro' was well-and-truly stuck in the mud. I had miscalculated the depth when I anchored the previous night. She would be there until at least 0745, by which time the flood would be making, and since there was hardly any wind, I would find it impossible sail into the River Stour, nor would I be able to row there against the tide.


The cloudless morning was absolutely stunning, and there was so much to look at. Consequently, I took my time beforemaking sail. A few yachts were out and about, most of them using their engines. One graceful gaff cutter particularly caught my attention. She looked remarkably like a Morecambe Bay Prawner. I couldn't resist photographing her to preserve the memory. A close look through my binoculars revealed that her name was 'Betty'.



'Betty'


I finally got the sail up at 1000 and made ready to sail towards Pin Mill. Retrieving the anchor was tedious, because the warp was caked with slimy mud and tenacious weed. I patiently scrubbed both the anchor and the warp with a small brush and placed them in a bucket under the foredeck.


Freighter


As I sailed northwards, a freighter approached from the opposite direction. The throb of her engine, the thrashing of her propeller, and her bow wave, ensured that I steered well clear of her. I took out my camera to capture her details for perusal at a later date.


The sail to windward with the tide helping me along the way was really enjoyable, especially when the wind picked up, so that I could sit on the side deck and lean back with my toes tucked under the coaming.


Pin Mill


On arriving at Pin Mill about 11.15 I lowered the sails before entering the moorings which were tightly packed with yachts. From there I rowed towards a jetty near a couple of dilapidated Thames barges and various rotting hulks drawn up on the beach.


The wooded river bank made a lee, where I tied ‘Micro’ to a mooring. The Butt and Oyster pub was a stone’s throw away. The peace was sublime, until some shirtless, macho guy, dressed in waders, tried reversing his partially floating cruiser off her road trailer by revving up a powerful outboard. There was no way she going to move until high water. This bloke didn’t realise that no matter how hard he ran the engine his boat would not budge until the water would lift the boat off the trailer.


Despite the broken peace, I remained where I was, and ate an early lunch. While munching salad sandwiches, chewing a banana and consuming a chocolate bar, I observed the comings and goings of others who were out on the water. One yachtsman rowed a very tiny canvas and wooden tender that barely kept him afloat. It had a transom bow, the top of which was only an inch above the water. I could envisage a disaster waiting to happen.


High water at Harwich was at 1254 and half-an-hour before that time, the water was about slack. I made sail in the hope of exploring more of the River Orwell, but the wind almost petered out, so that I could not proceed. I retraced my track and drifted down river on the ebb.


Madam


When cruising I'm often on the look-out for interesting yachts - those which are a bit different, including classic boats. Elegant vessels designed by Herreshoft, Linton Hope or Albert Strange are the sort that appeal to me. Ordinary, white plastic tubs that fill the trots do not in the least interest me.


A mile or so downstream from Pin Mill I came across a wooden classic - a splendid tumlaren that stole my heart - not that I coveted her - but she captivated me by her beauty. Hand-built, with clean lines and a tall mast, she could rightly hold her head high, in keeping with her name, ‘Madam’. She may have been designed by Knud Reimers who was responsible for drawing the lines of the original, much smaller tumlaren.


That afternoon I experienced a sublime drift down the river beyond Levington Marina to Stone Heaps, where two yachts were anchored close to the shingle bank. They were to the west of number one green buoy, awaiting the flood tide.


At that moment I failed to work out that ‘Micro’ would never be able to buck the ebb from the Stour. I kept thinking of the the early morning forecast which predicted there would be more wind, and that I would need to find a place where I could anchor for the night.


When 'Micro's' keels scraped over the shallows at Shotley Point it suddenly dawned on me that unless I took drastic action, we would be swept seaward beyond Harwich by the remaining ebb.


Very fortunately the wind picked up so that 'Micro' could claw her way over Shotley Sands. Yet again the wind petered out, forcing me to anchor. Just when I wanted the Bruce to hold, it didn’t, but the wind gave me a reprieve until I had to anchor for a second time. After I lowered the sails, I realized that the boat was slap in the middle of the fairway! Good Fortune sprang to the rescue by providing a temporary draught of air so that I could raise the anchor and sail towards the western bank, where I finally anchored well away from the fairway.


I let out the entire rope, ate a Mars Bar, and took a welcome four hour siesta. Now and again I checked that the anchor was holding. After my rest I saw a large vessel entering the Orwell. She was the 'Balmoral', a smartly painted pleasure steamer with a white superstructure and a black hull. In a stately manner she made her way into the river. As she passed by, many excited passengers lined her decks. They pointed towards ‘Micro’ and waved. Within minutes she was lost from view beyond a bend in the river.


At Felixstowe Quay, a huge bulk-carrier, named the 'Hajan', was being off-loaded by a gargantuan mobile hoist that made an unearthly racket every time its grabs engaged containers. Afterwards there would be loud rumblings when the containers trundled along a gantry to transporters for storage or dispatch.


By 1830 the ebb was all but finished; therefore I hoisted sail so that I could search for a secure anchorage for the night. I chose one slightly to the north of the anchorage shown on the chart. It was well to the west of number one starboard buoy. There I had a peaceful evening, because the 'Hajan' had put to sea and no other vessel had taken her place.

'Micro's' Cruises No 7 Chance Made Good Part 1

Life is full of opportunities, but do we regret not taking them? In retrospect, we may not forgive ourselves for chances lost. Such moments through indecision, procrastination, malaise, etc., may later be regretted.


Being an opportunist, and realising 'Micro' may not belong to me by the end of the year, because she had been advertised for sale, I wanted to snatch a few days away sailing her. I felt I had yet to fully explore her potential.


Obligingly, a high pressure system centred itself over south-eastern England.


This was a chance I could not afford to miss.


Mistley

This map is published by kind permission of Ordnance Survey


Day One


Having thoroughly prepared the boat for a three day cruise, I set off at 09.00 on Monday, 24th June. My destination was Mistley, a quaint little village near Manningtree, situated at the head of the Stour Estuary. In John Constable’s time Thames barges would have frequented the quay. It was the sort of rural scene the celebrated English landscape artist loved to paint.


In the glove pocket of my car I kept a useful little book, 'Where to Launch Around the Coast', compiled by Diana van der Klugt. From it I discovered that the public slipway was suitable for small craft, but did that mean trailer-sailers?


I took one glance at the slipway, and I knew immediately that it was not suitable for ‘Mircro’, but nearby there was a concrete ramp belonging to the Mistley Sailing Club. Members of the Club said that I would be welcome to use the facility. Unfortunately, my car's exhaust could not clear the apex of the slipway. I overcame the problem by lowering the boat and her trailer down the ramp at the end of a rope that I controlled by taking a turn around the ball-hitch.


I found a double space on the Promenade where I could park the car and the trailer free of charge, but I had failed to bring the trailer lock with me and I hoped no one would take a liking to the trailer. On my way back to the boat, I rehearsed what I would do when out on the water.


So that I could ship the rudder, I pushed ‘Micro’ into thigh-deep water, then I clambered aboard and rowed her to a nearby visitors' mooring. There I ate my lunch and enjoyed the scenery.


Conditions were perfect for sailing. A few clouds cast their welcome, cooling shadows. I plastered suncream on my face, and spread an extra layer on my nose, because no matter how careful I was at protecting it from the sun's rays, after a few hours exposure I would look like a clown with a beetroot for a nose.


My tide book gave the range at Mistley as 3.7 metres, which meant there would be a minimum of 1 metre in most places at high water. Having checked the tide tables a second time, I made sail.


Western River Stour


While sitting on my inflatable cushion I leaned back on the coaming and held the tiller between my thumb and index finger. 'Micro's'course was almost due east, towards the bluff at Wrabness, which I judged to be about three miles away.


By mid-afternoon we were a cable to the north of several moored yachts in the vicinity of Wrabness, a feature of which is a number of chalet properties at the water’s edge. Beside a small sandstone cliff, on a narrow pebble beach, these wooden chalets are built upon piles. I couldn’t see a soul, and the place resembled a weird ghost town. I could not prevent myself from having one of those shivers that go down the spine when I intuitively feel there’s something not quite right. I sensed a tragedy had taken place there, and I didn't want anything to do with it. I was pleased to get away. Later, I reasoned that my thoughts had been totally irrational, and I was surprised that I could have reacted in that way.


To my left I observed a splendid stone building which I identified as the Royal Hospital School. Sited at the top of a gently sloping hill it had a wonderful view of the estuary.


Eastern River Stour


Beyond Wrabness, at Copperas Bay, there is a bird sanctuary with drying mud flats. Boats are banned from entering the reserve. Marking its northern boundary there are floating barrages, probably placed there to protect the beach in the event of an accidental oil spillage. As I passed by, I noted that they were being inspected by the crew of a small diesel tug.


The wind veered to the north-west, increasing to a Force 2, and as the afternoon progressed, the few clouds that there were, dissolved, until the sky became totally clear. I marvelled at the wonderful expanse of cobalt blue stretching to the stratosphere high overhead. Broad-reaching, we soon arrived off Parkstone Quay where North Sea ferries dock.


'Micro's' course ran parallel to the northern shore, approximately a cable from it to be well clear of commercial shipping in the fairway. A cruise ship with numerous upper decks was berthed at the Quay, and by the amount of smoke coming from her funnel I supposed she would be leaving port soon – maybe bound for Narvik or the Lofoten Isles.


River Orwell


Low water at Harwich was at 18.00 which meant I had arrived too early at Shotley Point to benefit from the first of the flood into the River Orwell, but that gave me an opportunity for testing my skill at sailing to windward against the last of the ebb. My tactic was not to go too far beyond the shallows of the eastern shore by Shotley, to avoid the stronger current in the middle of the river.


Further into the Orwell, it was a matter of tacking to and fro - first sailing towards the west bank as far as I dared, then into deeper water, but not too far; otherwise the current would sweep ‘Micro’ back. A couple of times I misjudged the depth, so that her keels kissed the mud, but each time I was able to escape.


Several yachts were making over the tide, but most were under power. Each yard gained brought great satisfaction. Every time there was a wind-shift I changed tack to take advantage; now and again ‘Micro’s’ sails were caught aback, with the inevitable loss of ground.


About a quarter of a mile below Levington Marina a grey customs launch overtook ‘Micro’ at speed. She kicked up quite a wash, causing waves to rebound between the banks. I was surprised how long they took to settle.


When we reached a point nearly a quarter of a mile beyond Levington Marina the wind petered out, and I was fortunate to grab a mooring. I prepared the evening meal, and as I was about to eat, a large vessel was proceeding upstream on the first of the flood tide. I had not thought it possible that freighters of that size could make it to Ipswich - especially at low water. Her wash was even greater than that of the customs launch. When the first wave struck 'Micro' I had to juggle my plate to prevent the hot curry from spilling into my lap.


After that onslaught it dawned on me that 'Micro' was tied to a metal buoy. Furthermore, there was a rusty shackle that could wreak havoc to my precious boat. Past experience of bumping and scraping buoys at the turn of tide persuaded me to abandon it. Therefore I rowed to a spot by the river bank and set my Bruce anchor.


Reception for the mobile phone was more than adequate. My wife confirmed that all was well and that she was looking forward to watching highlights of Wimbledon on television. It was my practice to keep the mobile phone in a plastic container, along with my VHF in a similar waterproof container, both of which I attached to the tabernacle. In the event of an irretrievable capsize I believed I would be able get hold of them for contacting the coastguard, first by using my VHF and if that failed I would use my mobile phone.


Around 21.00 I prepared the boat for the night. Orange and purple hues of a beautiful sunset reflected from slightly undulating, muddy water. Terns barracked one another as they vied for territory. A diesel train made its characteristic two-toned note while rumbling along the line between Trimley St. Mary and Ipswich. A handful of seals slithered down the mud into the water.


Before nightfall I cleaned my teeth and I was about to spit the unwanted contents of my mouth overboard, when I noticed a shoal of large jellyfish drifting by. I was reluctant to get rid of the unwanted fluid by ejecting it into the water, but there and then I could not come up with an alternative. I observed that the jellyfish were coated with a film of mud and that they looked to be in a bad way.

(To be continued.)

Snow

Fairyland

For the past few days here in Essex, England, we’ve been gloating at the plight of less fortunate people who live in the North, particularly Northumbria, where the snow has been falling almost continuously to cloak the land with a three-foot layer of countless billions of flaky white crystals. Even to the South, in Kent, there has been a generous sprinkling of the Ice Fairy’s powder. We thought we would escape, but last night the Fairy cast her spell, so that a good six inches of crispy white snow settled on the ground.


When I woke up and pulled back the curtains I was surprised to see such a wonderful scene. The back garden had been transformed from being an autumnal grotto into an arctic fairyland of sparkling, shimmering brightness. Tiny white flakes fluttering to the ground enhanced the beauty of the vision by defining depth and adding movement. Like a child who had never seen snow before, my heart beat faster at the sheer wonder of it all.


Well, you may think I’ve gone over the top, and you wouldn’t be far wrong! In fact, my heart groaned, because I had to travel ten miles by car to my daughter’s place, and afterwards make the return journey. I knew there would be chaos on the roads. Instead of taking twenty minutes to get there, I patiently drove at a snail’s pace for over an hour, while being careful not to let the car skid off the road or prang another vehicle.


I was consoled by reminding myself that I wouldn’t have been able to do any boatbuilding, not just because it was too cold, but because I had the pleasure of being with the grandchildren. The whole exercise was truly worthwhile.

Memory Loss

Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’


This is what it must be like when you are completely out of your mind, and you cannot recall what you did five minutes ago.


I’ve being doing a series on the logs of ‘Micro’, and yesterday I published ‘Micro’s’ Cruises No 6 – Holy Island Part 1. I had forgotten that I had already uploaded articles about this particular cruise between February 4th and 9th!! I therefore apologise for my memory loss, and in due time, I’ll publish Cruise No 7.


For those who are astute, you will notice minor differences between the accounts given of Holy Island Part 1, which is about my journey by road from Essex to Holy Island, the Island itself and the launching of ‘Micro’. The reason for the textural changes is because whenever I present items that were previously published on my Small Sailboats Website I try to improve them. When I re-examine some of the stuff I published at Small Sailboats I am seldom satisfied with it - I’m even embarrassed by a few things, not because of the content, but because of the bungling English.


Despite the difficulties I have with expressing myself verbally, I’ll continue persevering at improving my writing. For me, it is a challenge, and part of the process of learning which we do throughout our lives. Those who are articulate when young have a headlong start. They are the highfliers who leave the others behind. Literacy and numeracy are prerequisites to their success.


When I was at school I had great difficulty with reading and writing, and I now know that I suffered from dyslexia, but at that time there were no specialist teachers or therapists who could identify the problem; indeed, the condition was unheard of. I felt inadequate and I believed I was a dunce, but there were subjects at which I excelled, art and science in particular. These were the subjects that gave me hope, and it was through them that my verbal skills were improved by use of the nomenclature required to articulate them.


Now I’m getting to the stage when I suffer with ‘senior moments’, which is tremendously embarrassing, especially when I freeze in mid-sentence, because the word I want eludes me. I hope that I do not regress too rapidly until I am categorised as one suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.


Link


Alzheimer’s Disease
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alzheimer's_disease

‘Micro’s’ Cruises No 6 - Holy Island Part 1

This map is reproduced with kind permission of Ordnance Survey


Day one


Why go?


When I think of Holy Island, also known as Lindisfarne, I conjure up pictures in my mind of times long ago. The Island has the remains of an ancient abbey, and its 16th century castle which is situated upon a volcanic mount overlooking a natural harbour, is as imposing now, as it was when first built.


Abbey Ruins



In the 7th century, Benedictine monks established a priory at the southern end of the Island. There they would have found peace and solitude on this outcrop of rock that is cut off by the tide twice daily. Even now, things have hardly changed - apart from the intermittent bustle of summer visitors, intrigued by the Island's history.


Before the tide covers the causeway, day visitors make their escape, so as not to be trapped until the tide recedes again. Their curiosity satisfied, they leave with their impressions of the place and perhaps a trinket or two, a craft item or a booklet to remind them of their short stay. Things were different with me, as I was camping aboard 'Micro' while participating in a DCA rally. I had time to explore the Island and to soak up the atmosphere. Unknown to me, I was to receive a unique, personal experience that could only have taken place at that time.


As a young man I had wanted to visit the Island with canoeing friends. We planned to use it as a base for a short expedition to the Farne Islands. They are a small basalt archipelago situated in the North Sea, six miles to the southeast of Lindesfarne. These rocks are a natural bastion that defies the ravages of the stormy sea, and they are a sanctuary for grey seals and their pups. My ambition was never fulfilled through lack of funds and other demands that were more important.


Many years later I sold a yacht to a gentleman who lived near Perterhead. Part of the deal was to help him deliver his yacht from Southend-on-Sea to Peterhead. Because the yacht would pass close to the Farne Islands, I believed my chance of seeing them and Holy Island had at last arrived, but it was not to be. At the time, they were hidden by dense fog. Although we had an efficient GPS, we deemed it unwise to venture close, on the chance that we might be able to see them. Prudence determined we should continue on our northerly heading and give the Islands a miss.


Journey to Holy Island


More recently, when I read about the Dinghy Cruising Association's Holy Island Rally, I decided to take part with 'Micro', providing she had not been sold, and if the weather was satisfactory. Both criterions were met, and on Thursday the 30th May 2002, I set off, towing the boat behind my faithful Ford Sierra. We dodged dense and dangerous traffic and covered a distance of 327 miles. (My conscience was scarred because of the pollution caused by my car’s exhaust, but I was consoled a little, because the car ran on unleaded petrol. How could I proudly fly my Micro Sailboat Club pennant after such a blatant disregard of what its members cherish - a respect for the preservation of the environment? Ambition and self-satisfaction had shamefully triumphed over ideology, and my weak commitment to the tenants of eco-evangelists. Instead of minimising pollution I added to it!)


Heavy showers caused rainwater to collect in the boat’s cockpit, and unknown to me it managed to seep into the compartment under the foredeck. There I had stowed my clothing and sleeping gear. Fortunately, very little water had seeped into the plastic holdall that contained my sleeping bag, and I dried my wet shirts by leaving them overnight in the car.


By arriving at the Island's causeway before 1600 I had ample time to cross it before the rising tide would prevent me from doing so. High water, being three hours later, made it ideal for launching the boat at the fishermen's slipway. However, when I came to do it, there was a fairly heavy swell. The situation required me to use a length of rope between the boat and trailer. My usual method of launching ‘Micro’ was to back the car until its rear wheels were about to enter the water, but on that occasion the exhaust pipe would have been flooded, possibly causing the engine to stop.


We made it


As I was launching the boat, several American tourists were at the slipway. They were waiting for the small boat that would take them back to their cruise ship which was anchored offshore. One of them was intrigued with what I was doing. He offered to hold the painter until I had parked the trailer; then he observed, in a Californian drawl, how cold the wind was, and remarked that only a Brit would wear shorts on such a day. I politely explained that I was wearing shorts to avoid getting my jeans wet, and as I suffered with Reynolds Syndrome, shorts would be my last choice.


Beached



Soon, 'Micro' was high and dry on a nearby sandy beach. The tide was on the ebb, and I was snugly ensconced in my sleeping bag. The rain pelted down and the wind pummelled the tent, but I was safe. I was amazed at what had been accomplished since I woke early that morning. I found it difficult to take in that my home was over three hundred miles away. If I had sailed there aboard one of my yachts, it would have taken at least four full days.

(To be continued.)

‘Micro’s’ Cruises No 5 Perfect Cruise Part 3

'Micro' reefed

I prepared for the night by unrolling the self-inflating mattress, laying out the sleeping bag and placing the torch to the right-hand side, where my hand would naturally find it. I unzipped the bag and snuggled inside. As I lay there, I heard the sound of a yacht’s engine. She came closer and closer. Had her skipper seen ‘Micro’? At that moment I regretted not having an anchor light. I tried to justify myself by reasoning that my boat was only a stone's throw from the bank - who else would want to anchor there? Slightly anxious, I tried to imagine how I would extricate myself from the tent if the boat were to be run down.


With some relief, I realized the yacht was in the middle of the river, but then, from remarks made by her crew, I knew for sure they were about to anchor. A very dominant male skipper started bawling commands.


"Let it go now!" he loudly shouted, so that his voice could be heard above the throbbing of the engine. There was no easing of the throttle. The yacht continued on her course. "How much has gone?" he enquired.


"Blowed if I know!" was the reply.


"Better stop it there."


"How do I do that?" a crew member asked.


"Wrap it around the cleat!"


I was waiting for a cry of anguish as fingers were crushed between chain and cleat, but it never came, and I breathed a sigh of relief.


The engine stopped, and there was silence. Navigation lights were turned off, and a riding light replaced them. I had not been impressed by their manoeuvres, because the yacht had been driven beyond her anchor, so that she came up on her chain. This could have damaged her hull, and it seemed to me that they had not paid out enough warp to allow for a rise of six metres.


The next morning ‘Micro’s’ tent was damp - inside and out; inside, because of condensation from my breathing overnight, and outside, because of the heavy dew.


Retrieving my anchor was fun. A quantity of that dark, green floating weed, with small balloon-like chambers, had wrapped itself around the warp. The easiest way for me to remove the Bladder Wrack was to haul the rope over the quarter and unravel the weed bit by bit. As I did this, I fed the rope into the ship’s bucket. During the procedure, 'Micro' more or less remained stationary between opposing wind and tide. Finally, I cleaned the anchor by using a small scrubbing brush before placing the anchor with the rope in the bucket which I stowed in the forward locker.


I hoisted the jib and let it slightly draw to make way; then I set the main, making sure it had a good shape by first tensioning the throat halyard, then the peak halyard.


Thereupon, I adjusted the sheets and headed for the Branklet Spit Buoy. As I did so, I instinctively sniffed the air, because my olfactory nerves had sensed the smell of burnt stubble, which made me want to sneeze. The burning of stubble is illegal in England, but some farmers ignore the law and deliberately set fire to what remains of their crops after harvesting them. Towering billows of black smoke rise into the atmosphere, carrying large quantities of ash particles which are taken by the wind; sometimes they travel great distances before they settle, wherever that may be.


As I suspected would happen, the yacht which had arrived in the early hours of the night, had not been given sufficient scope for her anchor, causing it to brake out on the rising tide. Their yacht had drifted up river until taking hold on a shallow patch. Her crew would have been unaware of the happening. Fortunately, they came to no harm. The Cornish Shrimper that had anchored astern of ‘Micro’ was nowhere to be seen. I can only assume she must have made an early start, to take full advantage of the ebb.


Having made it over the first of the flood tide into the River Roach, on entering the Crouch, I steered a course towards Burnham. I was thankful that I was not sailing in the opposite direction, because of the piercingly bright sun that turned the waves into reflective liquid gold.


The River was mine. I was there alone. No other person was sharing that moment of nature's glory. ‘Micro’ creamed along; her white bow wave curled outwards like Father Time’s moustache, and thousands of rainbow bubbles were left in her wake. The blue sky contrasted with the dark brown of the weed-covered river bank that rushed by at an extraordinary rate. It seemed that the boat was standing still, while the world whirled towards the sun.


Oh, what joy! There was enough wind for me to sit comfortably on the port deck while playing the sails and feeling the boat through her tiller. She and I were joined together in harmony with the mechanics of countless molecules of water and air. We were integral within the formula of moving equilibrium. What a delightful sensation it was ............... the feel and balance of four dimensions; space combined with movement - far better than flying a kite, by far - even a modern stunt kite.


Just before midday, I arrived at Fambridge, and picked up a mooring. There I made coffee, relaxed, and watched the comings and goings of other waterborne craft.


Having the opportunity of perfect conditions, I played around with a few things, including adjusting the peak halyard which had taken to jamming when the sail was being lowered. I didn’t resolve the issue there and then. Later, when entering the moorings between Brandy Hole and Hullbridge, the halyard jammed again, and as the wind had increased to a Force 3, the task of getting the sail down was a bit tricky.


I had left Fambridge about 1300, so that I would have ample time for rowing a mile or so through the moorings to Hullbridge so as to arrive there well before high water at 1500.


'Would you believe it?' The wizened gent wearing the Panama hat and smoking a cigar was where he had been when we left! This time he spoke not a single word.


My cruise had been about as perfect as they come. There was nothing I could have done to prevent the pollution I witnessed, including the brown smoke that came out of the ears of the silent witness, and I was happy that ‘Micro’s’ activity had caused little detriment to Mother Nature.

‘Micro’s’ Cruises No 5 Perfect Cruise Part 2

Micro-Sailboat Pennant

Action Shot

I wondered how many Micro-Sailboat pennants were flying throughout the world. I guessed there were very few, as there had been little response to the formation of the Micro-Sailboat Club for eco boat builders.


My conviction of the need for restraint in the use of nature's materials for boatbuilding, had spurred me on to produce the Micro-Sailboat Web site. It was a dream of mine to influence at least a few people to conserve natural resources and recycle wherever possible, but to persuade them to change their habits and their views; I knew that would be an uphill task. Usually something catastrophic has to happen before minds are focussed, but even with the world's climate under threat, because of man's abuse of nature, the majority of us are not concerned. A prime reason for our lack of concern is that we believe we shall not be victims of our own pillaging – we believe we shall not be directly affected - certainly not in our lifetime. We confirm that all is well with the world. Surely we can all breathe relatively fresh air, and in the Western World, we have access to clean drinking water. As far as we are concerned, there has been no catastrophe that has focussed our minds upon the dire situation.


As I pondered these things, I was taken with the peacefulness of the scene. ‘Micro’, my partially recycled sailboat, was tethered to her Bruce anchor. I felt comforted that her anchor was attached to three metres of galvanised chain and thirty metres of rope. This would be ‘our’ security during the night when the spring tide would lift the boat a full six metres. There, in the River Roach, we were almost entirely protected from what little wind there was. The sky was endless - a vacuous blue ether, save for a few wispy white vapours left by aeroplanes, polluters of the ozone.


On tuning into this apparent bliss, while listening to the almost imperceptible music of rippling water, I became aware of a distant drone of combined harvesters. If I cocked my ear skywards, I could hear the throb of plane engines, but, after a while, these intrusions no longer invaded my consciousness.


Dinner was easy to prepare. I simply boiled water for dehydrated mashed potato, and I used the same water for heating a vacuum-packed chicken curry. I then consumed the first course, which was followed by creamy Muller yoghurt, and a cup of decaffeinated, unsweetened coffee. Satisfied with my repast, I settled down to immerse myself in my favourite book, the Bible.


Shortly before nightfall, a Cornish Shrimper anchored astern of us. She was a couple of hundred yards downstream, and very close to a stony, weed-covered bank. I could smell that delicious, earthy 'pong' of mud and marine vegetation, so typical of East Coast Rivers. It was truly a relaxing elixir. I deeply inhaled the medicinal gases and felt invigorated. The time was 2100, at low water. As the dew was descending, I pulled back the tent to its full extent and made it fast, but kept the flaps open by their retaining cords. There was barely sufficient light to continue reading.

(To be continued.)

Building ‘Sharpy’ Part 33

Hog and Inner Stem Post

The Hog Butt Joint comes aft of the Keel Box Support Frame.


Boatbuilding today was a bit like climbing the North Face of the Eiger! The gas heater conked out, leaving the temperature nearer to zero than the required fifteen degrees Celsius. Only this evening are my feet thawing out, despite the fact that I spent but an hour in the garage. During that time I tidied the bottom surfaces of the hog and stringers to make them smooth for receiving the bottom panels, which won’t be for a while – at least until I buy another canister of Butane gas for the heater. I also started preparing the deck support stringers. These will be set proud of the apex of the frames, so that I can shape them with an inverted ‘v’ section to support the deck side panels where they will meet longitudinally down the centre of the boat.


I can’t ascertain the exact length of the forward deck stringer until the keel box has been made, because the aft side of the pulley for the lifting keel Bowden cable which is sighted on the upper surface of the stringer, must be directly above the point where the Bowden cable emerges from the keel box. I can get a pretty good idea of where the pulley will go from measurements on the plan, but I want to be precise. The length of the aft deck stringer can be accurately assessed, as the building plan shows that it protrudes an inch forward of frame number three.


Incidentally, at least sixty-four climbers have died climbing the North Face of the Eiger, and after my failed attempt today, I’m around to tell the tale.

Link

The Eiger
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eiger