On the home straight

I trial varnished a piece of ply and filler as per Mr Mushroom’s advice and the results were such that I’ve scraped all the filler off Onawind Blue’s decks—I’d rather my shoddy workmanship were on view than some manufacturer’s cruddy product. Mr M recommended another brand of filler but he’s just run out himself and is waiting on a supplier. I’ve got a deadline now so can’t wait for anything or anyone. I worked the decks back to varnishing standard—the ply veneer is getting thin in places—and then a squall blew through out of nowhere bringing huge drops of filthy rain and the sort of wind that, as much as I love the wind, made me curse and splutter. I managed to get the boat covered and when the rain had passed discovered that I had one dirty dot per square inch of deck. I counter attacked immediately with warm water and a sponge and after several dousings the decks came up fine.

Then, despite a children’s birthday party raging in the garden with balls whizzing all over the place, then foam bubbles and streamers, I spent the rest of the afternoon cementing the deck fixtures; the cleats and the wave breaker doodah, with epoxy. And then this morning, after a dry night, I started on the varnish. There are no photos I’m afraid, I keep forgetting to charge the camera batteries. The next published shots will be of a finished OB.

As well as finish the boat the idea is to organise a launch party. But while I’ve mainly been concentrating on the boat the party seems to have organised itself. What I at first envisaged as a subdued affair has snowballed and we have about 60 people coming as well as a band and maybe a firework display later. If I could lay my hands on some at short notice I’d get jugglers, stilt walkers, fire breathers and belly dancers too. A string quartet, a piano on the beach. A troupe of dancers in sailor suits. But this isn’t OB’s style, elegant reserve is more her line.

In an ideal world I’d have a discreet, private launch first; a quiet, early morning row with Onawind Blue. But an ideal world it isn’t and there won’t be enough time. We will be ready by the deadline, touch wood, but with no leeway. I feel confident about the boat but any hiccoughs will now be very public. The last boat I built, when proudly launched at bath time, rolled onto its side like a playful puppy. Obviously I know that’s not going to happen but it’s the sort of image that sneaks in through the back door of my mind when I’m dropping off to sleep and makes my eyes pop wide open.

Roobarb and custard

Well the deck went on fine, then, creaking and groaning, the gunnels. With ratchets straps, clamps, knees, elbows and a mouthful of screws I forced them into position. Then took them off and did it all again with epoxy. I planed and sanded the gunnels to shape and stood back to admire the quality of completeness they bring to the boat. It all looked good, very good, too good, in fact, to last.

I was working in a congratulatory frame of mind, basking in the projected glory of a finished boat, when I did a silly thing, a very, very silly thing. Even the twittering blackbirds were reduced to silence by the mad barking issuing from under the boat. I got to my feet and did half an hour of penitential deck sanding before I could even think straight—installing a self bailer in the cockpit sole I’d cut off the forward end of the skeg.

Ferreting through a pile of scrap for something to rebuild the skeg’s front end I was reminded of a children’s animated TV series called Roobarb and Custard about an enterprising and resourceful dog, Roobarb, who, in the heat of the midday sun, would think up crackpot schemes then disappear to rummage in a shed and rapidly reappear with some fantastic invention. Custard, a sceptical cat, along with a host of colourful birds would look on hoping to enjoy a spot of schadenfreude as Roobarb’s invention spectacularly failed. The series conveyed an atmosphere that is often prevalent round here, though obviously the language in the workshop wouldn’t be suitable for a children’s program.

I repaired and repainted the skeg and, just when everything was going along smoothly again, I upped the ante by naming a launch date. It seems that this has been tantamount to pulling the trigger of the setback gun—there’s been another bout of severe deck staining, pollen and mud seeping through the poliytarp cover, not to mention the copious smattering of bird shit. Every time the swifts swoop by like a squadron of fighter planes I run for the boat cover but the blackbirds are the worst, I don’t know what they’re eating at this time of year but the stains are deep purple. I got the caustic soda out again but had a worrying time of it with acid dripping into the boat and burning the paint. The decks go a beautiful dark colour when they’re wet but there’s some filler I’ve used that stands out in bright pale patches. I bumped into Mr Mushroom in the hardware shop and asked his advice; he recommended that I try varnishing the filler on some scrap and went on to make some very complimentary remarks about the size of my red peppers. I invited him to the launch.

It’s a gas,gas,gas

After what seems like days of interminable faffing; umming, arring, making decisions, hesitating, changing my mind, dithering, cajoling myself to the brink, thinking better of it, having another idea, not writing it down, forgetting it and eventually going back to my original plans, I’ve finished the jobs in places that will be inaccessible with the decks on. And, having assured myself that all considerations have been considered I have, at last, affixed the decks to the hull.

I gathered weights for holding the deck flat while the glue cured and surrounded Onawind Blue with an assortment of gas bottles, large stones and logs. Then, as the day started to cool, I mixed up seven squirts of epoxy. To me this is a worryingly large quantity, and I’d just started to spread it on at an energetic pace when two friends turned up. Luckily they understood the situation and stood back to watch. Now, I don’t know if it’s just me but I find it very difficult to work when I’m being watched, the pressure’s on, I get nervy, I don’t think straight. I laboured on in a flustered fashion, used up the epoxy and mixed up seven more. And then Chief Vitalstatistix arrived.

I haven’t seen him for a while, and I presented him with a wan smile as his rotund form hove into view. Seeing what I was doing, Vitalstatistix began a protracted discourse on epoxy—he told me that it was a two part, petroleum based resin, and that once the two components were thoroughly mixed one only had a limited amount of time to work with the said resin. He was about to tell me how to apply it when I interrupted, ‘Hey Vital,’ I said, ‘How say we apply some of this resin to your mouth, see how long it takes you to shut up?’

No, of course I didn’t really. What, mild mannered me? No, I just grimaced and continued to beaver away.

This was all text book Sod’s law and the job ended up taking much longer than expected. Eventually darkness fell and so I got the lamp out and began tidying up. While I scraped away at the excess resin it occurred to me that I was sitting in my boat, I was inside the space defined by Onawind Blue, my own hand-built boat.

The stars were coming out, Venus shone brightly in the west, chasing the sun beyond the horizon. I looked up at the Pole Star then followed the handle of the Plough back to where Arcturus was rising orange above the rooftops, then let my eyes wander on to find Sirius shimmering in the east. I could hear the sea in the distance and smell the warm textures of the cooling land. Admittedly there was an electric lamp in the boat and I was surrounded by gas bottles, large stones and logs but for a moment I almost believed that I was out there, camping in some quite cove. And then a yellow moon rose, like a fat, happy cheese.

Call me a dreamer, a hopeless romantic, but it was almost more sensory stimulation than I could bear. I downed tools and lay back in the boat.

Afloat!

No, only joking, but with all this foam up front Onawind Blue should keep her bows above water. I’ve installed those long buoyant sausages that children use when learning to swim. I tried some out last summer in a friend’s pool and noticed just how floaty they were; with one sausage behind my knees and another under my back I could float about all afternoon and even drink beer. They’re high density, light weight, easy to cut, look tidy and cost 2€ apiece. I put a block of Styrofoam, which I’d salvaged from another boat, in the bottom, fixed in place with some builder’s foam and then two chopped sausages on top.

It’s very nearly time to fix the decks and I’ve spent much of the day making sure that all the little bits and pieces that will be sealed in the lockers are made and accounted for. I’ll be launching using ex-windsurfing masts and then switching to larger diameter wooden masts when I’ve got round to building them, so I’ve made a set of adapters to take the smaller spars.

I experimented with a breakwater, wave-deflector on the foredeck. I definitely think the boat will need one but this first model interferes with OB’s lines so I’ll have to try something smaller.

Spring has been fruitful for the blackbirds, the trees and hedges are full of their pleasant twittering and the youngsters are now learning to fly. And crap at the same time. Onawind Blue seems to make a natural target and I’m getting a bit fed up at finding black and white goo splattered about her insides. Today though, more than a couple of young birds fell prey to cats and I’ll admit that it was gratifying to see the balance of nature being restored.

Lat 55º 59’ S, Long 67º 12’ W

I may have mentioned in a previous post that my chronic sea fever started with big ideas about big boats. Nothing too extravagant (though I do remember being enamoured of something 65ft long at one point) but generally I thought that a boat from 35 to 42ft would suit me fine. I fancied a steel or aluminium craft and was continually drawn to rugged, hard-chined boats with fractional rigs, solar panels, and self-steering gear.

And, once I had my boat, I would set out on a circumnavigation—east about and passing south of the three stormy capes: Good Hope, Leeuwin and Horn. I read all about the pioneers, the men that sailed out into the unknown; Magellan, Sebastian Elcano, Drake, Thomas Cavendish, William Dampier, Anson, Bouganville, Byron. Men that discovered the shape and form of our world; James Cook, Charles Wilkes and La Perouse, and then the modern circumnavigators, Slocum, Chichester and Knox-Johnson, Moitessier, the Smeetons and the Hiscocks, guzzling the details with the voracious appetite of a half-starved mariner.

While engaged in all this reading and dreaming I worked up a fascination for Cape Horn and any tale about those chilling, furious waters would have me gripped. For over a year I read books exclusively about the sea paying particular attention whenever the tale strayed to the southern latitudes. And as I rode, in a tatty tour bus, through the sparkling Catalan country side, from one sleepy provincial theatre to the next, the wind would be howling in my head, the sea rolling, monstrous waves steepening and the Horn’s distinctive profile looming in the northeast.

From the cover of Felix Riesenberg’s book Cape Horn I took a view of the Cape from the west and had it tattooed on my arm. The tattoo has served me well—whenever trouble’s been brewing, problems with family, work, money, threatening on the horizon, I have looked at my arm and thought of the Cape; a place where my petty woes would pale in an instant and be blown away with the spindrift.

Escapism, relativism, I know, but it’s worked and over the years I’ve spent a lot of time dreaming in those hazardous waters, so much so that I don’t even really want to go there anymore. Apart from the fact that I’ll never get the money, or the boat or, more importantly, the depth of experience necessary to tackle a cruise of those proportions, to be dashing off on a round the world cruise no longer seems relevant. But that’s no problem, there’s no frustration, I’m building my own boat, I’m living my sea dream more than ever, right here in the garden, without even getting wet.

Whisky and soda

While in the main circumstances have conspired to keep me away from this blog and out of the workshop, I have completed a few tasks. There’s a rough cut version of a kick-up rudder and pintles (or gudgeons) fixed to the stern. The rudder shape, which has been likened to an aubergine, is simply the result of what I felt was the best compromise between a not too deep or narrow blade and a kick-up. Any shallower and wider and the rudder wouldn’t have lifted high enough to clear the sand coming in to the beach. It remains to be seen how effective this design will be and I’m prepared to knock another one together if it proves unequal to the task of turning the boat.

The muddy rain and pollen stains on the decking showed no sign of budging under the combined efforts of my small troupe of sanders and I was toying with the unsavoury idea of buying another sheet of plywood and re-cutting the decks, when someone suggested I tried bleach. I didn’t have any in the house and, being Sunday evening, it was unfeasible to buy some, but I found some caustic soda crystals under the sink and used those diluted in hot water. The results were instant and impressive and the dark cloud that had been raining on my bad haircut, lifted.

Onawind Blue had another trip to the beach on a beautiful day with a stiff force 4 blowing out of the east. Not the sort of conditions I’ll be sailing in but great for some photos. I took her off the bench and put her on the sand where she sat revelling in the elements.

I’m now on point 10 of my list and installing buoyancy and fitting the decks comes next. But that list ought to be revised, unforeseen little jobs keep cropping up, it’s rather like climbing a hill—I can clearly see the top not too far away and arrive breathily only to find another summit rising some distance off.

El Cesped

It was time to repair the lawn. All the chin scratching while pacing around Onawind Blue has worn pale, grassless tracks, like sheep paths on the hills, across what is otherwise a uniform swathe of lush lawn. And, though this probably isn’t the place to admit it, (or write about it) the upkeep of the lawn is my responsibility, I am the gardener, a dissolute, wanton gardener at best but one who at least knows how far a lawn can be pushed before it jumps.

Amazingly all the dripped globs of epoxy seem to have been absorbed, as have the copious amounts of sawdust but the bald patches had to be tackled before the crowds of summer arrive.

I bought some soil, fertiliser and grass seed, took it home and read the packet. Now I’ve done this several times in the past and don’t really need to read the instructions but the short paragraph on this packet was enough to have me pacing the sheep track, guffawing and chortling.

One of the perks of living in a country where English is not generally spoken is that it often appears in a translated form. Translations can range from the bemusingly surreal to the downright hilarious, especially those found in restaurants. Over the years I’ve been offered, ‘battered squibs’, ‘strawberries with scum’ and, even more alarmingly, ‘fried transparent gobby’ I could imagine that the first was squid in batter, that scum was cream but the fried transparent gobby (how did they keep it transparent?), not only put me off eating in that particular restaurant but had me stumped. Working back through the Spanish I came to the conclusion that it meant whitebait.

The seed packet contained some corkers, starting with the quaint ‘very hart and rustic lawn,’ moving on to the spiritual, ‘it endures well the trample,’ (just like me, I thought) and ending with the weird ‘useful for almost of places: in public and private gardens, in sports fields, in the streets of pith and putt.’ Ahh the streets of pith and putt, alas I know them well and many a man has been ruined there.

It left me wondering if such seeds will actually grow.

Despite the garden some progress has been made.

Dear Pig are you willing, to sell for one shilling, your ring, said the piggy, ‘I will.’ Onawind Blue got a ring through her nose. And a sizeable one at that. Big and strong enough, I hope, to break all those bottles of bubbly among other things.

I’ve realised why those six coats of ivory coloured paint look yellow. Between each layer of new paint OB’s received a coat of pollen. Pollen is everywhere. A savage rainfall worked its way through the boat cover and, mixed with pollen, stained the decks in the manner of a mattress that you might expect to find in a boarding school for small boys. It will need a deal of sanding if I’m to finish with varnish. For the meantime I butt joined the side decks to the fore and aft sections and epoxied the underside then left these two grim fellows to flatten out the warp.