Fixin' a Hole

I was talking with a colleague the other day about boats and boat building.  I mentioned that I was building a 15' sailboat.  Being a kindred spirit, he was interested, so I pulled up some photos.  The first photo I showed him was one from the foredeck looking aft into the cockpit.  His jaw dropped a little as he took in the deep, spacious cockpit.  When I said a 15' boat, he was imagining something smaller.  Something dingy-like.

The PocketShip design is unusually large for its size.  There are times during construction that this bigness hits you.  When the hull first get stitched together and you see that big internal volume...wow.  When you are working the thousands of miles of fillets or fiberglassing the interior, or sanding the square miles of surface area that make up this boat, you realize that this isn't a little boat.  In the last few weeks, I once again was hit by how large this boat is.  That happened after I got the cabin deck glued down.  Suddenly, the "on deck" and "below deck" became distinct places.  I find myself going below to look for some tool or a pencil I left down there.  Or I can work topsides sanding the day away...   But, I get ahead of myself.

I've got to admit, my last few posts have contains elements of whinny-ness.  There were been tasks that I'd been struggling with, and that I had to labor through, and ...well, boat building is a long-term relationship of sorts, and like any relationship you've got to work through the bad times as well as the good.  After that last rough patch, though, things have been  smooth, peaceful.

Working with a hand plane is one of the most soothing boat building activities there is.  Shaving at a piece of wood, using nothing but a steady hand and patience to transform a piece of wood into new, desired form....it is hard not to wax poetic about the process.  And since all all of the framing for the cabin deck needed to be planed down to the appropriate angles to accept the deck, there was lots of soothing activity to be had.  In fact, in sizing up the project I figured that I'd have several nights whittling away at it.  As it turned out, though, it only took a few short hours. 

 A test fit of the cabin deck 

After that, I test fit the deck.  Almost perfect.  A couple more whisks at the plane and that was it, ready to go!

I did another test fit, and carefully marked the locations of all the framing so I would know where to drill for the temporary screws that hold the deck down while the epoxy dries.  Also, the deck is a little oversized the in the plans.  It is suggested that one use a router with a flush-trim bit to trim back the deck once it is installed, but after reading about Dave's slipped  router experience, I was a little gun shy.  So, instead I marked the actual dimensions of the deck while I had it temporarily fastened, and then pulled it off and trimmed it with the circular saw.  Another test fit showed that everything turned out right.

Padded, perforated hull liner.  Posh stuff.

Before installing the cabin deck, I sanding the epoxy coated overhead (the inside of the cabin deck).  Also, I've bought a bunch of perforation, padded hull liner material.   I'm planning to line the overhead and the sides of the cabin with this.  Since it was convenient to use the as-yet uninstalled cabin deck as a template, I took the opportunity to rough cut the pieces for the overhead.

Taping off=easy cleanup!

Having run out of other things to do, it was time to install the cabin deck.  The manual recommends having a helper when installing the deck, since it is so big and unwieldy that you could easily end up with a massive, epoxy-slathered mess if you tried it yourself.  I, however, would be tackling this one alone, so I rehearsed the procedure for getting the deck hoist up onto the boat and aligned properly until I could do it without having to slide the deck around too much.  It actually wasn't too hard.  I could maneuver the deck from the cockpit up and onto the temporary cut-out spacer thing that spans the companionway.  I'd drop finish nails into two of my pre-drilled holes (for the temporary screws) to help me align everything.  With the deck still precariously balanced overhead, I'd slip into the cabin, lift the deck straight up, move it forward until the finish nails were right over the corresponding holes in the deck, and then drop the thing down.  Easy as pie. 

Time, then, for the real thing.  I carefully taped off the areas on both the deck and the boat so that most of the squeeze-out could be easily contained.  I mixed up some unthickened epoxy and hit all the mating surfaces with it.  This was followed by a big batch of thickened epoxy, liberally slathered everywhere.  Next came, highly choreographed, oddly well practised dance of maneuvering the deck into place.  Up, over, down, up, down, and out.  Time to drive the temporary screws.  I had chosen to place these about six inches apart, so there ended up being a TON of them.  Peel the tape, clean up any remaining squeeze-out.  Job done!  Well, almost.  I couldn't resist finally knockout out the cut-out spacer thing, finally opening up the companionway properly. 

Wide open spaces.  The companionway is liberated of the spacer!

 The next day, the glue was dry and the screw came out.  With all my temporary screws liberated, I figured it was time to fasten down the seatback decks.  Like the cabin deck, these guys had undergone an intensive training program of test fitting and trimming, so installation was a breeze.  And, with these installed, I also ran fillets about the seatbacks (I had been waiting for the seatback decks to go on to do this, so that I could fillet the deck-to-aft cabin bulkhead seams at the same time). 

Stepping back, suddenly, there was the hull of my boat, sitting there in front of me, essentially whole.  All the major components are now part of the boat.  Sure, there's plenty more work to do, fiberglassing, sanding, attaching little bits a pieces, but this is still a major milestone!

The whole hull.  OK, you can only really see the cockpit area, but I can't find anywhere that I can stand to get a picture of much more of the boat.

With this done, It was time to make some refinements.  Variously employing planes, grinder, and sanders, I slowly worked to mold the shape to perfection, filling holes, making things flush, rounding corners.  I queued up Sgt. Pepper on the old MP3 player and set to work...perfect music to accompany this kind of work. There were lots of holes to fix, and cracks to fill.

Since the next big step is to fiberglass all the topsides, essentially setting their form in stone, I've allowed my perfectionism to run wild at this point.   I've spent several days so far carefully refining PocketShip's curves.  Still have a little more work to until she's just right.

"I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in, and stops my mind from wandering"

Fairing the topsides

  One thing that I wasn't really happy about was that there were a few spots where my stitching job had pulled things slightly out-of-fair.  I bought some fairing compound at Fisheries Supply and have been working to correct this.  Fairing compound is an easily sandable, epoxy-based filler, and man, it is soooooo easy to work with.  Adding microballoons to epoxy accomplishes the same-ish thing, but it takes some work to get the consistency right.   Fairing compound is just boom, right out of the box.  Still, it takes some time and patience to identify low spots, fill them, sand, and slowly fair the boat.

Replace your divots!

On another front, I've ordered my sails.  In the end, I chose to buy the Douglas Fowler-made sails from CLC.  It took a lot of deliberation to come to that decision.   I really wanted to have a local loft make them for me, but when I boiled it down, my local choices fell into these three categories:

1. The finest sails in the world...around twice the price of the excellent Douglas Fowler sails that CLC offers.
2. Sails equal to Fowler's, only more expensive
3. Quality sails slightly less expensive than CLC's.

For the first category, while I desperately wanted the Schattauer or Hasse sails, I just couldn't justify the cost. Even if I use this boat as much as I dream I will (which I probably won't), I can't imagine ever putting them to the kind of use that would allow their magnificience to truly shine.  As for the second category, well, why pay more?

That left category three.  There was a small sail loft in Eastern Washington that tendered a bid lower than CLC's sails, and I gave the bid a lot of thought.  In the end, though, it was only a couple hundred dollars cheaper, and the CLC sails were a known quantity.  Folwer has already cut sail for PocketShips, and there is something to be said for experience.  Also, I've noticed that John Harris doesn't seem like the kind of guy who would tolerate mediocre sails on his boat, so if they're good enough for his PocketShip, they're good enough for mine.  Sold.  I still may yet order a spinnaker from the Eastern Washington outfit.  Time will tell.

So, next up will be a ton of 'glass work.  

The Varying Flavors of Victory

The PocketShip manual is insufferably optimistic.  It's invariably happy.  Upbeat.  This is in many ways a good thing.  It imbues the reader with a it's-not-to-hard-you-can-do-it warm fuzzy.  And it's true.  Building a boat is a long series of little steps, all of which can be done.  However, what the PocketShip manual does not tell you is that the actual experience of boat building is not invariably happy and upbeat.  There are moments of sublime pleasure, proud accomplishment, transcendent joy.  And there are moments of utter terror, pain, frustration, confusion, and disdain.   This last month, I've been riding the emotional roller coaster of boat building. 

Things started off on the wrong note.  I noticed (why didn't I see this before?) that I had accidentally rounded over the UPPER edge of the starboard sheer clamp/cabin deck carlin, instead of the lower edge!  After assessing the situation, I realized that there was really nothing that could be done except accept it.  Once that bit of timber gets planed down to accept the cabin deck, it'll be barely noticeable inside the cabin.   

Port dorade box, stitched in

With that moment of defeat readily dispatched, I tackled the dorade boxes.  This was a pretty straightforward stitch and glue operation.  The only thing that I had trouble with was what angle to set the forward side of the box.  I ended up making it parallel to the forward cabin bulkhead, only to wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night after I'd filleted it in that I could have grabbed the correct angle off the plans!  That is, after all, why there are plans to begin with.  After glancing at the plans, I confirmed my suspicions...the outboard ends should have angled forward.  I've more or less internalized the remaining steps in the build, and consequently haven't looked at the plans or manual for months...I guess that is the price to pay.  Anyway, there was nothing I could do about it...it was in there permanently.

The fillets that made my mistake permanent.

 So far in this project, I've had a couple of approaches to errors.  I've been known to scrap whatever went wrong and start over.  Another approach I've taken on occasion has been to cover up the error.  when those aren't options, there's always the accept it and move on routine.  But this time, I've had an epiphany, a leap forward in maturity.   Rather than just accept this error, I'm taking ownership of it.  This is my boat.  Not John Harris', not Dave Curtis', not Sean's, Pete's, Bruno's, Bill's, Jay's, Peggy's or anyone else's.  Mine.  Each boat has its own "errors,"  its own geometry, its own character.  Among other things, mine has dorade boxes which have faces parallel  to the forward cabin bulkhead.  It has them now, and it will have them forever.  No other boat will have the same combination of elements, perfect and imperfect, that mine has.   This is the boat that I have built.

With that out of the way, I decided to work out the bugs in the transom "skirt".  I decided to cut a brand new "skirt" out of a scrap piece of 3/8" ply.  I just happened to have one...exactly one...piece that was large enough.  After some head scratching, I figured that I needed to reduce the camber of the skirt by 1/4", and came up with a clever way to mark it.   I took up my pencil, batten, nails and measuring tape, and laid out a new skirt.  Saw to wood...test fit...and...uh oh.  Instead of reducing the camber by 1/4", I increased it by 1/4".

If you look at the middle of the skirt/transom intersection, you'll see that this is definitely not right.

Laminating my transom skirt extender.

I immediately realized the error in my method, laid out the correct curve on the bottom of the skirt and cut again.  This time the curve was right, but now I faced the same problem as many teenage girls have these days.  My skirt was too short.   I looked all over the shop for a suitable piece of 3/8" plywood to make new skirt from.  Nothing.  I considered a huge variety of options for moving ahead...install the old "bad" one and fill with thickened epoxy like crazy, laminate 2 pieces of 1/4" and make it out of that, buy a whole new sheet of 3/8" ply...  After sleeping on it, I decided that the 100% best thing to do would be to laminate a 3/8"x1/2" piece of timber to the top of the new skirt, thus making it the correct dimensions.  I did this and, to my immense relief, it worked great!  I bit of thickened epoxy later and the transom skirt became a permanent part of the boat.

New and improved skirt

Filleted in.

 

The next thing I wanted to tackle were all the cleats that will support the cabin deck.  The easy part are the ones that go on the inside of the dorade boxes.  The ones inside the cabin along the upper edges of the cabin bulkheads are trickier.  They are bound on one side by the "sheer clamps" and by the cabin deck carlins on the other.  Getting the lengths and compound angles just right it a lesson in trickiness itself.  For me it'd also prove to be an exercise in patience, frustration, fear, courage, and persistence.

I didn't realize all this in the beginning.  After being bitten by not reading the manual, I started reviewing the sections covering whatever I'm about to do before I do it (that was before having my epiphany...I largely set down the manual again, post epiphany).  It seemed like a simple affair: trace some patterns, cut some wood, et viola.  So, I traced a pattern, cut out a test piece of wood from some scrap, and found that I'd forgotten to take into account the fact that the outboard ends have to be beveled to meet the sheer clamps nicely.  With that in mind, I marked up another piece, this time a little bit long, cut it out, applied what I thought would be the right bevel and achieved...failure.  My angles were all wrong and, despite have cut out a piece that I thought was extra long, I ended up with a cleat that was too short.  This was going to be harder than I thought.

The saga of these chingaderos (see Larry Cheek's blog for a definition of his colorfully coined boat building term http://lawrencewcheek.com/news/?p=161.) will continue soon.  But first, this is as good a time as any for a note to anyone reading this who is currently building a PocketShip, or is considering doing so in the future.  I highly recommend marking and cutting out these cleats before installing the inboard cabin deck carlins (the ones that run on either side of the companionway opening).  This'll give you room to mark and measure and fiddle with these parts without being constrained by the bookends of sheer clamp (I still dislike that term, but that's what the manual calls it) and carlin. 

Anyway, seeing the challenge ahead, I decided that rather than forge ahead with those fiddly bits, I'd work on something easy.  Like the seatbacks.

The last of the plywood become the seatbacks!

Unbelievably, I didn't cut out the seatbacks back over a year ago when I cut out all of the other plywood parts.  This is because the Pocketship manual makes some parenthetical comment about potentially making these based on your own pattern (measured from and fit to your boat) rather than using the pattern in the plans.   At the time I thought this was great idea.  But, in the intervening year, the weight of that suggestion seems to have decreased dramatically.  So, rather than fiddle around with making a pattern, I pulled out my last sheet of 1/4" marine plywood, unrolled the plans, and set to work with awl, pencil and circular saw.  This sure brought back memories!

The plans yield seatbacks that are sufficiently oversized to allow them to be trimmed back to fit the boat perfectly.  It took a couple of iterations in and out of the boat to get things fitting just right.

The setbacks really help define the final shape of the cockpit.

Around about this time, I also installed some thick timber backing blocks between the two seatback deck carlins (aka upper seatback stringers).  This will give a nice thick hunk of wood backing the seatback decks so that the screws holding things like mooring cleats will have something to sink their teeth into.

With this done, it was time for an epoxy seal-a-thon.  The insides of the seatbacks, the seatback frames, stringers, reinforcement blocks, and generally any bare wood that'd be enclosed in the seatbacks got a couple of thick coats of unthickened epoxy to seal them against moisture.  I also hit the cabin overhead with a couple of coats while I was at it, and the insides of the dorade boxes.

Epoxy sealing in progress.  Cold temperatures outside and limited floor area in the shop lead to anything not attached to the boat to be treated the the boatyard annex (a.k.a. upstairs in my house).

When the epoxy finally dried, it was time to start putting it all together.  The aft quarter or so of the seatbacks is a storage area accessible from the cockpit, so I had to cut two access port in the seatbacks to accommodate these.  There are some 3/8" ply reinforcements (if you remember, these were the very, very, very first parts I cut out on this boat!) that glue on to the insides of the access ports.  I neglected to mention it, but these were actually glued on while the sealing epoxy was drying and later served as guides for cutting the access ports.

Cutting out the cockpit storage locker access.

The forward three-quarters of the seatbacks are watertight and stuffed with foam flotation.  A la Sean's PocketShip, I drilled  holes in the watertight seatback frames at the forward end storage locker to accommodate screw in/out drain plugs to allow the watertight areas to ventilate when the boat is out of the water.  I also ran a length of black plastic tubing from the aft cabin bulkhead, through the seatback structure, into the cockpit storage lockers.  This will serve as a wire conduit for the stern light (and potentially anything else I decide I need electricity for back in the cockpit).  I don't want to totally spoil the surprise yet, but I have come up with a nifty way to get route the wires through the cabin into this conduit.  Stay tuned.

The hole in the bottom of the seatback frame is for a drain plug to go in.  Just visible along the very top of the hull is the black plastic tube that I'm using as a wiring conduit.

Here you can see the reinforcement blocks being installed.

The last of the foam flotation.  My PocketShip is now assured of having positive flotation.

I knew I was getting close when I found myself cutting up blue foam to stuff in the watertight compartments.  Once again, this went strangely fast, and was enjoyable well out of proportion with the actual magnitude of the act.

Epoxy sealing, check.  Reinforcement blocks, check.  Wire conduit, check.  Foam flotation, check  Seatback installation dry run, check.  Clearly, it was time to mix up the thickened epoxy and install the seatbacks once and for all.  While the thickened epoxy was flowing, I also installed the upper breasthook, and a piece of 3/4"x1" timber along either sheer line inside the cabin...the purpose of which I'm not ready to divulge yet.

In they go!

But the cockpit was where it was at.  This was victory, sweet, sweet victory!  The cockpit was transformed into something closely resembling its final form, and, coincidentally, became a very comfortable place indeed.  After cleaning up the squeeze out, I found myself reclining in the cockpit, just enjoying the moment.  Indeed this was a victory to be savored. The next day, after spending a few minutes pulling out temporary fasteners, I again found myself spending quality time reclining in the unfinished cockpit. Surely the cockpit is one of the finest features of Pocketship's design. It is roomy, inviting comfortable.  This is the boat that I have built.

The now fully installed upper breasthook.

The mysterious timber running along the sheer line inside the cabin.

Looking aft at the cockpit.

Fresh from the revelry of victory, I dove headlong again into those pesky cabin cleats.   I was on a boat building high.  I was unstoppable.  Port-side forward cabin cleat, round 3 was a disaster...the bevels got cut the wrong way.  No worries, mistakes happen.   The fourth iteration turned out a little better, but not good enough.  I intend to for these to be visible and varnished inside my cabin, so the fit has to be perfect.  Okay...gotta try again.  Number 5...getting closer...getting closer...ACK, NO, TOO SHORT, WRONG ANGLE, WHY DON'T YOU FIT.  Breathe.  As Ivar Hougland would say, keep clam.  Take 6...no comment.   Three hours since feelings of exultation.  Now?  Failure.  Despair. 

Fail.

Fail.

Fail.

Fail.

Things were bad.  I figured I'd take a day to regroup.  The next day, my throat was killing me, the first symptom of what was to be a nasty, late-in-the-season flu.  A couple days later I was feeling better, but had lost all momentum.  I couldn't do it.  I was afraid to go out into the boatshop.  And it got worse.  The longer I delayed, the bigger that stupid piece of wood loomed in my mind.   Days passed.  A week.  Two.   I went out to the shop one day with the best intentions, but instead spent time working on rehabilitating my increasingly decrepit garage door.  I finally go to the garage door to open, which allowed my to take a couple shot of the bow of my boat.

  

After wallowing for...way too long, I girded my loins for battle (figuratively).  I went out to the shop. I cut out a new, extra-long piece of wood based on my pattern.  I then very slowly and methodically worked away at it. I'd test fit the piece as best I could, make as close an approximation the the correct angles as I could, nibble away a tiny bit of material using the stationary belt sander, and repeat.  Slowly, surely things took the right form.  Within an hour...a long tedious hour to be sure...I had one done. 

The dragon had been slayed.  I expected some sort of emotional response; a hint of elation, perhaps.  But, there was nothing.  I had four more of the things to make.

Finally right!

I managed to get the forward center cleat right the first time through, though it has the least complicated geometry of any of them.  The forward starboard side cleat sent one hunk of wood to the scrap pile before things worked out right.  The aft cleats were done in one take, though I have to admit that this is more because I was running low on timber...the fit wasn't perfect.  Oh well.

A pass through the router and some quick sanding and the step-from-hell was behind me.  Now that the battle is over, I should be able to savor my victory.  Yet, for some reason, this victory tastes bland.  Perhaps the battle was too bitter to revel in its conclusion.  At least the fear has evaporated.  I can look at my boat once again, unwaveringly, and contemplate the next steps with peace and equanimity. 

In they go!  You can also see where I've cut out the holes in the forward cabin bulkhead for the dorade vents.