The Longest Race: The Legendary 'Round Waldron Row

Ok, well, I'm sick as a dog and not really up to anything more than laying around in bed spacing out so I figured I might as well update the blog. I think, since I have nothing better to write about, I'll add issue four to the continuing saga of the Black Dog and her stalwart crew. Previous issues can be found here, here and here or on our boxed set of syndicated episodes, Black Dog: The complete seasons (as seen on TV) for only $29.99 (some restrictions apply, void where prohibited). Now say that five times faster. Anyway, this issue of Life goes out to someone near and dear to my heart who is spending the day high on painkillers due to a wisdom teeth extraction. Hopefully the fading effects of the anesthesiologist's handy work will help make this post amusing enough to keep her entertained. [author's not: reading the previous issues hotlinked above is highly suggested to appreciate the full nuanced details of the saga, the elaborate character development and...and... yeah, whatever]

Hem hem...

It was a long time ago, a time lost in the mists of folklore and shrouded by the mysteries of legend, when the crew of the Schooner Black Dog set out from Stuart Island on a journey of discovery and daring. Their quest? To attend the annual 'round island row on fabled Waldron Island.

So, after waking up their infamous engine with a few healthy squirts of starting fluid (the equivalent of a stiff shot of hooch), our heroes set off, weaving out of Reid Harbour, propelled by a newly invigorated Mr. Tomos. Once on the other side of James Pass we passed into uncharted waters and, cutting Mr. Tomos off (he was starting to get a little unsteady from all the rum and we figured it was indecently early to be getting smashed...), we hoisted sails and enjoyed a merry romp across to North Bay. When we landed we descovered that the natives of the island were enthralled with the technology of our vessel. It seems that they were still mired in the Dark Ages of waterborne transport and had never before seen sails, or anything more advanced than paddles and oars. We gathered that there was a legend on the island fortelling the coming out of the North West of a great black ship with white sails crewed by friendly gods who would share the secrets of their cultural advancements. We were able to capitalize on this adoration to get the cheerful pygmies to help free Black Dog from the North Bay sandbar that had caught us unawares. Oh C'mon, at least we didn't steal all their gold and infect them with smallpox: Cortez is rolling around in his grave right now.

The first leg of the race was straightforward enough, simply a decorous broad reach around to fishery point. This was, by the standards of the ship, entirely uneventful: Which is to say it was only punctuated by a totally reasonably number of slam jibes, jammed halyards and frantic scrambles to the weather rail. Actually, on one of our slam jibes I swear I saw the exposed topside between the water and our lee gunwale become skinnier than an anorexic Lindsey Lohan, not counting silicon implants of course. It was even smaller than a one to ten expression of Orlando Bloom's acting talent. I could go on like that all night but all the celebrity cracks make me feel like I'm on a bad sitcom. Make that just a Sitcom in the interest of eliminating redundant words.

Anyway, after trading epithets with the helmsman our author pried his fingers loose from the weather rail and surveyed the horizon with a suitably jaundiced eye. No I was most emphatically NOT looking for a piece of dry land close enough to swim too, what a terrible suggestion! Regardless, my eyes lit on Fishery point close on our starboard bow. Unfortunately it seemed that the tide at the point was not exactly working in our favor and even though we were wooshing toward the point at a good five knots we were...gasp... going backwards. Half an hour later we were in the same place. Every time the wind would come up for a moment and we would nearly round the point it would die just in time to sweep us back to our original position. I was rapidly becoming convinced that we were unwittingly trapped in a Salvador Dali painting, complete with melting clocks. Either that or Fishery point was really an illusion tied to a stick and attached 50 long yards off our bowsprit. Well, we've all heard you can whistle for a wind but I'm here to say that cursing a blue streak for 45 minutes straight works too. Needless to say, we eventually rounded the point and started the long beat up the windward leg of the route. Well, lazy men that we are we decided to wake up Mr. Tomos from his stupor and get a little help. Tom was none to pleased, I imagine the engine noise was hell with his hangover, but we were able to tempt him with a few shots to the corroborator and the hair of the dog that bit him seemed to work. Off on our merry way again we made it around Pt. Disney and on to the downwind leg. There, spread out in front of us, their exhausted crews slumping over their oars, was the rest of the fleet. We had the time of our lives swooping through the fleet running wing on wing, making fragile rowboats scatter from our path. I swear I didn't take helmsman lessons from a retired trireme captain.

I'd like to say we won the race, but that might be stretching the truth even more that I already have. The only boat to beat us was a huge umiak crewed by 12 of the largest and strongest natives. We could console ourselves however with the knowledge that though they beat us it wasn't by much and they were dripping with sweat while we were lazing about in the cockpit eating cookies and holding our sheets with two fingers. A boatload more converts to the wisdom of sail I think. Either that or a boatload of converts to the total lack of wisdom of paddles, but it comes to the same thing in the end doesn't it?

Mail Boat 2

Where were we.... Oh yeah, I'm slaving away on the cabin. Onward!

The splash well going in. The moter mounts on the transom and tilts up into the center bay of the slash well. The bottom of this is sloped so that any water which tries to sneakily creep abourd over the transom is thwarted and drains right back out. The outside two bays are decked with battery compartments under them.

Tumble Home rising strakes installed and the aft cabin started.

Motor well finished and aft cabin rear bulkhead partially installed. The hatch you can see in the main cabin is to allow removal of the fuel tank if/when Tony ever needs to in the far distant future. Blind cutting with a skillsaw into bulkhead with a gastank immediatly behind it just seems like something to be avoided if possible....

Aft cabin framing going in. The top is basically cut in quarters with the outer two quarters decked and the inner two with hatches that fold out to allow access to aft locker or fold shut to provide a roof. Who ever designed this must have been a genious I say....

Glueing up the two hatches as on lamination in place on the hatch frame.

Zillion Piece teak riser for the hatches. For the hatches to open 180 degrees they either have to be hinged like a door, i.e., the hatch is flush with the top of the deck the way a door is flush with the wall, or, the hatch has to be raised atleast the thickness of the hatch on a rail. This might seem obviouse, but it took me long enough to figure out. Witness:

That's why I keep a large stack of scrap 2x4's around, so I can hit myself on the head with them.... Anyway, obviously the door style means a major leak point so I designed the rail instead. the rail has a 3/4" tall lip on the inside (visible in the picture) so that any water which makes it through the horizontal hige joint will be stopped from going into the cabin.
bloody beautiful I say! snazzy knees and hatches installed. The knees extend all the way to the seats so that any water which lands on the seat tops will be directed into the bilge instead of running the length of the boat and wetting everything that is supposed to be dry. *pat pat*, I'm awsome, what can I say.

Hinges every foot should give enough support to componsate for the cantilevered front corner of the hatchs. besides, they close together really tightly.


viola, they work~!

Ok, fast forward through all the trim work, tow rails, interior, systems (steering/fuel/throttle/trim/tilt etc. ), the motor mount and the electrical (totaling almost three weeks of work...). Here's the boat on the trailer ready to launch.
and launching:



Look at the beam on Tony's face!

Damn those hatches gleam! the teak handles on the hatch tops are spaced so they land on the toe rails on the side decks when the hatches are open. that way when you drop the hatches you don't destry everything when they land.

that is what's know in the trade as a hell of a bow...

Tony and I heading out for the afternoon mail run/ maiden voyage. wind SE 30kt gusting 38kts, seas 3' at 5sec. No place at all for a 19' boat, but she handled it like a trooper. Cadillac smooth ride both up and down hill (thanks to the horizontal forefoot and balanced ends). No pounding and totaly dry. the spray pattern was supperp and there was no engine noise thanks to the aft cabin. planes cleanly fully loaded (full fuel tank, two people and mail) in both rough and smooth water. all in all a smashing success.
Not to mention cute as a button....

New Mail Boat For Waldron Island

Here is a short overview of one of my summer projects, a new mail boat for waldron island. I plan to write a nasty, long, indepth post jammed to the ceiling with brine soaked jargon but since I haven't gotten to it yet I think I'll just throw up an outline and some orgasmic pictures.

Tony Scruton (Waldron mail carrier) approched me last christmas about throwing around some design concepts for his planned new boat. I thought it was a pipe dream, but I did the design work anyway because I can never pass up the chance to use CAD and talk endlessly about boats. June rolled around and Tony was even more serious since his current boat was decomposing daily. here, after much haggling, is the finished design minus the cabin which I designed later.

As I said, I am going to write a post about the design and build later that explains the oh so subtle and sophisticated intricacies of that picture. I'm sure you're all waiting with batted breath....

Anyway, I started the build the last week of august and launched mid november. that means it was 2.5 months elapsed time but I was gone for two weeks of that, so only two months build time. Sorry, just had to pat myself on the back, I;m quite proud of that feat.

The shop. the beam in the forground is the strongback that I assembled the hull on. I built the boat ubside down on frames plumbed to the strongback to keep everything lined up. I know the shop looks fairly idylic, but that was in august.... trust me, come the rain and a few solid wind storms and it desintigrates into a mud soaked desaster area:

The shed on the left used to be raised on four foot stilts with lumber storage under and the wall forming the workbench back. unfortunatly after a 50knt storm in early November the whole shebang came down and pretty much ruined my life. The boat is mumified in tarp since it was raining when I took the picture.

Frames, Stem and Transom set up on the Strongback. Fast Forward to the Bottom Installed:

The bottom is built up from yellow ceder planks I milled out on the table saw. They lap each other with 45 degree bevels which are glued and screwd with epoxy and stainless. End result: bulletproof bottom.

The chines, ripped full length in all their bannana shaped glory from yellow ceder, support the side/ bilge panel joint. They are notched into every frame and beveled fair.

Squint and you can start to see the shape of the bow. One of Tony's main agendas was a more comfortable ride with less pounding which is why I designed this mean bow.
You can never have enough clamps.

Gorgous fairing job all ready for the bilge panels. You have no idea how much time with an angle grinder this picture represents....

All seams are fiberglass taped then the whole exterior up to 2 inches above the waterline is sheathed in one seamless layup.

Right side up-- So far I am only 2 weeks into the build. The hull is a tiny fraction of the work, so now comes the hard part....

One of the many sheets of notes I made during endless descussiongs with Tony about how to do the cabin/interior arraingment. I later mushed it all into CAD and built some kind of bastardized version onto the poor innocent hull.

Time Passes. Zephyr Swears. Alot.

The odd submerine tube sticking out of the bow is the fill pipe for the 12gal permanent fuel tank that is being istalled.

The seats cover 13' long air tight floatation tanks. Talk about a pain in the posterior to build, but the they turned out beautiful.

Ok, this is turning out a lot longer/bigger than I had anticipated, so I think I'll post the rest in another article. Stay tuned for issue 2.

Yes There Is A Difference Between SchoonerBumm And A Rotting Cow carcass

Well, it's that time my children- Time yet again for a new issue of Schoonerbumm's Fictional AutoBio. Of course, these events are recorded with utmost and utterly scrupulous accuracy, the mere thought of exaggeration or embellishment is simply insulting to the author. So sit back, take out your salt shakers (better yet, you may as well get out the largest supply you have in the house, just to be prepared should the unthinkable occur...), and enjoy the Wondrous Saga of Schoonerbumm's first time windsurfing on Bellingham Bay.

Schoonerbumm, your modest author, was already a pro windsurfer. After all, he had been out twice on lake Whatcom, and for a sailor of his caliber, that should be enough to qualify for pro status... Or so he thought.... Unfortunately, all his romantic illusions were about to be doused in ice water, both figuratively and literally, because Schoonerbumm was about to confront the ultimate sailboarding test: Legendary Bellingham Bay in a solid storm. Now, our hero set out cockily from the dock, almost immediately hitting planning speed. He was still sheltered behind the breakwater, but it really couldn't be that bad out there could it? Err... Well, suddenly, as Schoonerbumm cleared the end of the bar his wariness went up 500% (actually 527.87%, but rounding off...). It turns out that it actually was quite nasty, waves a few feet high and suddenly much stronger wind. Actually, it looked like an immense amount of fun to our naive hero who, despite the increased wariness, was still confident and cocky. Ahh, the beautiful immortality of youth... Now our hero, in 20/20 hindsight, can see how Napoleon came to invade Russia. Schoonerbumm gallantly defeated wave after wave, leaping off every one and getting the ride of his life. He rocketed around with flying colors, his Ulm and his Austerlitz passing by in a blaze of glory, but unfortunately, unbeknownst to him, his Waterloo was waiting in ambush on the horizon. Yep, it all started, as so many sailing accidents... er, make that mishaps... with a mistimed jibe.

For those of you who don't know, sailboards don't have a rudder so you steer by adjusting your weight and moving the sail forwards and back. To jibe (or pass to the other tack when you are going down wind) you move the sail forward, following slightly with your weight. Of course, this digs the bow in, and, if you happen to be going ~500 mph and if there happens to be a huge malicious and hungry wave directly in front of you at the time you sink your bow... Well, let's just say it's not pretty... Perhaps a picture is in order at this point, and besides, I would rather avoid the painful task of giving a blow by blow of this embarrassing event.

Well, there you have it basically. Take special note of the image running through our projectile hero. Actually, a human cannon ball isn't especially apropo here. For we physics and engineering majors, the similarities between medieval siege weapons and Schoonerbumm's mishap are striking. Observe:

See? Inescapable. The only real difference is the projectile. I mean, catapults either fired huge rocks to break castle walls, or rotting cows to hack off the fortress' inhabitants. Obviously, neither of these are even remotely close to sexy and ruggedly handsome sailors. Notice the well tanned abbs and badass bicepts. As if that wasn't enough of a giveaway, the curly, black, and fashionably windswept hair should make the projectile's identity clear... Well, Schoonerbumm's studlyness aside, here's a nifty little physics diagram for all you geeks in my readership. Notice the salient figure, underlined in red.

Geez, that expensive physics education is good for something after all....

Well anyway, the aftermath is not a subject I'd like to address. I'm sure you can all connect the dotes sufficiently to conclude that it involved another large wave, a face plant, and featured a very wet Schoonerbumm. I think we can pull a decorous curtain across what followed, especially since it included, if I recall correctly, a rather long, loud, and very very blue streak of invective... Of course, it was also totally badass, and our irrepressible hero immediately remounted his board and rocketed off again, this time slightly (slightly...) more cautious. He made it back to the dock a while later, a wetter but wiser man. Naturally everyone observed that even dripping as he was, his eyes were distinctly bright and he was anything but frowning.

So now, after successfully sucking up another ten minutes of your life with my inane stories, it's time to wrap this enthralling saga to a close. I have important business of a sensitive nature to accomplish, so I better get on with it.
And you! Yeah, you, the one with the vacant expression and glazed eyes whose drooling all over their keyboard! Don't you have something more worthwhile to do than read the embellished reminiscent of a mad maniac? Oh wait, that's me I'm talking about, maniac my eye. Mad I'll settle for though, how about mad sailing obsessed incredibly studly brilliant lunatic?
Well, anyway, my self applied epithets aside, you should be off. Don't you have some of my bidding to do or something?

My Fingers Are Worn To Stumps

Ok, I've been doing my scullery maid thing all day, complete with evil step mother, glass slipper and giant pumpkin. Oh, wait. Ok, myabe not the pumpkin, that's just rediculus, but everything else! Errr... Ok, so it was just scullery maiding, but there was so much of it I figure it makes up for the lack in step mothers, slippers and pumpkins. Anyway, I'm totaly done in, I need to replenish my elbow grease properly since typing feeds off the same source (ie sore arms complaining about how much you've mistreated them). So, in lue of a real post, here are two pictures for your veiwing pleasure. MMMmmmmmmm....



I am awsome. Suateed chicken bitches.... And yes Mother dahling, those are fresh greens you see, not to mention the salad that we had along with it. Damn, makes ya' proud don' it?