As the summer came to a close, preparations began for the start of a new school year. Being industriously preoccupied with my flourishing paper route business and the purchase of school clothes and supplies, the summer got away from me and I knew that my next boat-building venture would probably have to wait until the following spring. That’s not to say that I would stop thinking about it. With the beginning of school came a happy reunion with the library and frequent trips there continued to nurture my dreams and fortify my knowledge. I rarely wasted much time doing actual school studies in study hall. Instead, I doodled and sketched various angles and views of an assortment of potential hull shapes that I thought might be seaworthy.
With this new school year came a new friendship. Joe had moved into town at the close of summer and lived only a few blocks from my home. He was an adventurous boy who often shared stories about his “real” dad who lived in Montpelier, Idaho. His dad owned an airplane and when Joe went to live with him for the summer, they would spend many hours together exploring Bear Lake and the Utah Rockies by air. Joe bragged that his dad often let him fly the plane, even landing it once. As all boys seem to have to do, I established my own credibility by equally stretching the truth about the infinite success of my boatbuilding and sailing adventures on the mighty Snake River. Through Joe, I developed an intrigue for flight, which has never left me. Through me, Joe developed an intrigue for boating and soon embarked on his own boatbuilding project.
He invited me over after school one evening to inspect the product of his boat shop. It had a rectangular shape with square corners… about 3 feet wide by about 5 feet long. The sides were straight, up and down and fore and aft and approximately 14 inches high. The bottom of the hull was flat until it approached the bow and stern wherein it took off upward at a 45 degree angle to intersect with the deck. My first impression was that it resembled a cement mixing box. It reminded me of the boat pictured in this posting’s leading graphic portraying Pogo’s preferred water transport. Pogo was a newspaper cartoon strip that older readers might recall.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pogo_(comics)
Maybe that’s where Joe got his inspiration. At any rate, it was a boat and as such it deserved respect and nobility and I was careful to neither criticize nor joke about its appearance. It was built of 1X6 material and it appeared that his lumber supply was insufficient and to stretch the number of boards to complete the project, he had left huge gaps between each board. I felt a reminiscent cringe begin to creep up my spine as I reflected on water’s vindictive need to invade displaced areas.
When I tactfully pointed out that it was likely to leak somewhat, he informed me that that was the reason he had invited me over. Given my vast experience and knowledgeable background in the boating field, he was hoping I might have some suggestions. “How much are you willing to spend,” I asked? “How much are you willing to lend me,” he countered?
Having established that this project had a budget of $0.00, we began snooping around in his stepfather’s garage for any possible solution. I spotted what appeared to be a folded tarp on a shelf beneath some boxes of storage. After wrestling it down, we opened it up and found it to be, for the most part, of good integrity, lacking holes or tears, however a bit large for our needs. To avoid getting into trouble with his stepfather, instead of cutting it to fit, we set the hull atop the tarp and carefully folded it up and over the gunwales (pronounced “gunnels” to rhyme with “tunnels”) and stuffed the excess inside the boat. By making tidy darts in the folds, we managed to keep an overall tight and neat appearance... sort of like wrapping a Christmas gift.
I should point out that this tarp was not like what you might be imagining. This time in history preceded the invention of the lightweight “blue” plastic tarps that are so abundantly available to this generation. This was back in the old days when tarps were “real”… a manly style of heavy-duty woven canvas that was heavily reinforced along the edges and in the corners. It was surrounded by huge industrial strength bronze grommets and, as was customary in those days, it had been thickly saturated in an oily water-proofing solution to make it repel paints or water or any other moisture which it might be guarding against. What I’m trying to say is; this tarp was heavy! It probably weighed as much or more than the lumber used in the construction of the boat. The fact that there was probably twice as much as we needed was no help in economizing the weight.
With a minimum number of shingle nails, we tacked the boat skin in place along the top edge of the gunwales (did you pronounce it right?) until we were satisfied that it would stay in place. We parted company after finalizing the time and itinerary of the test launch.
Bright and early on the following Saturday, we met at Joe’s house. The plan was to carry the boat by hand over a 3 mile trek to the reservoir on the outskirts of town. We had traversed this trail numerous times by bike and were confident that it wouldn’t be impossible to do… at least, until we tried to pick the boat up. An alternate plan was necessary and easily accomplished. Joe borrowed his little brother’s wagon and we loaded it on and headed down the road. We traded off the job of pulling, while the other steadied and pushed.
Hiking those 3 miles that day was further and steeper than it had ever been before. Frequent stops for rejuvenation prolonged the hike to cover the space of 3 hours but eventually water was in sight. Exhausted, we rested on the bank and surveyed the expanse before us.
In writing this, I revisited the reservoir via Google Earth for the purpose of determining exactly how much area the lake was comprised of. As we sat there that day contemplating crossing to the other side, to our youthful eyes the far shore seemed to be a distant ocean away. In reality and to my memory’s surprise, it is considerably less than a mile at its widest point… but a healthy crossing nonetheless.
Eventually, our strength returned and we busied ourselves unloading and preparing the boat for the voyage. Joe produced two paddles from inside the boat that I hadn’t noticed before… probably on account of the heaps of canvas hiding their presence. The handles were made of 2X2 lumber and the blades were small pieces of plywood nailed at the bottom. He had also installed a thwart amidships by nailing a 2X4 atop the gunwales that spanned the width of the boat. This would allow us to sit side by side and propel ourselves through the water. It appeared that he had thought of everything except a bucket for bailing… undoubtedly our juvenile optimism prevented thoughts of its eventual need from occurring. After all… who wants to jinx a boat by installing a bilge pump? As it turned out, a leaky hull was the least of our problems!
We pushed, pulled, and prodded with all our might to drag the boat from the wagon to the water’s edge. As it entered the shallow depths, we expected the load to become easier but instead, the mud seemed to grab and hold the boat to the bottom. Undaunted, we continued on while I remember thinking, “How much more water is it going to take to make this thing float?”
Finally, we felt the boat moving freely from the clutches of the lakebed but Joe pointed out that there were only about 7 inches of freeboard left and we hadn’t even boarded yet. I took the opportunity to expound eloquently on the principles of how the center of balance needed to be low in the keel, which makes the boat more stable. Weight equates to depth, which in turn must equate to stability. By the time that we had boarded, it was obvious that our keel had plenty of depth but I’m not sure that our center of balance was located in the area that the theories of my eloquently expounded principles were recommending.
With a mere 4 inches of freeboard, we paddled into deeper water. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this but, in my defense I’ll again use my age as my excuse by pointing out that I had only barely turned 14 and how youthful vigor and enthusiasm has a propensity to interfere with sound reasoning. This prevented us from donning appropriate safety gear such as lifejackets. Of course in those days, I don’t believe that there were any lifejacket laws on the books yet. I suppose that the authorities assumed that such laws shouldn’t be necessary since anybody with an ounce of brains would never even consider going out on the water without appropriate floatation or other rescue devises close at hand. Now that I think about it, throughout all of my teenage boating escapades, with the exception of the few times that I water skied, I never owned or wore a lifejacket until I was married with children and finally recognized the fragility and profundity of life. I suppose that I owe a Hail Mary or two since the only way that I could have possibly survived my teenage years was through the good graces of Deity alone.
But, I digress…
With this new school year came a new friendship. Joe had moved into town at the close of summer and lived only a few blocks from my home. He was an adventurous boy who often shared stories about his “real” dad who lived in Montpelier, Idaho. His dad owned an airplane and when Joe went to live with him for the summer, they would spend many hours together exploring Bear Lake and the Utah Rockies by air. Joe bragged that his dad often let him fly the plane, even landing it once. As all boys seem to have to do, I established my own credibility by equally stretching the truth about the infinite success of my boatbuilding and sailing adventures on the mighty Snake River. Through Joe, I developed an intrigue for flight, which has never left me. Through me, Joe developed an intrigue for boating and soon embarked on his own boatbuilding project.
He invited me over after school one evening to inspect the product of his boat shop. It had a rectangular shape with square corners… about 3 feet wide by about 5 feet long. The sides were straight, up and down and fore and aft and approximately 14 inches high. The bottom of the hull was flat until it approached the bow and stern wherein it took off upward at a 45 degree angle to intersect with the deck. My first impression was that it resembled a cement mixing box. It reminded me of the boat pictured in this posting’s leading graphic portraying Pogo’s preferred water transport. Pogo was a newspaper cartoon strip that older readers might recall.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pogo_(comics)
Maybe that’s where Joe got his inspiration. At any rate, it was a boat and as such it deserved respect and nobility and I was careful to neither criticize nor joke about its appearance. It was built of 1X6 material and it appeared that his lumber supply was insufficient and to stretch the number of boards to complete the project, he had left huge gaps between each board. I felt a reminiscent cringe begin to creep up my spine as I reflected on water’s vindictive need to invade displaced areas.
When I tactfully pointed out that it was likely to leak somewhat, he informed me that that was the reason he had invited me over. Given my vast experience and knowledgeable background in the boating field, he was hoping I might have some suggestions. “How much are you willing to spend,” I asked? “How much are you willing to lend me,” he countered?
Having established that this project had a budget of $0.00, we began snooping around in his stepfather’s garage for any possible solution. I spotted what appeared to be a folded tarp on a shelf beneath some boxes of storage. After wrestling it down, we opened it up and found it to be, for the most part, of good integrity, lacking holes or tears, however a bit large for our needs. To avoid getting into trouble with his stepfather, instead of cutting it to fit, we set the hull atop the tarp and carefully folded it up and over the gunwales (pronounced “gunnels” to rhyme with “tunnels”) and stuffed the excess inside the boat. By making tidy darts in the folds, we managed to keep an overall tight and neat appearance... sort of like wrapping a Christmas gift.
I should point out that this tarp was not like what you might be imagining. This time in history preceded the invention of the lightweight “blue” plastic tarps that are so abundantly available to this generation. This was back in the old days when tarps were “real”… a manly style of heavy-duty woven canvas that was heavily reinforced along the edges and in the corners. It was surrounded by huge industrial strength bronze grommets and, as was customary in those days, it had been thickly saturated in an oily water-proofing solution to make it repel paints or water or any other moisture which it might be guarding against. What I’m trying to say is; this tarp was heavy! It probably weighed as much or more than the lumber used in the construction of the boat. The fact that there was probably twice as much as we needed was no help in economizing the weight.
With a minimum number of shingle nails, we tacked the boat skin in place along the top edge of the gunwales (did you pronounce it right?) until we were satisfied that it would stay in place. We parted company after finalizing the time and itinerary of the test launch.
Bright and early on the following Saturday, we met at Joe’s house. The plan was to carry the boat by hand over a 3 mile trek to the reservoir on the outskirts of town. We had traversed this trail numerous times by bike and were confident that it wouldn’t be impossible to do… at least, until we tried to pick the boat up. An alternate plan was necessary and easily accomplished. Joe borrowed his little brother’s wagon and we loaded it on and headed down the road. We traded off the job of pulling, while the other steadied and pushed.
Hiking those 3 miles that day was further and steeper than it had ever been before. Frequent stops for rejuvenation prolonged the hike to cover the space of 3 hours but eventually water was in sight. Exhausted, we rested on the bank and surveyed the expanse before us.
In writing this, I revisited the reservoir via Google Earth for the purpose of determining exactly how much area the lake was comprised of. As we sat there that day contemplating crossing to the other side, to our youthful eyes the far shore seemed to be a distant ocean away. In reality and to my memory’s surprise, it is considerably less than a mile at its widest point… but a healthy crossing nonetheless.
Eventually, our strength returned and we busied ourselves unloading and preparing the boat for the voyage. Joe produced two paddles from inside the boat that I hadn’t noticed before… probably on account of the heaps of canvas hiding their presence. The handles were made of 2X2 lumber and the blades were small pieces of plywood nailed at the bottom. He had also installed a thwart amidships by nailing a 2X4 atop the gunwales that spanned the width of the boat. This would allow us to sit side by side and propel ourselves through the water. It appeared that he had thought of everything except a bucket for bailing… undoubtedly our juvenile optimism prevented thoughts of its eventual need from occurring. After all… who wants to jinx a boat by installing a bilge pump? As it turned out, a leaky hull was the least of our problems!
We pushed, pulled, and prodded with all our might to drag the boat from the wagon to the water’s edge. As it entered the shallow depths, we expected the load to become easier but instead, the mud seemed to grab and hold the boat to the bottom. Undaunted, we continued on while I remember thinking, “How much more water is it going to take to make this thing float?”
Finally, we felt the boat moving freely from the clutches of the lakebed but Joe pointed out that there were only about 7 inches of freeboard left and we hadn’t even boarded yet. I took the opportunity to expound eloquently on the principles of how the center of balance needed to be low in the keel, which makes the boat more stable. Weight equates to depth, which in turn must equate to stability. By the time that we had boarded, it was obvious that our keel had plenty of depth but I’m not sure that our center of balance was located in the area that the theories of my eloquently expounded principles were recommending.
With a mere 4 inches of freeboard, we paddled into deeper water. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this but, in my defense I’ll again use my age as my excuse by pointing out that I had only barely turned 14 and how youthful vigor and enthusiasm has a propensity to interfere with sound reasoning. This prevented us from donning appropriate safety gear such as lifejackets. Of course in those days, I don’t believe that there were any lifejacket laws on the books yet. I suppose that the authorities assumed that such laws shouldn’t be necessary since anybody with an ounce of brains would never even consider going out on the water without appropriate floatation or other rescue devises close at hand. Now that I think about it, throughout all of my teenage boating escapades, with the exception of the few times that I water skied, I never owned or wore a lifejacket until I was married with children and finally recognized the fragility and profundity of life. I suppose that I owe a Hail Mary or two since the only way that I could have possibly survived my teenage years was through the good graces of Deity alone.
But, I digress…
With a mere 4 inches of freeboard, we paddled into deeper water.
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