Our trio practicing had turned into a weekly routine and prior to our get-together the previous week it had occurred to me that Don’s woodworking skills and his shop might prove to be a blessing in disguise. I didn’t want to take advantage of him but I couldn’t help picking his brain. I still hadn’t resolved the design challenges of my next boat and his building expertise might solve the riddle. So, when our rehearsal came to a close and the expected girlish chit-chat commenced, I found Don and filled him in on my sailing history and my plans to build another boat. I showed him my sketches and in an instant he had the solution. “Make it have 2 points, like a catamaran,” he volunteered.
That solution had never occurred to me and in a few minutes the sketches had been altered and an acceptable shape immerged. It presented a few challenges but Don assured me that it wouldn’t be too difficult to build. He helped me create a materials list and volunteered to pick up the supplies for me and even offered the use of his shop for the project. We met after school the next day and following a quick trip to the lumber yard, we had the lines drawn and were making the first cuts. Despite his desires for me to be able to claim that I did all the work, he sensed my trepidation and graciously did all the cutting that was required on the table saw.
Beyond what I have so far recounted, I don’t have many recollections of the building process. I know that Don was there much of the time offering suggestions and giving supportive encouragement. He even entrusted me with a key to the shop in the event that he didn’t happen to be home when I wanted to work. In his shop, not only did he teach me skills and building techniques that I still use today, but he helped me discover self-esteem and confidence in my abilities to successfully be creative on a professional level. Many parts I did more than once in response to his observations that something could be done differently with superior results. With time, I conquered my fears and began using the table saw, fearlessly cutting like a pro. Today as an adult of his approximate age but nowhere near his stature, I now know that the time that he sacrificed in my behalf was costly and dear. On many occasions in life I have been tempted to hoard the value of my time but have remembered his example (and others) and have sheepishly changed my attitude and taken advantage of opportunities to repay my debt to him by “paying it forward” for someone else’s benefit like he did for mine.
By the time my 9th grade school year ended, the project was far enough along that I no longer needed the advantage of his shop and tools, and since Don didn’t know much about fiberglassing, we transported the boat to my home where I could spend more time at my leisure without imposing on others. For my purposes, fiberglass proved to be within my skill level and all the seams were soon concealed and watertight. A good sanding and several coats of paint finished the job in time to use the boat that summer.
Launch day was a typical hot Saturday morning at Fishhook Park. The year was 1965. My mother drove and I remember my sister being there. I must have invited a friend since the boat was bulky and cumbersome and required more muscle to get it up or down from the top of the car than my mother or sister could provide.
As is usually traditional on the launching of a new vessel, champagne across the bow seemed appropriate. Since alcohol was not part of my upbringing, Jessie and I had come up with an alternative… “champoogne.” We placed the boat near the water and after a youthful but genuine plea to Neptune to be kind and to protect my little ship, I gave Jessie the honor of breaking the shampoo bottle (in those days they were made of glass) on the bow. But after several tries by both of us it became apparent that the bottle was not going to break but rather do damage to the paint job so we abandoned that idea and commenced with the sea trials.
The boat greatly exceeded my expectations. She performed without a flaw and eventually provided years of relaxation and the acquisition of innumerable sailing skills and experiences. Sage-knowledge-acquired prompted me to include a drain plug in its design but I never saw a drop of water leave her interior.
There was a time several years later when traveling back from a day-sail and a particularly big gust of wind caught the boat and plucked it (car racks and all) from the top of the car. I heard it happening and felt it go and, with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I looked in the rear-view mirror to see it tumbling end-over-end down the highway behind me. After making 3 or 4 flips, it settled on its topsides and finally slid to a stop. I dreaded that, at the very least, the boat had surely met its demise. When I went back to do my civic duty by cleaning the road and picking up the pieces, to my surprise and amazement, I found the boat still intact and relatively undamaged. The aft-most starboard corner had been slightly caved in, probably from the initial kiss of the asphalt, which required being rebuilt and re-glassed. Beyond that, there were numerous scrapes and dings all of which only needed some touch-up paint. Even after all that, the boat never leaked. I guess I was learning!
I believe that this picture was taken in the summer of 1968. I'm at the tiller and my brother-in-law is standing at the bow. His oldest son is in the foreground. Jessie probably snapped the photo. I would have just graduated from high school. I seem to look a lot younger than that but Ed's presence with a child tells the tale! Note the sagging boom after 3 or 4 years of use. Muslin is affordable but not the ideal material for building sails.
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Throughout the construction, 2 close friends in particular made it a habit to keep themselves apprised of my progress and eagerly awaited the chance to go sailing again. I take credit for the fact that, after numerous excursions to the river, they both became smitten by the sailing bug and they both eventually designed and built similar boats. It became somewhat of a contest as they tried to improve on my design. Both boats admittedly looked better but, in my opinion, neither one sailed as well. What rests fondly in my memory were the choice times when we were able to sail together as a fleet to all the available latitudes of the Ice Harbor reservoir. Many hours were spent together in the pursuit of youthful adventure which quenched the “Tom Sawyer itch” that nags and tugs at all teenage boy’s restless imaginations. Through all of these experiences a lifetime bond was developed and I still look forward to our next sailing reunion.
Over the following years spanning my brief college education and 2 years of missionary service, the boat remained unused and stored safely in my mother’s garage. As a married man and beginning a family, my wife and I had the opportunity of living in mom’s home while she and her new husband served a mission on the east coast. When we moved out, we took the boat with us but really never had the chance to use it. Eventually, we tired of moving it from place to place so I gave it to another family with boys who had a lake near their home, all of which contained the ingredients guaranteeing the likelihood of more sailor conversions.
Since I’m taking so much credit, I might as well tell one more story that relates to this boat and illustrates my responsibility for infecting yet another unsuspecting victim.
My brother, the middle sibling, was away from home throughout the beginnings of my sailing ventures. When he returned from his missionary service, I invited him to go sailing with me. This was a first-time experience for him since he had spent his teenage years absorbed with hot rods, girls, and his rock & roll band, “The Frets.” You might wonder how teenage years spent thusly would prepare a boy to be a missionary but that’s a “whole-nuther-story” which he will have to tell for himself.
We loaded the boat and headed for the river. On the trip, I gave him a brief overview of sailing fundamentals so he could understand what was going on. There was a nice breeze producing light whitecaps when we launched the boat and, with me in control, we made a few passes across the moorage area so he could get a feel for all of my explanations. He was an unexpectedly fast learner and immediately commandeered the tiller and headed the boat into the river and downwind, which on this day was upstream. We ran downwind for about 30 minutes, which got us further upstream than I had ever been. I knew from experience that the return trip upwind was going to be a long, wet slog and I prayed that the wind wouldn’t strengthen because we were already challenging the outer fringes of my confidence since I had never tested the boat in such gusty conditions. It took us 2 hours to make the exciting return trip through mounting swells and a stiff breeze. When we finally arrived at the dock, my brother absconded the boat leaving me stranded on shore. I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting alone, quietly in the shade of a lonely tree, forlornly watching my boat ply back and forth under his command. I have long since forgiven him especially considering the extensive impact that day’s experience had on his future. After all, it was such a minor infraction. He had only committed mutiny. It’s not like he had done the unpardonable by neglecting to request permission to board!
My brother eventually went on to design and build a forty-some-odd foot brigantine and has spent a goodly amount of his adult life living aboard a sailboat with his wife in balmy, southern California bays. I try not to covet his lifestyle but I take pride in my role of launching him toward realizing such dreams.
By unjust comparison, I’ve nurtured and coddled the dream since my youth but the path of my priorities led me to a landlocked way of life. The financial strains of raising seven children on a “three-children-income” always managed to consume all of my spare time as I tried to creatively earn enough to meet their needs. Consequently, the illusive dream seemed to always be hiding barely beyond my reach. I’m not complaining! My day will surely still come… at least that’s my ever-present and undying aspiration. My life is rich in rewarding memories of irreplaceable family experiences and blessings that I wouldn’t trade even for a wayfaring voyager's life. I’m just hoping to still be able to squeeze in at least a taste of the other and experience a bit of that dimension before I leave mortality.
