Sail Mockup

I fiddled around with things a little more last night. Again, none of this work is set is stone, but I did want to get a sense of scale, practicalities, et cetera, before doing this thing for real.

When I rigged the mast the day before, it seemed to me that the 6' horizontal yard was disproportionally short. So I decided to try an 8' horizontal, and it seems to be a little better ratio, height-to-width.

Just for ducks, I decided to loosely tie on the sail (a duck canvas tarp) to the yard before raising it, to just get an early sense of what we'd be looking at:

Obviously, things are not rigged properly, but it's enough to get a sense of things.

One thing I noticed is that this sail, even without being properly rigged, and without sheets to hold it taut against the wind, provides a very large surface area (48 square feet) that can catch the lightest breeze. I don't have the mast "stepped" into the deck, it's really just gravity and friction against the bottom of the boat that's holding this rig up. It was a very calm night last night, but one little gentle breeze came through the back yard (barely enough to ruffle leaves on the trees) and it blew the whole sail/mast rig over. I think when I get it rigged taut, with the thwart and the step set into the deck, it's going to be able to provide some pretty good thrust.

This mock-up also affirmed an issue that Mary originally raised a couple of weeks ago, when I was last musing about sail plans: I'm not going to be able to see where I am going.

I laughed her off at the time, but I'm starting to wonder if she might not have a point. Clearly, I'm going to have to periodically raise the sail (or part of the sail) to be able to see ahead. I'm also toying with the idea of moving the sail thwart back further towards the second rib, and putting Midshipman Henry in front of the mast to act as lookout.

Because I'm feeling like sharing, I'll let you in on my idea for the sail rigging, which is based on traditional methods, but with a slight modification.

In a traditional square rig (as I understand it), the sail is tied to the yard across the top, and then there are furling lines which run from the top of the mast to the bottom corners.So, when you pull down on these lines (1), the corners "furl" up diagonally towards the top center of the mast(2).
My idea, which I got while looking at our Roman shades in the office, is to have a second pair of blocks out at the ends of the yard, so that when the sheets are hoisted (1), the corner of the sail will raise straight up to the yard(2).
This way, I could pull on one or both of the lines, and get the sail to many different shapes and sizes, relatively easy. And, when I don't want the sail at all, I can pull them both all the way to 100%, hoisting the sail up to the yard and out of the way.

Anyway, that's the plan. The next step (possibly tonight) is to epoxy the inside of the boat and the spars (mast and yard), and then I'll be ready to rig the sail on Friday.

Mast Mockup

I went home last night and it was such a beautiful evening that I decided to work on the boat for a little bit. But when I went to get it to bring around to the back yard, I realized that I hadn't mowed the lawn this past weekend because of all of the rain, and, as I always tell the kids, you have to do your chores before you can have fun, so I got out the lawn mower instead.

I started mowing the side yard, when Charlie came up and asked if he could mow the lawn. (Mind you, this is no altruism on his part: it's pure calculated mercenary-ness. He didn't ask to be paid, but he rolled the dice, figuring that if he volunteered and did a great job, there might be some cash for him in the end. And I have to say, he did a really good job. And so there well may be some cash (or prizes) for him in the end. (There's a new gameboy game that he wants, and we'll probably go get it for him this weekend in preparation for the drive to Colorado next week.))

In any event, with my evening freed up from lawn mowing, I was able to re-devote the time to mast stepping.

As foretold, I put the boat on the grass, and clamped in the mast thwart in a couple of different places to see what looked right. (A "thwart" is a horizontal brace in a boat - imagine a canoe seat: a board running across the width of the canoe for the paddler to sit on. A mast thwart is a canoe seat with a hole in it for the mast to go through.)

I tried it all the way up front at the first rib:
Note: to secure the mast in place (when I decide where it's to go), I'm going to attach a mast seat to the deck (floor) of the boat, and also rings around the hole cut in the thwart. For these, I'm going to use closet curtain-rod brackets:
The installed mast looked so good, I decided to mock up the block system and the yard for the sail.

I drilled a hole through the top of the mast, to which I could attach a line onto which the blocks (remember, this is nauticalese for "pulley") could be attached. My plan calls for three masttop blocks: one for the halyard (the rope used to raise the yard (pole) onto which the sail is attached), and two for the sheets (the ropes that actually control the height of the sail itself.) The halyard will use the middle of the three blocks:Note, this is not the final fine work, but it's just roughed out to give a sense.
I then tied the yard to the halyard, and raised it:Viola [sic]. A basic square rig.

I must admit, I was pleased.

Then I used my "eye", and it seemed like that might be a little far forward. With a wind pressing on the sail, it might serve to drive the nose of the boat down into the water and slow it down. So I moved it back to the second rib:

This looks more balanced to me, but I wonder about space for the whole crew with the mast stepped this far back.

So, I split the difference and put it between the two ribs:
To my eye, this looks like about the correct position. I need to figure out exactly how I'm going to affix the thwart to the pirogue. I'm thinking I'll attach short sections of the rub rail oak to the inside of the gunwales, and then screw the thwart onto those. Conceivably, therefore, I could rig the mast and take it out for trials and if it's badly placed, I can just move the thwart brackets forward or back as the need dictates.

We'll see. It's a long way from finished, but it's gratifying to see that the rough ideas I've been sketching in my notebook seem to have some validity.Left, preliminary drawing of the three-block rig.
On the right, a subsequent drawing, with halyard in red and sheets in blue for clarification in my head.
Fred, any thoughts?

The Beginning of the End

The Rudder (alternate nickname for "Ruddy Duck") is far from a completed vessel, but I can begin to see the end in sight.

I have a three-day weekend this weekend, and it's supposed to be absolutely beautiful. While I was at the hardware store yesterday, I decided to pick up a few supplies with which I think I can fashion a rudimentary sail rig. I got an 8' closet pole (mast), a 6' closet pole (yard), 100' of stout cotton rope (halyard and sheets), a 6'x8' canvas tarp (main course, or sail) and a handful of blocks (that's sailor-talk for "pulley".)

I think on Friday I'll do the final layer of epoxy on the inside of the boat, and I'll also give the two poles a coating of epoxy to strengthen them and make them water-tight. Then Saturday, I'll just go ahead and rig the sail. My plan is to just put the boat on the ground in the back yard, get in it (with one or both boys), and determine where the logical place to put the mast, and make it so.

(If you'll recall, there was an earlier step in which my "eye" was supposed to tell me when something (the placement of the ribs) looked "right". Well, likewise the placement of the mast. At least, I'm hopeful.)

After I get the clean coat of epoxy in the inside, I'm going to paint the inside, I think, to give it a cleaner look. It's getting there.

We Are the Champions

On-field Celebrations after the win

I'll write all about the game in a little bit when I've had a chance to recover from all the pizza I ate (we left the pizza place at MIDNIGHT).

Phillies win. 11-3.

Let's Go Phillies!

Our fans at a typical game
Perhaps some of you are saying to yourself, "I hope Tom's okay. I wonder what's become of him, and what is going on with the boat? Why is he not posting? Is something wrong? Is he just that selfish? What a jerk! I hope his stupid boat sinks! That's it, he's dead to me!"

Well, I didn't want to say anything, but Charlie's team, for which I am the assistant coach, took first place in the regular season, and has advanced in the playoffs to tonight's championship game.

We're playing the hated Twins, the only team to beat us all year, and that was by one run. There's no love lost between the two teams, and it's going to be a tight battle.

We've had 8:00 games three nights this week, and everyone's exhausted.
But it all comes down to tonight.

Wish us luck.

Ship's Log: 13 June 2010

Date: Sunday, 13 June 2010
Time: 1:50 p.m.
Location: 41° 46' 12" North; 88° 9' 30" West
Conditions: 77 degrees, skies clear but threatening, no wind
Crew: Self, Master; Henry, Ship's Boy

In the afternoon, decided to take the boat out for a short voyage of exploration and discovery on the DuPage river. Portaged PV Merganser ("Ruddy Duck")* to point of embarkation (DuPage River, near Centennial Park).

Found a suitable launching site not far from the parking lot. Got the boat in the water and loaded her with supplies (captain's seat, paddles, water) and Ship's Boy boarded. Captain climbed aboard (no ceremonial piping nor Marines), and we pushed off.

This section of the river is wide, calm, and deep. The Ship's Boy was shown the rudiments of paddling (how to grip a canoe paddle, how to row a stroke) and, after showing proficiency, was rated Able Seaman.

I set a course for the Naperville River Walk, a stretch of the DuPage with sidewalks and parklands on both side. We have often walked there, and thought about being out on the boat there.

Thus, we paddled downstream (east southeast, a half east) where the lookout reported troubled water ahead: we were heading straight for a waterfall. Veered off to starboard to assess the situation. Remembered that this was a voyage of discovery, after all, and so circled back to survey the waterfall area. Turned beam-on to the rapids, and felt the accelerating pace of the current pulling us towards the precipice; not unlike a lee shore.

Through valiant rowing, we pulled clear of the current and back into the pool. By this point, there were several local residents observing our progress from a bridge suspended above the beginning of the rapids.

Upgraded Able Seaman to Master's Mate, and thereby discussed with him the best course for action. It was determined that the sea is no place for cowards, so we decided to brave the rapids. I steered the boat towards the rushing water, looking for the deepest, smoothest passage through the falls.

The water grew much faster as we approached the edge, and we were pulled into the current and over the falls. Halfway through we hit a rock, temporarily grounding and pulling the stern of the vessel around so that we were broadside to the oncoming current. I ordered the Master's Mate to avast rowing, stow his oar and clap on to the gunwales. I effectively club-hauled us off of the rock, allowing the stern to pay around with the current and pull us off the rock. After one more bump we were clear, and by dropping a sea anchor (my paddle, thrust perpendicular to the current), I brought about the head and we were able to pay off downstream.

It was a most exciting few moments.

After we got back underway (much to the delight of the onlookers), we took stock of the ship and the crew and found all was well: The Ruddy Duck had weathered the current well. But we were far from clear.

We continued downstream, approaching the River Walk proper and familiar surroundings. However, between us and our goal was another set of rapids, and this one looked shallower. After nearly grounding in the previous falls, I chose to bring the vessel about and go back upstream, choosing to scout that water before sailing there.

We proceeded upstream at a very slow pace; with both myself and my mate paddling, we made progress, but against the current it was slow going. I thought it might be easier to get over the shallow draft if we lightened the ballast, so I headed for a nice cove and put the Mate ashore, instructing him to forage ahead, cross the bridge over the rapids, and meet me on the bank in the calm water.

I found the way easier in the shallows, where the current was not so strong. Still, it was slow going, and with all of the assembled natives on the bridge watching my every move, I made the decision to land the craft and continue upstream by wading and pulling the boat through the rapid shallows.

I was barefoot, and the water was cold, but not unreasonably so. I was very pleased to find the footing solid and smooth; it took little time to get up under the bridge and (despite offers of assistance from above), I proceeded in a very seamanlike manner to the pool, where I re-boarded and proceeded to the rendezvous, where I picked up the Master's Mate.

After showing such bravery through this adventure, I rated him Midshipman.

We decided to continue the exploration upstream, but as we paddled away, one of the old salts on the bridge (no doubt a former captain himself, perhaps now an admiral) called out that "there's weather brewin'!". And, sure enough, a glance to the west showed dark clouds lowering.

We set a course for the cove from where we had departed and, as soon as the Midshipman disembarked, the heavens opened and rain pelted down.

I was able to get the Ruddy Duck out of the water and to the car, where we sat for 10 minutes, waiting for the driving rain to slacken. When it did, I loaded the boat back onto the car and portaged home.


* A note about the name:
While I have chosen "Ruddy Duck" for the actual name of the boat, I felt it needed a little bit more for a proper formal title. So I went back to naval history (specifically the Royal Navy), and found that ships generally had an abbreviated description of the service to which the ship belonged, then a description of the vessel type, and then the name itself.

For example, HMS Frigate Boadicea would belong to His Majesty's Service (i.e., in the Royal Navy), would be a frigate-class ship (38 guns), and be called the Boadicea.

Privateers, which were ships licensed by the King to attack enemy vessels but were not part of the navy proper, were signified "HMHV": His Majesty's Hired Vessel.

I have taken that to the next (logical) step to come up with "PV": Private Vessel.

As for the class my boat belongs in, I don't know that there is one: It's no doubt a pirogue (flat-bottomed, double-ended canoe), but it will eventually sport a single-mast square sail and, perhaps, a transom. I doubt any such vessel has ever existed in the history of boat building. So I determined it is a new class, the Merganser class. This is in tribute to Fred, in gratitude for all of his invaluable help on this project. (Fred had proffered the name "Merganser" or "Smew" for the boat, when I was casting about for names.)

A Merganser is a fish-eating seaduck, although almost all mergansers live in and on rivers rather than the sea. While a Ruddy Duck is not technically in the merganser family, I thought it was close enough.

So, the offical name of The Boat is PV Merganser "Ruddy Duck".

Ruddy Duck Launch

You can see a bigger version by clicking HERE.

The very first thing in the video is Charlie christening the boat with a water balloon filled with champagne. He throws it into the boat and it explodes, splashing champagne everywhere. It's quick, though. You have to look for it.

What's Next?

There's been some rumbling and grumbling from the masses about my lack of new posts in this log.

In my defense (me? Defensive? Never!), there has been little or nothing to report. Both boys had baseball this past weekend - Charlie at 1:00 on Saturday and Henry at 12:30 on Sunday - so the middle of both days was completely taken up with baseball. Check that: Charlie's game was rained out, but that same rain prevented me from pulling the Duck out to continue working. Sunday was beautiful for Henry's game, but showers came in in the afternoon, scuttling my half-hearted attempt to continue progress.

It's a beautiful day out today, but rain is due to roll in tomorrow, and the weekend looks iffy at best. When I can next get out, here's the plan:

I had had some problem with the last layer of epoxy I had used to line the inside seams never drying. I'm going to have to get in there and get out as much of that as I can, sand things smooth and try to re-coat the whole interior with a good coat.

Then I'm going to "deck" the first 30 inches or so on each end of the boat: I'll put in one cross-brace (using the leftover oak from the rubrails) and then cover it with a piece of either the scrap 1/4" maple ply or maybe the oak beadboard I got and never used for the faux clinker. It's just getting in the way, a big 4x8 sheet.

I also need to figure out how I'm going to manage the sail rig.
As I may have mentioned, Fred got me the beautiful book , which I have been poring over.

It's an interesting prospect, adding a sail to a vessel not originally designed to use one. This book has entire sections, very scientifically explaining how to calculate the center of effort of various differently-shaped sails, but then passages expounding on how there is no final set way to do things, you have to just kind of get a feel for it.

Most of the book (in fact, most everything I can find about adding sail to canoe) is lateen- or lugsail-oriented. (A refresher on different sail types, if you're interested in following along at home, is here.)

While I defintely see the merits of a fore-and-aft sail (briefly, a triangular sail, like you typically see on small sailboats, which can take a sideways-bearing wind and use it to push you forward), I am more and more drawn to a square sail (simply, a big square (or rectangular) bed sheet which is hung from a "curtain rod" positioned across the ship, to catch the wind blowing from behind; picture a Viking ship.)

Actually, that is the best way to envision the difference between the two basic sail plans: sailboat versus Viking ship.
Fore-and-aft rig.
(Note: this is a "Sunflower" sailboat, the type of boat I first learned to sail, 30 years ago at Washington Park in Denver.)

Square rig
Clearly, much more majestic
While fore-and-aft, as I said, has many, many things going for it (among other things, you can sail at times and in directions other than when the wind is directly behind you, and blowing in the direction you want to sail), it also has some inconveniences (the sail, being blown on from the side, will tend to want to flip your boat over, unless you have a large keel down in the water to prevent such things. Note: my boat does not have a large keel down in the water to prevent such things.)

But, mostly, I want a square sail because nobody else has a square sail.

Its very . . . it-ness, its being will make it, and therefore me, unique.

I'm excited about this now. I have to say (as I have in the last two posts), the launch was so dissatisfactory and anticlimactic that I had lost all of my mojo for The Boat Project, and this had me quite discouraged.

But all of this musing on the sail plan has my juices flowing again. There is some clean-up work that I'm not looking forward to, but I'm excited about moving forward with the sail rig. Hopefully Sunday will be sunny.

More on the Launch

I'm sorry if my log entry regarding the launch of the vessel was brief and anticlimactic, after so long and grand a buildup.

But, in truth, this is so because the launch of the vessel itself was brief and anticlimactic, after so long and painstaking a build.

Saturday night (the eve of the launch), we all went to the Kane County Cougars minor-league baseball game. We went early, in time for batting practice (each kid got at least one ball, and everyone got autographs). We planned to stay through the post-game fireworks, but a ninth-inning rally forced the game to extra innings, so we finally left at the top of the 11th inning. (And a good thing, too . . . I think it went to 14 innings, with the home team finally losing.)

Sunday (launch day) dawned clear, still, and HOT. The plan was to take the boat out for a few sea trials, giving everyone a chance to ride. (Remember, we had Auntie Andrea and the girls in town.)

As you'll recall from this post, I planned to do the sea trials in a small, safe pond just a block or two from our house. I made an early-morning scouting of that location, however, and saw that there was no viable launching spot (fairly steep banks, lined with large, sharp rocks), and liberal "no swimming or boating" signage.

So I opted on launching from the new canoe launch on the Mighty DuPage river. I spent a good amount of time that morning working on lashing the boat to the top of the car. As I said, I had 50 feet of stout nylon cordage to work with, and a vague concept of applying counter-forces to secure the craft to the roof rack. While I was working on this, my across-the-street neighbor (who has been watching the build with bemusement) came over and proffered his canoe tie-downs. He looked at my spiderweb of rope and said, "You know, you really don't want to mess around with doing this wrong. Not only could you lose your boat, but you could cause an accident or hurt someone if that comes off in traffic. Do you know what you're doing?"

Not exactly words of support, especially as I did not know what I was doing. I thanked him, and said I was going to experiment with a couple of different rope plans, and if I was not 100% satisfied with my lashing*, I would not hesitate to take his canoe tie-downs.

He then stood there, watching me with eyebrows raised, for a good ten minutes. Not comfortable.

By this point, it was, oh, I don't know . . . probably about 92 degrees. (It was about 10:30 AM.) There was not a breath of wind, the humidity was rising, as was the pressure, with Mark there watching my half-baked ideas of rope work. (It did not help that I had had to return my "1000 knots" book to the library, and so the only knot I was really confident with was a bowline.)

I was literally POURING with sweat when Mark finally wandered home, shaking his head. By the time I had done the fourth attempt at rigging and had decided it was time to go (* despite what I told Mark, I was only about 30% satisfied with my tie-down at this point), I was drenched with perspiration and had to shower and change my clothes.

I loaded the water balloons with champagne, loaded up the car, and had everyone else follow in the second car (pretty far behind) to let me know if anything looked wonky.

We got down to the river, or rather the parking lot near the river, with no incident. The boat did not budge. IN YOUR FACE, MARK!

But what looked like "just a little ways down the hill" from the parking lot to the water when I was scouting the location looked much longer when once I had a heavy boat, loaded with paddles and life vests and things, to carry, and a group of expectant faces watching.

So, it was a hump down to the river, which -- admirably for a canoe launching spot, no doubt -- at this section of river had no current, no trees or other impediments. It was perfectly flat, calm, green-brown water with no sort of shade, breeze, current, or anything that could provide any respite from the blazing heat. Not even a breath of wind. The backwater that provided a smooth launch also provided the ideal place for algae and other unpleasantness to breed. And there was a whole family of dead and decomposing crayfish piled up, covered with flies.

So we launched, I took each pair of kids out for a very small lap around the fetid pond, pouring sweat from every pore. The sun reflecting off of the still water made it, if anything, hotter on the river.

So, after about a minute and thirty seconds of quality on-the-water time, I beached, and we all got out, covering our shoes and selves with stinky, green mud.

The trip back up the hill to the parking lot was, you can imagine, less fun than the not-fun trip down, and re-lashing the boat on the top of the car with everyone standing around was a chore. I finally sent them off, finished the loading myself, and drove home.

I unloaded the boat, stowed it upside down on the sawhorses on the south side of the house, and haven't looked at it since.

So, it was not the grand and glorious launch I had imagined.
But this was, after all, really only the sea trials. And it accomplished what it intended to: THE BOAT FLOATS.
Nothing more, nothing less. Exactly what I wanted.

I now have a boat.

And now it's time to finish the job. I have a little more clean-up work to do.

Oddly, when I was adding the final coats of epoxy to the outside and did the interior seams, the epoxy on the inside did not completely cure. The outside dried and cured good and hard, but on the day of the launch (two days after the application), the inside seams were still tacky. I had to coat them with a layer of sawdust so we wouldn't stick to the boat. Hopefully by this weekend, that will have finally dried enough for me to sand down and put on the final interior application.

Over the next few weeks, I will also experiment with how I want to add the mast step for a sail rig, and what to do about a rudder.

And the name. What to do about the name?
Since this was just the test run, I didn't officially name her. I've thought good and hard about it. I appreciate all of the name suggestions and the feedback. Many people have said to me "I've GOT it! The perfect name is ______!"

But nothing has struck me as the perfect name. And I've tried to coax it out. But nothing has really just been IT for me.

But these last few weeks, as it's become a boat, I've been mentally referring to her as "the Duck". ("I've got to sand down the sides of the Duck today." "I think Sunday we'll be ready to launch the Duck.")

So, for better or worse, my mind seems to have settled on Ruddy Duck. Maybe it's the painting I did:
In any event, pending a blinding flash of inspiration (and boats have changed names before), the Ruddy Duck she is.