Alum Story: Building a Susan Skiff
Photo Credit: Erin Tokarz
by Peter Mecklenburg
I’m slow to connect the dots. When my wife and I announced to our grown daughter we were moving to join her in Maine, our daughter suggested I take the wooden boat building class at The Apprenticeshop in Rockland, one of a few places in the country with a school dedicated to building traditional wooden boats.
She thought it would be a good way to meet people and get involved in the community. Sure, great idea. I figured I would ace the course learning about boat construction. I was familiar with boats, having been on monohulls, catamarans, scows, naval ships, ferries, motor boats, even a cruise liner (once). I was familiar with the materials they were made of: metal, fiberglass, wood, even concrete. However, in all my boating experience, I never looked at exactly how a boat was built.
So we left our happy life in retirement in Minnesota and moved to Rockland, Maine. At the first session, I soon learned that I would be building an actual traditional wooden boat, not just learning about building a boat. Well then, I surmised, I’ll just assemble the parts with glue and screw them together. I did think it odd that I would need three months to assemble an eleven foot rowboat. When I looked around for the parts, I noticed there were only blocks of wood. Then, when I looked at the skiff building manual containing drawings and explanations, some of the dots started to connect. But not many.
I knew what boats looked like; I knew how they worked. I grew up sailing and rowing in wooden boats. I raced one design sailboats for many years around the same Olympic triangles on the Chesapeake Bay and the lakes in Minnesota. I powered along the mighty Mississippi and the beautiful Saint Croix river in a 17 foot motor boat. I was competent in the use of power tools and safety and keeping my angles square.
Unfortunately, I never looked in detail at how boats were actually built. Yes, I marveled at the beauty of the wooden sailing vessels like the Chesapeake Bay Skipjacks with their massive booms for power to pull their oyster dredges, the Pride of Baltimore II, a namesake for its city, the Coleen, a lobster boat constructed in the Virginia capes commissioned by a dear friend, the tall ships, albeit steel hulled, moving swiftly under sail through the Chesapeake Bay visiting their ports of call.
It turns out all of that experience was not going to do much good for me. After the introductions of the first morning, I was given a space on a work bench, a board of pine, a hunk of oak, a chisel, a hammer, nails, pencil, measuring tape and an unrecognizable sample of something I was instructed to copy and make called the “stem.” My work space mate, with his own chunk of oak, started marking, nailing, drawing lines and chiseling as if he had done this before, and me, with all my “knowledge” hadn’t a clue what this was all about. He asked me if this was a real wooden boat shop. I paused, reflected and replied that this is as authentic as it comes. And then I thought, “woe is me”. I wasn’t worried if I would pass the course; I worried whether I could build an entire boat and whether my creation would float.
The building manual showed all of the parts necessary and I recognized most of them. What I did not understand was almost all of the parts were not flat but curved. Later, I learned that the entire concept of building a boat was to construct one with “fair lines”. What’s a fair line? I sincerely hoped for a miracle to occur because I had no idea how to accomplish building this curved boat.
During the weeks of the three month course I slowly learned to construct the boat. The major surprises about this process was that oak could be chiseled and carved, straight oak pieces could be bent into curved oak pieces, that copper rivets were stronger than nails, and flat head brass wood screws would work just fine holding together garboards, keelson, transom, thwarts, breastplates, planks and much, much more in place.
It turned out the building the boat wasn’t the only hard part. My attitude, happy and excited at at the beginning of the course, slowly shifted gear as I progressed. I made mistakes that I feared unfixable, then learned more to correct the unfixable mistakes; I slid into major resistance. I made every task harder, taking longer, and finally, at a point of surrender, asked for assistance. To my surprise, help arrived like the calvary. I hated riveting, yet these compadres jumped in and showed me more than riveting. They displayed patience, craftsmanship, and empathy. Planing? Chiseling? Lofting? Sawing? Sanding? Scraping? Caulking? Painting? In every new task, I began to see beauty and competence. Eventually, I saw gratitude. From those around me and from me to them.
As the Susan skiff neared completion I recognized what I had created. Not just an eleven foot rowboat, but satisfaction in working with and helping others, and vice versa.
Afterwards:
13 weeks after starting the 12 week course, the Rowing Vessel (RV) Anything Goes #22, launched without taking on a drop of seawater. My fears were misguided.
Three months after the launch, the painting was completed, the leathers sewn onto the oars, and the rowing began.
Many, many thanks to all those at The Apprenticeshop who contributed to make it happen.