Whether or not you believe in the theory combining humidity and intensity of the sun, it was meltingly hot and took me over seven hours to finish painting the pilothouse ceiling with a heat index of 97. White shrinkwrap protects STEADFAST from the elements and also acts like a steaming greenhouse so it was far warmer than the Weather Channel reported up there.
Patience, Grasshopper somehow comes randomly to mind (where is that line FROM?!). Peacefully waiting is not my greatest virtue, and reaching around to pat myself on the back is going to tweak these sore shoulder muscles. The fact is I’m multitudes more patient than I used to be. My newly honed skill has been aided by the reality that I cannot possibly do anything to speed up the essential order or the time each task takes. That’s my window into boatbuilding, and it’s crystal clear.
The fans hummed on low because when dust sticks in enamel paint it makes the result much less worthwhile, and boatyards are dusty. Bold descriptors can (should?) be used when gloves and eyes fill with sweat, paint drips and near-impossible cleanup stops the progress. A friend popped her head in at the top of the ladder, “You’re going to eat some now,” she reported cheerfully, pointing to her top lip, “But you’re almost done.” I don’t know how paint always gets on my face and shake my head at another ass-kicking humid Maryland summer on the hard. But she’s right. Big things are getting done. That intricate ceiling was on my to-do list for four years. When living aboard, I sat in the cockpit for sunrise and gazed up, knowing every day that it needed to be tackled.
I then hear heavier feet on that same steep ladder; bright blue eyes peer at me from under a sort-of-Mexican sunhat and they are, finally, SMILING. I raise my wet eyebrows in an unspoken question and cannot resist smiling back, thinking that we don’t do that very often of late. “The shutter plank is in,” Steve tells me.
There is triumph in those words. TRIUMPH.
During a new vessel build, the last plank is traditionally called the whiskey plank, (as in, Cheers!). On a rebuild or repair, it’s generally called the shutter plank. “A significant step in boatbuilding.” ~Google. It’s an UNDERSTATEMENT.
“That was a chore,” he said. “No,” I corrected him, “Taking out the trash is a chore.” He then actually laughs, another thing we should produce more often. “You’ve got paint everywhere,” he tells me, pointing to his top lip. “I’ve been told,” I laughed back. I had previously scolded him when he let me wander around with war-paint like stripes on one cheek instead of letting me know.
We still have a long way to go, but I put my dripping brush down, thanking every Higher Power I’ve ever considered. Five and a half months of planking, nearly eleven all told, working in between days of boatbuilding to finance the whole process; there are no days off, really and it’s hard to believe we already celebrated solstice, that the sun began to retrace its path, whichever hemisphere you may find yourself in.
A video from Classic Boat in the United Kingdom recommends that you “Make tea” upon completion. We chose (many) things that were far colder and bubbly. The final two planks installed last week, one on each side, are very complicated to fit and clamp in place; they fill a curved, beveled, uneven space that is crucial to the integrity and safety of the vessel. Spiling is the ancient geometric process used to exactly replicate the three-dimensional shape onto new planks. This one was then cut, refit, hand planed, steamed and fine tuned before 77 silicon bronze fastenings held it into place, in total 1670 @ $5.10 each. We stopped doing the math; it’s a lot.
Here's the window to STEADFAST’s new interior bow. This watertight hatch, reminiscent of a submarine, closes off what is called the crash bulkhead(!); we close it during blue water passages. You can see her seams; we’ll tap HIGH COTTON into those soon.
Here’s what it looked like in October: Yes, that’s the sky.
STEADFAST is shuttered; our window on the world shimmered like ancient glass with the heat wave. Celebrate triumphs, yours and others. Our boatyard friends threw us a perfect celebration last Sunday; sea stories were told, toasts were made, bread was broken and we fell into bed early. ~J
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Appreciated the link to Classic Boat — suggesting, naturally, that this might all be sorted by tea time… 😂. I was especially moved by the line, “This part is very satisfying,” and this little gem that surely caught Steve’s eye: “…account for any bevel…” Understated prose at its finest. In that vein, to both Steve and you: well done, you.
I spent more than a few days working on my boat down at Jones Creek, east of Sparrow Point. Always something to do and it was always hot and humid, except in winter, when it was cold and humid.
As they say about building a homebuilt airplane: 95% complete, 90% to go.