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| Woodwork: Brian Schulz (center) teaches students, including Peter Spotts (top r.), how to build kayaks. Nicole Hill  Building a kayak |
He came. He sawed. He kayaked.
After spending eight days in a boat-building class, a writer hopes he won't be left with that sinking feeling...
from the July 13, 2007 edition
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I fall somewhere in between Alan and the Selkins.
In the end, the tasks we have to perform are broadly familiar to anyone who's ever gone to summer camp. If you've ever stitched uppers to soles on a pair of moccasins, then sewing the skin on the kayak's wooden frame or rigging the deck is for you. Woodworking? It's a lumberjack's yard in here. Brian notes that with all of the high-horsepower cutting and shaping tools in the shop, the lowly chisel will be the most dangerous tool we'll use. It's small and silent, so people take it for granted. But it's sharp; "don't dis it," he cautions. There's knot-tying (several half hitches) and lashing. And if you love to paint, you'll have a great time slathering oil on the wood frame, then stain and "goop" on the fabric covering the frame.
During the class, Brian is nothing if not inventive as problems arise. Take the case of the wrinkled skin. No Oil of Olay will work here. This year, Brian's using a heavier-weight ballistic nylon than he has in the past. It's more durable. But as we stitch it tight to the hull, it's bunchin' something awful at the bow and stern.
The problem not only offends Brian's sense of the kayaks' aesthetics; it could also undermine the crafts' performance a bit. After experimenting on the kayak he's building along with us, he heads back to a nearby Mart and buys five steam irons. So we iron kayaks – no starch, pick-up Saturday night. A little water, a little heat, and voilà! Wrinkles vanish.
On most days we work from 8 a.m. to between 6 and 7 p.m. But skinning day runs from 7 a.m. to 1 a.m. the next morning, with breaks for lunch and dinner. We skin the craft, stain the skin, then stitch on the wooden ring – or coaming – that forms the entrance to the cockpit. Finally, after a very late dinner, we apply three coats of "goop" to the bottom of the hull – one right after the other. Overnight, the "goop" will dry, allowing us to turn over the hulls and "goop" the decks after sun-up. As we stumble out of the shop at a time when even nightclubbers are in bed, Brian takes pity on us and calls for a 9 a.m. start the next morning.
As the last coats of "goop" dry on the seventh day, and we rough out our paddles, Brian gives us an early quit. Tomorrow we will add the thick rawhide-thong rigging to the decks and put the kayaks in the water for the first time.
Oh yes, the water. I single-handedly demonstrated to the rest of the class two important points.
One: In a Greenland kayak, a spray skirt (think neoprene tutu with an elastic edge) or better yet, a tuilik (think neoprene night shirt with long, tight-cuffed sleeves, a hood, and a drawstring at the bottom) are not optional pieces of gear.
How do I know? I left mine in the car after we packed up our tools at the end of class. After about 10 to 15 minutes on the water, doing reasonably well for a newbie, I tipped, and the half-capsized hull filled with water. The skirt would have sealed the opening and prevented the kayak from flooding and pulling me under. (Note to Brian and Pam, who were only a few feet away keeping an eye on my kayaking baby steps: For fishing me out of the drink, I thank you, my wife and kids thank you. I'm not sure about my editors...)
Two (and here comes my walrus moment): In the hands of an experienced paddler, the hunting kayak can tow a day's heavy catch with ease. Pam emptied and righted my kayak and towed it back to the boat ramp we used. Brian towed me as I hung onto his aft deck rigging. Floating on my back like the tusked marine mammal, the trip to shore gave new meaning to the phrase: Drink my wake! The experience put formal lessons high on my summer agenda. Goo goo g'joob.
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