 |
The Catamaran Boatbuilder's WifeBy Carllie K. Hennigan - 2000 Copyright This is Carllie's article about catamaran boatbuilding that appeared in the September 2000 issue of Multihull Magazine.
It was a beautiful sunny day, the day after New Year’s, and we were in the boat shed, applying the final exterior paint to our boat. And as my husband put it, “How many couples do you think are boatbuilding on a day that’s really still part of the Christmas holidays?”—the thought being that we two are unique, and special. We had devoted almost every week night and every weekend for a year and a half to working on our new getaway vessel. Each Friday night before our weekly dinner out, we felt compelled to put in at least three hours to earn the treat. We figured we had definitely set ourselves apart from the masses and the herd instinct—along with the shared ‘flus, shopping frenzies, media-driven judgments and mass hysteria over national and international silliness.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Garett had been looking at multihull designs he could build quickly without spending a fortune. Slowly, the drawings and specs came out, along with Chris White’s book Cruising Multihulls and a video on Derek Kelsall’s designs. But building our own multihull suddenly seemed possible when Garett got the study plans of Richard Woods’ newest design, the Gypsy—a 28-foot cruising catamaran. According to Woods, who designs and builds in Plymouth, England, it could be built in 1,200 hours for about $12,000 Cdn. As Garett had tripled the value of our monohull with his ingenious improvements, we calculated that even if materials were a little more expensive for us than they were for a professional builder with years of contacts and sources, we could build the Gypsy for only slightly more than what we could get for Wave Dancer, and we could handle the extra cost as we went along. As it turned out—no surprise to anyone who’s ever built a boat—we would spend almost three times what we expected. But eventually we would launch a beautiful yellow and white cat with more than three times the space of our last boat and more privacy than a 50-foot monohull. One of the beauties of the Gypsy is its three separate living spaces—the cuddy cabin and two hulls. Thus, the head, placed amidships in the starboard hull with Garett’s “workshop” forward and a spacious berth aft, offers complete privacy from the cuddy with the galley and saloon-cum-double bed, and the port “bedroom hull” with its two roomy berths. Small Beginnings
Now, almost two years later, I viewed my job as boatbuilder’s assistant as relatively easy and undemanding. I measured, mixed and strained the System Three paint for the Lemmer turbine sprayer and, while Garett sprayed it on, I cleaned the measuring cups, stir sticks, strainer and containers, and prepared the next batch. No, I was not a “sissy wife” doing typical Suzy-homemaker type jobs. My tasks since we had moved our base to a large tubular shelter we built in a boatyard 30 minutes from our downtown Vancouver home included mixing resin and epoxy; wetting out roving and matting; filling umpteen screw holes; meticulously painting the underside of the cuddy cabin and the interiors; hand and power-sanding; and filling, sanding, filling, sanding endless pinholes while applying primer. Added to that was the never-ending tidying that kept our workspace sane and made it so much easier to tackle the jobs. Am I Crazy?
Now that Light Wave is launched and we have been cruising on her for 52 days, I recall those glory days of building with a pang of nostalgia, just like empty-nesters who look back fondly on their early years of struggling and sacrificing to house and feed their kids. The fact that we actually created a cruising catamaran with our own four hands seems to both of us a miraculous accomplishment, as in fact it was, considering the time it took and the fact that we both had full-time jobs and other commitments. I am still amazed at what I learned and the skills I developed. I now know how to use a hammer and power screwdriver. Not only do I fix things myself, when we visit friends I actually head straight for the workshop to snoop around and examine the tools.
Rewards I’ve gained tremendous confidence in my ability to tackle mechanical jobs that had always before seemed insurmountable. Now I know I can do it myself, or find out how and do it, and that assuredness is reflected in my mental and physical well-being. But a most unexpected benefit has been the effect on our marriage. My mate and I worked closely for 24 months, with one worthwhile objective. Starting work on a boat after a hard day’s work is a challenge for anyone, but Garett always found it much easier to get down to it when I was with him, even if I didn’t do as much as he did. Many times I’d arrive at the shop to find him working away in a rather ho-hum fashion, but within an hour he’d be moving around energetically measuring, screwing, sanding or painting. The synergy generated simply by my being there in the shop with him–mixng epoxy or paint, painting the interior, underside, or sliding hatches, going for last-minute supplies, or running and fetching–provided the extra oomph and boost to energy that he needed. If Garett had had to do it all alone, we both agree it would have taken a lot more than an extra 900 hours or one year’s time that I put in, as he just wouldn’t have had the same impetus to keep at it. So, I gave him my support and also my (extremely admirable) efforts to learn something I had no inclination whatsoever to learn, in addition to the physical tasks I accomplished. Our marriage is stronger as a result, our mutual respect greater.
But best of all is the sense of accomplishment and pride of ownership we experience every time we sight our pretty vessel neatly tied to the dock at the foot a street in the upper-class Vancouver “horse district” called Southlands. Palatial houses on a small island lie across the rivulet from her moorings; while horse paddocks and a grassy meadow form the land boundary. This seems fitting: the gracious homes provide a magazine-cover backdrop to our beautiful vessel; the horses offer good company, cadging the occasional apple or carrot when we pull in to unload provisions; while the meadows and untamed surroundings somehow suit a vessel built to capitalize on the forces of nature.
-The End- Magic MemoriesThe first big task I was hit with as a neophyte builder was helping to erect the tubular shelter at the boatyard. I didn’t do much other than worry a lot about how we were going to do it, and help pull the gigantic sheets of plastic over the frame. Within the next couple of days, three humungous rolls of matting and fibreglass plus eight five-gallon drums of resin were delivered. In our rush to get something significant accomplished as quickly as possible, we failed to take a photo of that unforgettable sight–the whole, 35’ x 25’ structure was an echoing, empty cavern except for those drums and rolls in the corner. Two years later, the contrast was so amazing that we often thought of that beginning and the ultimate conversion of the initial raw material into the completed vesel as we wiggled our way through the narrow passages between the sides of the hulls and the shed walls. We have to rely on the unforgettable snapshot in our minds. I am not what you’d call mathematically brilliant. I check and re-check my figures, and then check ‘em again. After about the fourth time, I still find boo-boos. It gets stressful, I start to panic, and then I can’t add 2 + 2. Luckily, Garett is just the opposite. He got 100% in Calculus in university, okay? So I would watch while he calculated, sketched and planned. He spent many hours over dinner drawing me sketches of the next stage of the boat, so I would have a concept of what we were working on next. Almost every night, while driving out to the boatyard, I’d say, “So what will we be working on tonight?” Painting inside and out took four months, altogether. I did the interiors while Garett worked on the plumbing and electricity; and we tackled the exterior as a team–Garett applied the paint with a Lemer spray-painting system while I mixed the next batch of two-part paint. The boatyard cats provided company, entertainment and even a brand new family when one very pregnant mother “adopted” us and decided unequivocally that she was going to give birth in our cuddy cabin. There was no way she could be dissuaded, so for the first time in our lives we actually witnessed the miracle of new life, and felt quite privileged for it. As our boat is a cat, we also considered mama’s choice appropriate. So Garett and I acted as her birth coaches. It was the first time either of us had participated in a birth of any sort, and we were very moved by the wonder of it all.
I looked around the cabin of the decrepit old wooden sailboat and counted not five tiny kittens, but four. Looked again, my eyes desperately searching the dark corners and hidden spaces. One, two, three, four–there she was!!! “No, that’s not a kitten.” Looked again. “Wait a minute–is that a disconnected head?” My heart skipped a beat, but anything was possible in this old pile of junk; it wasn’t the safest place in all the world for babies to explore, and these five siblings were incorrigible explorers. “What’s happened???” I wondered. “Has a kitten been decapitated?” I shook my head, stilled my fluttering heart, and looked more carefully. Then I saw it: sure enough, the tiny gray kitten’s head was separated from her body–by the board forming the side of the settee. The boatbuilder had made 2” ventilation holes all over this crazy boat, and naturally, while exploring the new world, this innocent and unprotected baby had stuck her head and ears through a dumb hole and couldn’t back out, the ears popping up and refusing to fold forward as easily as they fold backward. This little kitten was distressed, to say the least. I fell to my knees immediately to console her, and see what I could do. I even tried gently to push her back through the hole, with no success. There was nothing for it. It was time to get my husband from our boatbuilding shed next-door, to apply his brilliant do-anything brain to it. The result was traumatic, for all concerned: I held the kitten’s head with one hand, covering her ears as closely as possible, and with the other hand I held her fat little squirming body. Garett applied the power jigsaw vertically down the wood towards the hole (and my hands and the kitten’s body). Kitten was not pleased, to say the least. She bit the inside of my hand twice and struggled to free herself from this terrifying noise. She didn’t seem to appreciate the fact that we were trying to save her life. We felt awful, but perservered. It was either that or a very dead kitten in a couple of days or less. The saw came to within an inch of the living flesh when Garett stopped it, to start the more easily controlled process of drilling a series of little holes. He drilled down to an eighth of an inch and then broke the piece of wood out. At this point, the absent, slipshod and irresponsible owners of both the boat and the mother cat weren’t too popular in our minds, so we weren’t worried about damage. Mother cat, by the way, wasn’t concerned at all. She looked askance at this strange phenomenon, flounced away, and licked her paws. Brothers and sisters, however, were decidedly offended but basically couldn’t care less. They each took one close look at their unfortunate sibling and resumed their play and never-ending exploring. When she was finally freed, however, the victim did not join them. She sat in one place, very shook up, and began licking herself. Mother didn’t console her, much to my surprise. She was so conscientious about feeding and cleaning her babies, but giving consolation and sympathy just wasn’t her thing. It was a bad day for this particular kitten, however, as she was also adopted
out that day. I know we saved a kitten, and chalk that up to my life’s
record of good deeds, but I still see clearly in my mind this little vulnerable
creature, paws outstretched reaching for her family as she was being taken down
the long ladder by her new mommy. Bottom line: it took a cat builder to save
a kitten.
|
We visited our new sailing catamaran today at her moorings on the Fraser River
in Vancouver. I found myself inside the forward hull lockers unscrewing nuts,
washers and backing plates and putting them back on; while my husband called
instructions and held the screws tight from our dinghy outside the boat. I felt
right at home, and relished “getting down and dirty” to do the job.
Three years ago, such a task would have been unthinkable for me. These things
were done my husband, assisted by his buddies, if need be. Certainly not by
me! How times have changed. I was press-ganged into the job because I couldn’t
resist the lure of having a shiny, new boat three times the size of our monohull
that would give us more than twice the speed while providing comfortable, even
luxurious, accommodations. Here’s the story of a boatbuilder’s wife,
a boatbuilder’s assistant. 
It all began in 1996, when Garett started with the Chinese torture, dripping
into my unsuspecting and highly prejudiced mind detailed explanations of the
irrefutable advantages of multihulls—a slow but persistent process of
sedition. By the end of the year, I was ripe for a boat revolution but hadn’t
considered the possibility of buying another boat seriously. We had acquired
as our 25 foot Northern monohull for a song, and Garett had made extensive renovations,
improving her safety, comfort and solo-sailing capabilities tremendously. More
space, speed and conveniences would be nice; but even to move up to an older,
30-foot Catalina we were looking at a debt of about $30,000. No thanks.
The rubber hit the road in February, 1997. Living in central Vancouver in a
small “view with a suite attached” fits our land-based needs just
fine, but you can’t exactly embark on a major construction project on
your roof deck! The neighbours might object. So we rented a nearby garage and
Garett began sawing, drilling, mixing epoxy, filling, sanding and coating to
build the cuddy cabin, nacelle, rudders and cockpit.
Three years ago, I would never have believed I would spend over 900 hours helping
my husband build a boat. I was not a “handyman” woman. I could just
barely handle a hammer and a basic screwdriver. No mechanical inclinations whatsoever.
Even after two years of boatbuilding I still had problems connecting several
long extension cords. (“Hmmm... lemesee...this end goes to what end???”)
At home there was a clear delineation of duties: I did the grocery shopping,
prepared food, cleaned, decorated, and lusted after new furniture and renovations;
Garett maintained and improved our sailboat and home. We own our condominium;
and have a new kitchen, bathroom and refinished hardwood floors thanks to his
engineering capability, know-how and attitude of “If a thing’s worth
doing it’s worth doing well and as quickly as possible.” He doesn’t
mess around or get distracted. Until a project is complete, he puts his total
energy into it and works long hours on it. So you can appreciate that once the
boatbuilding started in earnest, according to average standards, we didn’t
have much of a life. But the way I see it, we had a much better life.
Garett put in most of the 3,500 hours it took to build our vessel to his exacting
standards. I hate to take any credit, but I’m sure my constant reminders
(a.k.a. nagging)—“I don’t want a home-made looking boat!”—had
a big influence on this. I contributed 900 of those hours, and friends an aggregate
of 100 when we sought objective opinions or needed help in turning over the
hulls, aligning the components or joining the cuddy cabin to the hulls.
So, here we are, having enjoyed our vessel for a year, getting ready to go
on a 10-day cruise to Desolation Sound before school gets out. Our first winter
of weekend cruising with Light Wave on the mild West Coast introduced us to
the beauties of a well-equipped catamaran. cruise on the mild West Coast. Now
that I don’t have to “go below” to get warm or prepare food,
I find I enjoy sailing even more. I have yet get to seasick, something which
was a fairly regular occurrence on rough days in our monohull. The almost 360°
view from inside our cozy cuddy cabin, warmed by a lovely catalytic heater,
is something a sailor would never expect; and on days when I’m not up
to braving the elements it’s just lovely to sit in the saloon by the heater
reading or watching the sea and sky backed by our coastal mountains or Gulf
Islands through the forward windows. Light Wave offers a powerboat’s panorama
and comfort with a sailboat’s low-cost and relatively quiet driving force.
As the winter winds drive up the West Coast, we experience the sheer joy of
speed, and now look forward to trying a new/used spinnaker on our sail north
in the lighter summer winds. We haven’t put any electrical “perks”
on Light Wave yet—we don’t have a knot meter, depth sounder or GPS—but
through dead-reckoning, watching our wake, and gleefully comparing ourselves
with monohulls and even the occasional multihull that eat our dust, we know
we’re flying. It’s wonderful.
It took two and a half years—a long time, some would say. But the time
would have passed anyway, and look what we’ve got to show for it: an attractive,
seaworthy boat that gives us the space and safety we need to enjoy cruising
in comfort and occasionally take friends along on day-trips to the islands on
idyllic, sunny summer days; a getaway vessel that provides the speed of a powerboat
with the grace and cost-savings of a sailboat; a decided increase in our net
worth; a deeper, truer bond in our marriage; a lifestyle of living in greater
harmony with nature—with the wind, waves, tides and currents; a vessel
that is such a joy to sail that she beckons us like a Siren out beyond the confines
and craziness of the city to find that incomparable, priceless peace only a
cruising sailor can know.
The family of five kittens and mother were soon moved to an old derelict sailboat
on the hard next door owned by a slightly drugged-out couple. For eight weeks,
until the kittens were adopted, the first thing I would do on arriving at the
boatyard was to check on the family. This is what happened one night:
