Northwestern Interlude, Part 2: The Quest for Kirin

I arrived back in Olympia around six o'clock, after a misty drive through the evergreens flanking the Hood Canal. I had two hours until sunset, and knew of at least three marinas in town where "Kirin" might be hiding. Unlike in Port Townsend, however, in Olympia access to the docks was restricted, and on a Saturday evening, the boatyards' offices were all closed. In desperation, I resorted to the not-at-all sketchy tactic of climbing the public observation tower on the city's waterfront and systematically scanning the slips with my binoculars. No dice.

Retreating to the car, it finally dawned on me to Google "Kirin Olympia sailboat", which led me to a name and address that had apparently once been associated with the vessel. It wasn't much, but it was all I had to go on at the time, and my GPS informed me that it was only a mile away. I started the car and drove the short distance through town. I hesitated briefly in front of the door, reflecting that this was probably one of the more ridiculous things I'd done recently. Resolving, however, that I hadn't come this far to let mere shyness get in my way, I knocked.

The door was answered by Rick Blacker, a gray-haired man dressed in a white polo shirt emblazoned with a stylized bicycle and the words "Paris-Brest-Paris 2015" on the lapel. He had returned from France within the hour, but as I explained my quixotic mission, the perplexity on his face gradually morphed into something resembling amusement.

"You're not in the wrong place," he informed me after I'd finished my soliloquy, "but I kind of sold the boat..."

"-Is she still nearby?", I asked.

"Sure; let me give you the number of the guy who bought her."

And thus, the following day, I drove myself to a wooded hilltop outside Shelton, Washington, where a lonely barn sat nestled among the dripping needles of Douglas fir. Before me stood Kirin, and at last I beheld the form my project would take when complete:

The construction of Kirin had been commissioned by Rick and his wife, who lived and sailed aboard her for over a decade before hauling her out and returning to a life on land. After languishing neglected for several years, she'd subsequently been discovered by Erik Brown, a young friend of Rick's, who'd fallen in love with her and become determined to restore her to seaworthiness. This process involves replacing part of her backbone, which was laminated out of locally-grown Douglas fir, and has developed rot in the stem. The new stem is being shaped from a single piece of Purpleheart, which like Angelique, is far more durable.

For the rest of the afternoon Erik showed me around the boat, both inside and out, narrating to me the details of her construction as I poked and prodded into every possible corner of the hull. My impression was similar to that which I'd had aboard Able, though here it was even more acute: for its length, this boat was huge. It was so big, in fact, that I found myself unable to comprehend -or even believe- that the backbone I had assembled in my yard could in any way form the basis for such a vessel. I mean, look at this:

Erik in Kirin's cavernous rear storage lazarette. It's worth noting that I'm also sitting in the same compartment, taking the picture.

Like the 24 foot version, the Falmouth 30 has very broad side and foredecks. Forward of the mast it takes two full strides to walk across it from one rail to the other.

The forward cabin. Some builders have placed a washbasin and cabinetry in the space aft of my feet on the starboard side. This idea appeals to me.

I'd been looking at plans and photos and envisioning how I was going to design my interior layout, but until my visit with Erik, I didn't have the intuitive sense about how being aboard one of these boats felt. As I scampered about Kirin, however, my sense of the way things ought to be as I move forward on my own project began to solidify; everything from the placement of furniture to which elements should be painted and which finished bright. The details of my vision for Astraea's interior will be the subject of a later post.

Even more exciting, however, is the fact that this sharing of knowledge is now a two-way street. The stem -one of the few components of my project that's actually complete- is also one of the few that Erik needs to make. Having obtained the boat secondhand, however, he didn't have a copy of Lyle's original plans, so when I returned home, I scanned and sent him a copy of the framing plan for reference. After we'd gone over Kirin inch by inch, the two of us climbed up the side of the shed to a spot that showed off the whole hull:

Kirin, roughly as she'd appear on the water. Check out that sheerline!

Listening to Erik's plans to fix up Kirin and sail her off beyond the horizon was enormous fun, and put my mind in a place that was completely out of proportion to where I currently stand with my own project. As enjoyable as it is to think about the practical preparations for sailing, progress on Astraea is multiple years away from being where Kirin stands today. Erik himself put it best when he said "If you make it onto the water before I do, I'll be very disappointed!"

I don't think he should worry. As my vacation in the Northwest drew to a close, however, the people and boats I'd encountered helped me return home more determined than ever to do everything I could to move my project along. There were still a few months worth of warm weather left, and that Angelique backbone wasn't going to shape itself!