Back to the Backbone...

The rabbet is the boat.

That was what Bertram had told me, when I visited his shop in Port Townsend last summer, and while slightly exaggerated, I knew that, fundamentally, it was true. No other single component of the ship is as long, or needs to be as perfect as the groove that runs the length of the backbone from stemhead to sternpost. The rabbet is the joint into which every single plank of the hull will interface at least twice. Backbone timbers being large and irreplaceable, cutting the rabbet is something that must be done right the first time. Mess up badly, and your proverbial goose is cooked.

And so, as the weather grew warm again in springtime, I put my ambition to get started cutting out frames on hold, and returned to the backbone that lay waiting for me in the yard behind my house's back deck. There was no point in delaying the inevitable - if I were to proceed, this had to happen. Having spent the past two years working up to this point, however, I was just a little bit nervous.

As is usual when critical events in the construction are about to happen, I asked Dad if he would be willing to drive down and supervise. I find that having an extra set of eyes around is helpful in the "recognizing stupid mistakes before they happen" department, and with a cut as important as this one, I wasn't about to leave anything to chance. The fact that March 27 was Easter Sunday was entirely lost on me until he arrived and started cracking jokes about "the Easter rabbet". Good old Dad!

The plan was simple. I would cut into the backbone with a circular saw set 1/4" shallower than the final rabbet depth, and 1/4" inside the actual line. Since the backbone had already been shaped to the outside shape of the hull, that cut would provide a guiding surface that was always perpendicular to the hull's shape, from which one could excavate the remainder of the groove. I spent most of that morning triple-checking the marks I'd drawn against my lofting. Finally, after lunch, with dad standing by ready to unplug the saw if he saw me straying too close to my pencil line, I took a deep breath, and began cutting. Several minutes of intense concentration and steady hands later, I'd done it:

Over the next few weeks, I proceeded to dig out the remaining wood using hand tools, always making sure to leave an extra quarter inch, just to be safe. This excess will only be removed when the planks are actually fitted:

Some of the last remaining chainsaw marks from when I sawed out the keel timber are visible at right, about to get planed off.

Essentially, I was shaping the rabbet as if my planking were only one inch thick instead of 5/4". On the wider sections of the forefoot, I even made small plywood patterns to that effect, just to be sure I got the correct shape.

This portion is near the mast step, and will be subjected to some of the most intense forces while sailing, so a tight seam that fits well against the planking is essential.

At the bow, following Larry's advice in his book on the process, chiseled the rabbet by hand. On the extremely broad face of the stern knee, however, I defined the surface by drilling holes with a 2" diameter carbide Forstner bit and a stop collar set to 1" deep:

In addition to defining the surface, it removed a lot of material, making chiseling easier.

...then chiseled and sanded the surface down until it was smooth and uniform, with just the faintest ghosts of the drill holes remaining:

As with all operations involving the backbone, I then had to flip the entire assembly over, and do it all again. Needless to say, I'm getting kind of tired of flipping the backbone. Thankfully, once I finish shaping the rabbet on the port side, I'll only have to do that one more time: when I lift it vertically to the position where it will stay for the duration of the project. 

Sounds like a good excuse for a party.

A trip to Blue Sky Country

It took eighteen years, but Dad finally let me borrow his truck!

What do you do when you need to buy something, but don't know where to get it? Google it, of course! And so, early this year, despondent over my insufficient quantity of black locust flitches, I took to the interwebs in a desperate attempt to find a very specific -and rare- type of lumber.

But first, a little background:

In order to be suitable for construction, wood can't be fresh cut from a recently felled log. Such lumber, termed "green" in the sawmill lexicon, still contains large amounts of moisture from its time as a living tree. If sawn to shape and used for building in such a state, the wood will warp and contract as it dries, causing untold pain and suffering as measurements that you swore were correct suddenly aren't anymore. In order to solve this problem, the wood must be seasoned until it achieves "equilibrium moisture content", that is, a steady state where the humidity within the wood's fiber structure is roughly the same as the long-term average humidity of the air at the building site. Traditionally, this was accomplished by air-drying the lumber. It was stacked in a shed in such a way that air was allowed to circulate freely among the timbers until they had reached equilibrium and were dimensionally stable. The general rule of thumb is that, done properly, this process requires one year of drying time per inch of your wood's thickness. 

Early in the my search, I got a text from my dad saying that he'd found a few freshly-cut logs of black locust on Craigslist in New Jersey. The problem, of course, was that I needed the wood ready to use *now*, not in 2018, which was the earliest that my two-inch thick frames would be ready to saw out from slabs of such a log. Since the 20th century, the lumber industry has tackled the problem of seasoning with a process called kiln-drying, in which large batches of green wood are wheeled into room-sized kilns and heated until they achieve a given moisture content - a process that takes several days instead of several years. While fine for most applications, however, this is less than ideal for boatbuilding, as (1) such lumber, overwhelmingly destined for making buildings, is sawn to standard, square dimensions before use, eliminating any natural curvature that I could use to my advantage in the boat and (2) unless great care is taken during the process, kiln-drying can remove moisture too rapidly, collapsing the cells that make up the wood and weakening it compared to air-dried stock. Industry often prioritizes speed to such a degree that I just don't trust the stuff.

Such was the problem that faced me as I turned to the search engines. I was looking for lots of large slabs of black locust, air-dried, ideally pieces whose natural curvature hadn't been sawn off by our society's pathological obsession with Euclidean geometry. I was reasonably certain I'd end up compromising on one or both of those qualities, but I figured it was worth a try. At the top of my search results was a website with the remarkably specific name of "A black locust connection", whose web design would not have been at all out of place on a GeoCities page circa 1995. Still, I resolved to poke around a bit. In the "About us" section I learned that "Blue sky" -the name of the business, I supposed, "uses a Wood-Mizer bandsaw mill to create beams, boards and planks of various sizes, depending upon the needs of customers." So far so good, I thought. I clicked about further to see photos of some of their stock. This image appeared, and my heart stopped:

That photo had been taken three years ago. If those slabs were the right thickness, and were still there, then they were exactly what I was looking for. I reached for the phone. 

"Blue Sky," a gravelly New England voice replied on the other end of the line. 

I inquired after the curved slabs. They were still there, I was told, but a boatbuilder in Vermont had also expressed interest. In a panic at this news, I looked at the calendar and asked whether I could stop by the day after tomorrow. In my rush to beat the Vermonter to the prize, I never even asked the owner's name.

Forty eight hours later, after a marathon drive to the hilly woods of northwestern Massachusetts with my dad's borrowed pickup and flatbed trailer, I arrived at "A Black Locust Connection". My anonymous woodsman looked the part, with round spectacles poised over a face sporting a chin-length gray beard. A red lumberjack's shirt completed the ensemble. About the only thing that reminded me of the 21st century about the place was the four wheel drive all-terrain forklift (its rear tires alone went up to my chest) in which he tore about the steep slushy switchbacks of his woodland empire with disconcerting velocity. The cab only held one, so I was invited to come along by clinging to the back of the chassis above the winch spindle. Hypnotized by visions of boat framing, I agreed.

Arriving at his drying stacks, it was immediately clear that the wood available more than justified the white-knuckle ride, and after several trips back and forth to the truck, I was certain that I'd accumulated enough of those beautiful curved flitches to frame Astraea from stem to stern with naturally grown rock-solid ribs:

Before I left for home laden with the spoils of my expedition there was the small matter of the check (writing enormous checks for raw, unfinished wood is something that I've yet to get fully used to), and the embarrassing question of to whom I should make it out. 

"Blue Sky's my name," replied my newest friend, "like I said on the phone."

Oh.

"Yeah, when I started in this business, I realized that when I cut down a tree in the woods, I would make a little patch of blue sky, so you see..."

I saw indeed.

Working through the winter...

It's been an odd winter.

Quite intentionally, I'd finished shaping the backbone just in time for the months that, normally, herald the onset of weather that's cold and gross and generally too unpleasant to result in any work outside. This past December, however, there were multiple days where I could venture out in shorts. On Christmas eve, the rosebush in front of my house was blooming. The anthropocene had clearly arrived in earnest, but as long as we were all doomed, I figured I might as well make the best of it, so I laid the lofting out on the deck and used a batten to deduct the planking thickness from the lines drawing:

This step is necessary, because the lines of the boat as shown on the plans, which I'd drawn out full-size, define the shape of the outside of the hull. The frames (or, colloquially, "ribs") of the boat, however, lie on the inside of the hull planking, and hold it all together. I therefore had to subtract the 1-1/4" thick planking before I could accurately build the frames.

But really, it's more complicated than that.

If the hull did not taper in the fore-and-aft direction (that is, if it were a rectangle as viewed from above) then applying the correction would be a simple matter of subtracting 1-1/4 inches from every cross-sectional slice on the lines drawing, and making the frame. In real life, however, the boat tapers from a point at the bow, broadening amidships until frame 14, then narrowing again from frame 15 to the stern. The magnitude of the deduction varies accordingly - at the bow, where the hull converges sharply, the 1-1/4 inch thick planking is laid on at such an angle that, when viewed in cross-section, the planks are almost 2-1/4 inches wide. Conversely, at frame 14, the angle of the planking is nearly zero, and the cross-sectional thickness of the planks is approximately the same as their nominal thickness.

But really, it's more complicated than that.

The above discussion neglects the fact that in addition to changing along the length of the boat, the angle of the planking also changes vertically along each frame section. It's not enough to compute a planking angle for every 24 frame sections. I had to compute fourteen planking angles (from the very bottom of the keel up to the top of the deck sheer) for every 24 sections, then convert them to thickness deductions, and then interpolate between them (using the flexible batten in the photo above) to define the shape of each finished frame.

It was boring and tedious and I hated it, but I got it done, and just in time, for no sooner had I done so than the temperatures plummeted and winter arrived for real:



So in January, I retreated indoors and used the deducted lines from the plastic in the top photo sheeting to create plywood patterns for each frame, like the seven shown here:



Then in February, I took nine Black Locust flitches that Dad, my friend Selwyn, and I had sawn out previously, planed them to thickness, and made two complete frame pairs out of them:



That wood had been seasoning for years, and I'd intended to use it to frame the entire boat. There was only one problem - until now, I'd had no idea exactly how much I would need. The boat contains 24 frame pairs. I'd just made two of them, and used nine flitches to do so. There were around 21 flitches left.

I didn't have nearly enough.

Shaping the backbone

I returned home from the northwest in early September and, inspired by the work of Bertram and Erik, set to work with renewed enthusiasm on the backbone. Although the pieces were all bolted together, and had been fashioned such that they properly defined the shape of the hull in profile (i.e., from the side), when viewed from the front or back, they were still perfectly square. The hull of this boat tapers to a narrow edge at the bow, stern, and at the bottom of the keel, however, and so the backbone would have to be tapered as well, since it defines all of those surfaces. This was done by drawing lines that defined the limits of the backbone's taper, and then making guide cuts with a hand saw between them, as shown in the photo above. After that, I chiseled, planed, and finally sanded the timbers down to their finished surface:



This process then continued for the entire length of the backbone, as shown. Note that the starboard side, facing the ground, remains untapered:



The stern and forefoot proved particularly challenging, since the sections there, in addition to tapering, have a substantial degree of concavity to them. To shape this accurately, I made plywood patterns of the curvature of the outside of the hull at each section, and used them to dig trenches in the wood, frequently checking their depth against the pattern:

You can see the faint "ghost" of an earlier trench at the left of the image.

Once the trenches were made to the appropriate depth, I then removed the excess material in between. Dad lent me his adz for this, which is a wonderful tool for quickly removing big gouts of wood - you just need to be careful not to take off too much!



After the adz, it was back to the hand plane and the sander, until the trenches just barely disappeared, and the surface was finished smooth:

The dark coloration is due to linseed oil, applied to keep the newly-exposed wood from drying out too quickly, which causes surface cracks known as 'checks'.

Then, with one side shaped, naturally I had to flip the entire assembly and do the whole thing all over again:

By the time I'd finished with both sides, the weather outside was beginning to get chilly, so I covered the project and retreated indoors to draw out the shapes of the eventual hull framing, which I'll discuss in a subsequent post.

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!

Northwestern Interlude, Part 1

At the end of August, I took a break from boatbuilding and traveled out to Washington state for some much-needed vacation in the Puget Sound area. I spent the first four days backpacking on the Pacific Crest Trail, dodging wildfires and enjoying the solitude of being the only person camped in one of the most stunning alpine basins I've ever experienced. The whole experience was exceptional, and represented the same spirit of adventure that I hope Astraea will ultimately embody. Plus, the views were fantastic:

...and there's a protected inland waterway less than a hundred miles from this place. Unbelievable.

Following my descent from the mountains, however, I had a considerably more focused goal: to find one of Astraea's sisters. Although I've been building this boat for the better part of two years at this point, I've nonetheless never actually seen a finished one with my own eyes. I knew that Port Townsend, Washington, was the de-facto west-coast capital of wooden boatbuilding, however, and I'd seen at least one Falmouth cutter listed for sale there online, so it seemed a logical place to begin my search. 

Thursday, August 27, was forecast to be pouring rain, which didn't seem like a pleasant way to walk along the docks at all, so I initially planned to go visit the Quinault rainforest instead. When I awoke that morning at my friend's house in Olympia, however, the promised deluge had failed to materialize. After a brief moment of hesitation, I decided to revert to my original plan. Setting my GPS for Port Townsend, I headed north up the peninsula on US 101. As I passed the turnoff for the rainforest, I briefly hesitated, considering taking the exit after all, but there was something intangible that prevented me from doing so. "You should go to Port Townsend," I found myself saying aloud, alone in my rented Toyota Yaris. And so I did.

Arriving in town, a few blocks past a hastily-erected sign proclaiming "Recreational Marijuana Now Open!", I noticed a forest of masts off to my right. I had no particular knowledge of any of the town's marinas, but this was the first one I'd seen, and seemed like as good a place to start as any, so I parked the car and set about walking the docks. I found a Hess boat almost immediately. Or rather, it looked like it should be a Hess boat, but I'd never seen one quite like it before. It was made of fiberglass, and extremely short. I later learned that it's known as the Falmouth 22; the smallest of Lyle's offshore cruiser designs, and one of only 39 ever built.

The rest of the boats on this first dock being of no particular interest, I returned to the pier and continued onward to the next. To my astonishment, I found a second Hess boat sitting in the next-to-last slip at the end of this dock as well, less than ten minutes after I'd left my car. This one was wooden, carvel planked, and came complete with a white-haired gentleman of about seventy in tan overalls hunched over next to her cabin top, his eyes focused downward as he pulled and replaced the plugs in her laid teak decks with a chisel and mallet.

-"Is this a Lyle Hess design?", I asked.

"Yep," the man replied, his eyes still fixed on his work, "twenty-four footer, like Seraffyn."

-"Nice! I'm building the 30-foot version in my backyard in Virginia," I volunteered.

This seemed to get his attention, as he then paused and looked up, as if evaluating me anew in the context of what I'd just said.

"Well good for you." he said, before adding: "You've come to the right place. Climb aboard."

That is how I met Bertram Levy.

Bertram on his 24-foot cutter, 'Able'

Bertram built Able in the early '80s, around the same time that Lin and Larry Pardey were building the first of her bigger sisters, the Falmouth 30 Taleisin. He'd known Lyle Hess, and relied on his advice throughout the construction process. He'd also been present at Taleisin's launch in 1983, and shared with me his considerable knowledge about the construction and sailing of both hull types. Having grown up on my dad's 25-foot Friendship sloop Amnesty, I was stunned by how big Able felt, despite being one foot shorter on deck, due to its considerable beam.

"You're welcome to go below if you like," Bertram told me, as he continued his work on the decking, "take whatever pictures you like."

Belowdecks, Able's layout reminded me a lot of Amnesty's, which was no surprise, as Dad told me he'd based her configuration on what he'd seen of Serrafyn. Once again, however, the amount of space was astonishing. I could nearly (but not quite) stand up beneath the deckbeams, and the brightwork was beautiful. The cabin was also pervaded by a tangy lemon-ginger scent.

"It smells great down here!" I shouted up to Bertram on deck.

-"That's the hull planking," he replied from above, "Port Orford Cedar; fabulous stuff. Lightweight, smells good, and incredibly strong." I told Bertram of my thoughts on using tropical hardwoods for planking. He didn't see the need. "I've gone hard on the rocks out here at seven knots," he said, "barely took a scratch." The combination of strength and resilience was a major selling point to me, I mentioned, as my backbone was even heavier than Taleisin's, and I didn't want my hull to be even heavier than hers as well, lest my boat be down on its marks upon launch.

Belowdecks on 'Able'

For most of the following hour I poked and prodded about on Able, occasionally tossing questions at Bertram as he continued his labors on the deck. Eventually, however, he finished, and asked me if I'd had lunch. I told him that I had not, and so he invited me to have a sandwich at his place, while he showed me the next boat he was working on. The next thing I knew, we were bouncing up the hills of Port Townsend towards his workshop in an old Toyota pickup truck whose speedometer still had the number "55" colored in orange. After a few minutes we disembarked, and he led me inside. Bandsaws and planers filled the space, alongside stacks of wood in innumerable dimensions, clamps, and hand tools. A mostly complete Nutshell Pram -sistership to my own dinghy Korora- hung from the ceiling, and in the distance, through an opening, rested one of the most exquisite hull forms I'd ever seen.

Bertram's workshop in Port Townsend

This new boat was being planked with tight-seam construction using Honduras Mahogany, which is currently almost impossible to obtain due to its inclusion on the IUCN red list of threatened species. Bertram, however, had bought a large amount of the stuff in the 1980s, knowing that he'd surely "get around to building something with it someday." And indeed, here was something else entirely.

The word 'craftsmanship' really takes on an entirely new meaning with this project.

After touring the shop, we sat down in Bertram's kitchen to eat lunch while he showed me photos from the construction of Able in the early 1980s. Mindful of my original quest, I asked him whether he knew of any thirty foot Hess cutters in the area that I might be able to take a look at.

-"Not up here in Port Townsend," he replied, "though there is a 32 footer that I've seen around here and there. The nearest Hess 30 that I know of is down in Olympia."

Olympia? As in where I'd been staying for the past two days? This seemed almost too good to be true.

"Do you know where in Olympia?" I asked.

-"Nope. Just somewhere down there. Boat's named Kirin."

"Spelled like the beer?"

-"Yep."

We finished our sandwiches, then climbed back into the truck to retrace the bouncy ride back to the boatyard, while Bertram filled me in on some of the local politics in the town. When we got back to the yacht basin, we parted ways as Bertram returned to continue his work on Able. He left me with one parting thought:

"Building a boat isn't easy; my hat goes off to anyone who can stick with it until it's finished, no matter how they do it!" he said. I thanked him, and headed back to my car. It was four o'clock, and I had a two hour drive back to Olympia. If I hurried, I could probably get there with a few hours of daylight left to begin the hunt for the elusive Kirin.

Assembling the Backbone

Today I took a glance at my blog and realized that I hadn't updated it for almost a year! I promise I have a good excuse, though -- boatbuilding! Despite the lack of updates here, quite a bit has been happening in the backyard shipyard. Following the roughing out of the keel timber last summer, work continued into the fall, with the assembly of the backbone timbers. This is more than just a simple matter of bolting the rough pieces together. Because the rabbet, the channel in he backbone that interfaces with the lowest course of hull planking (called the garboards) crosses the joints between these timbers, they all need to be watertight. That meant *lots* of sanding, in order to get the rough cut surfaces made by the Prazi down to a perfectly smooth finish. Following that, as Larry Pardey recommends, I created a *very* slight (1/64 inch) hollow in the pieces to allow for subsequent shrinkage of the wood.

Once the sanding was done, I clamped the pieces in place and drilled the holes for the bronze bolts that will hold the backbone together. While additional holes were drilled, the pieces were temporarily held together with half-inch threaded rod from Home Depot, which had the benefit of threading the insides of the bolt shafts, thus allowing the permanent fasteners to be easily spun in when chucked into a drill.

Drilling the bolt holes. The two framing squares and tape helped keep the bit straight on this long bore.

Prior to final assembly, I painted the joining surfaces with copper wood preservative, followed by red lead, to discourage any organisms who might think my boat would make a tasty meal. The properties of Angelique wood are supposed to address this problem anyway, but better safe than sorry! To fill any remaining gaps, I spread Dolfinite bedding compound onto each surface as well:

Preparing to join the forefoot (upside down, right) to the forward end of the keel (left).

Dolfinite used to be the quintessential fungicidal bedding compound, until its (very effective) active ingredient, pentachlorophenol, was ruled unsafe for consumer use. These days it has no such toxic properties. In an attempt to jury-rig them, I mixed a heaping portion of copper napthenate horse-hoof treatment into the can. In addition to being highly poisonous, this turned the goop a delicious green color.

Yum!

Once both pieces were thoroughly covered in toxic sludge, it was time to join them permanently with bronze bolts that I made using 1/2" bronze rod and a thread cutting die. I then repeated the above procedure six times, once for each component of the backbone - since most of the pieces were large and unwieldy, that took quite a bit of time!

Hoisting the stem into place. This was a tricky piece to fit, as it has to be snug to both the forefoot and stem knee. (October 2014).

The bolts that sandwich the keel (center) between the stern knee (left) and aft deadwood (right) are almost three feet long. Drilling from below was not an option for such long holes, so I laid the whole assembly on its side using my chain hoist. The drill bit was lengthened for this bore by welding a steel rod to its lower end. (December 2014).

Upright again, and drilling the holes that fasten the sternpost to the keel assembly. The apparatus of 2x4s exists to guide the drill bit so that it emerges directly on the centerline and (critically) does so without fouling on the vertical bolts that attach the stern knee to the keel and deadwood below. (March 2015).

For the assembly of the final piece, the sternpost, I threw a party at my house and invited several of my more nautically-inclined friends to help heave it into position. I promise that the resulting picture wasn't planned in any way, and any resemblance to other famous photographs is purely coincidental!

"Raising the sternpost on Astraea" (April 2015).

Mmmm! Guacamole! :P

The completed backbone, again on its side and ready for shaping, May 2015.