Seclusion, however, isn't all bad, as I remember a warm summer day with my father in 1959, as we were running our 32 foot limit seiner down Kachemak Bay outside of Homer, Alaska. I was seven at the time, and couldn't see another boat anywhere for miles around.
My Dad has a way of making even the most challenging prospects inviting, as he offered the wheel of the boat to me. "We're headed into that bay ahead," he explained, " so just keep her going ahead and we'll be fine. I'm going on deck to get the lines ready." And with that, he stepped down from the bridge to the aft deck and started coiling together some extra line.
I'll never forget the experience of standing behind the wheel, barely able to see over it, on top of the bridge cabin overlooking the sunlit bay running before me. With the open air breezes gently nudging my hair, I couldn't help but thrill to the throbbing engine and the deck moving in a gradual roll beneath my feet. It was an experience unlike anything I had ever enjoyed in my young life, and it was just me and my Dad together doing it.
He left me up there for some time, knowing as I didn't that we had all the sea room we needed to stay out of trouble. I know now from my own experiences at sea, that he was working where he always had visual of the waters ahead, as well as his son above him on the bridge. He was allowing my experience to be as fulfilling as possible, without being too far away in case something unpredictable happened.
When he did come back up to take the wheel, he thanked me and told me I had done a good job keeping the boat on course. I knew my Dad never said anything he didn't mean, and felt wonderful for his praise.
Then he smiled and said, " Before you go below, take a look behind you."
I did, and will never forget what I saw - the trailing wake of the boat was a very pronounced zig-zag, as if I was a convoy skipper trying to dodge torpedoes! In my youthful inexperience, I was over correcting my course with each swing of the wheel, not understanding that the boat steered from the stern - not the bow from which I stood, as an automobile would.
Dad was still smiling as he took in my expression, which clearly indicated my surprise. I will never forget the council he offered, that through the years has always stood me well. " It's not the wake that matters, son," he said, "as long as you stay on course. Keep the boat going in the direction she needs to go, and the years will give you your sea legs. You'll do fine."
Now I'm 61, and he will be 83 in a few more days. He still swings up into the cockpit of my daughter Sariah's White Freightliner Tractor with ease, and keeps the town he's been Mayor of for more years than I remember running like a well oiled machine. His council is still just as solid for me now as it was when I was a boy, and I thank God he's my Dad. He's always believed in me, and that's a gift worth more than gold.
So, I still live my life with the sea, and build boats like I'm doing now, from warships years before to my Kayaq now, and building or restoring about anything else in between. It keeps the memories alive, and breathes the life into what I do for those who will live after me. And pray to do it well enough to honor the man who still believes in me.
Thank you, Dad.
So the project continues, as the steam box is finally finished and put into service. Frames have their lengths in marking pen written on the end, so there's no mistake as to where in the boat they go, to be bent into place.
Then the fire is lit, the water in the tank below it brought to a rolling boil, and after the frames are hot, which for something as small as these are, take no more than 20 to 30 minutes - too long, and the steam dries them out - they are pulled, one at a time, and carefully bent into place within the framework of the boat. Steam bent frames only give you about one to two minutes max to work them into place before they cool and stiffen, so even as carefully as you work each frame, you must work quickly.
But the reward is a gratifying give of the frame into the shape of her future, a living material formed into the rib of a living creature. The first frame goes into place, and she comes closer to her destiny as the creature of the sea she has been conceived to be.
Winter in Maine can be unforgiving, and the temps are dropping now into freezing at night often enough to warrant concern. But the shop is warm with the wood stove crackling in a lively way, and Keilidgh Irene coming closer to her summer form.
She will live.
-WKD
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