Fighting to Win

   Tradition is a variable. Frame Kayaqs, for example, have traditionally been built of wood, usually spruce as it was readily available, light and easy to work with despite it's strength. Fallen trees have ended up drifted all along the coast of Alaska, in addition to cedar and hemlock, and so have through history been the most ready source of construction material, when it appeared - which wasn't as frequent as you moved farther north along the Arctic coastline.
   The rivers help, however, with their discharge of anything that falls in, and with their amplification of the currents can distribute driftwood considerable distances.
   One learns quickly to utilize as effectively as possible anything available to survive, as the small bone harpoon head on my desk testifies. In the Arctic, as with any other remote survival circumstances, you live by the rules, and you fight to win.

   Traditionally, then, one uses the best you can get to make things work - just because bone, ivory and stone where used before, didn't stop the native inhabitants from seeing the obvious benefits of iron and steel tools, and rifles over harpoons. They wisely kept the wisdom of their past, by adapting to the future. And they've done a far better job at it than most cultures have.

   Some techniques have proven themselves over time, and have advantages not to be forgotten when you really consider what you are up against there. Even today, you can easily find yourself hundreds of miles from the nearest human being, not to mention civilization. So if anything goes wrong, to put it right you either have it, make it, or do without it to keep going. Things can get brutally simple sometimes.

   So survival designing the ice maiden for her home environment is more than just building a traditional boat. What we are about is what makes a Kayaq unique, and becomes who and what she is as a creature of the sea. You can't just think of that casual weekend paddle - there's nothing casual about paddling the Arctic. One paddler who wrote about his paddle there openly admitted getting out of the water when the waves got knee high. I can't fault him, really, though if one's experience and ability is that limited they really shouldn't be there in the first place. The survival fact is he recognized his limitations, and wasn't foolish enough to push them. So, bottom line, he survived. And that's the name of the game.

   Come back alive. Period.

   So, with that thought in mind, the process of creating life begins with life. Which requires a name, as my children have, and so must she. When originally planned as a double, since my Wife Kim and I didn't have a canoe at the time, she was more like a Norse Dragon ship. When Kim and I started to restore the cedar canoe for our trips together, however, she suggested that I allow myself the privilege of creating the Kayaq I've wanted to build for years, but have been unable to. As a result, the Dragon Ship slimmed down, and the mentality of her purpose changed with her. She's become a peaceful joy for my family memories, and a hope for our future. So, now she has a name.

   Keilidgh Irene.

   Having a name gives life to something that otherwise becomes an object, and is treated like one. If you are going to stay alive with what you have, you cannot afford to get that casual. You don't want to get stupidly possessive, but you do want to treat what you have with respect, and consider anything and everything possible that you could encounter, and how to deal with it.

   If you have a tendency to treat your Kayaq more as a living creature than as an object or tool, you'll be more careful with her, and think out her needs so she can continue to function through anything you may encounter together, much more thoroughly. Because as long as she stays alive, you do.

   That simple.

   Back to design, then. Tradition has been wood, and in this case, the frame will also be wood. It is more readily available for repairs out there, can often be reconstructed with what you have on hand - fire, water, a knife and some string - and can be worked with your hands. Keep it simple.

   And since she will be smaller now, I can utilize either an aluminum shell for the hull, which is light and resistant to the abrasion of salt ice as well as the beach compositions, or to a ballistic cloth, which is tough, flexible even in extreme cold and wet weather, and can be repaired quickly in even remote circumstances. Both are simple, strong and seaworthy.

   No metal as fastenings, except where as in the case of the aluminum shell the tig welding is required. Today's nylon and synthetic cords are as tough or better than metal fastenings, won't work loose in a seaway, and can be worked, again, by hand. For something this small, metal fastenings are a needless complication, especially as the ties are protectively enclosed within the kayaq's shell.

   Where pins are needed to align and fasten larger units, tree nails do the job very well, which are wooden pins fashioned for the purpose. They are inserted snugly into the holes drilled for their use, the pieces are formed tightly together, then a wedge is inserted in the slots cut into each end of the pin, and driven into the pins across the grain until solid. Then they are cut off even with the surface of the pieces joined. When done with care, and the appropriate woods are used for the purpose, they hold every bit as well as any metal fastening, though carefully especially in building boats due to the need for the care in aligning the grain of the wood properly to prevent shearing, or snapping apart, the wood under stress. With metal, even a novice can plunk a metal shaft in a hole and tighten a nut to the bolt. Some will even remember the washers.

   One thing I do use in the joiner work of the end pieces is a marine sealant, such as is produced by 3M company, such as 5200 or the like. The sealant works as an adhesive to glue the joints together in a flexible bond, and once clamped together, will dry forming the joints into one solid unit without the abrasion of dry wood to wood joints. The ties are more likely to stay tight and hold their structure together better, while still able to work with a seaway and not come apart. I usually only use it for the larger end pieces that see the most working stress and impact, which enables a quicker and easier repair of the smaller frames, etc. as they can be more easily removed and replaced. But the choice is up to the builder. I would rather not have to try and carve that sealant out of a hole once it's dried. Just working with it on surface joints is hard enough.

   Then the frame, once locked together as a tied unit, is ready for the covering, as mentioned in previous articles. When ready to sew the fabric cover on, you'll want to have a sailor's palm handy. You'll need it.

   Each phase of the design, every piece of wood, every stitch in the covering, bonds you with the creature you are creating. She has life because of you, she will live for you, and you will stay alive because she will fight for you. But only as well as you care for her. That's why there's more to it than just the name. You give her a name, then she has an identity.

   And a place in your family.

   Then, when you are out there, you aren't alone any more.

   You're still together, as a Family.

   And believe me, sometimes that simple fact can make all the difference, between living and trying, or giving up and dying.

   Been there, done that.

                           Welcome to the Family, Keilidgh Irene.

                                                 -WKD

Ice Maiden

   The stability was well proven, when my friends Don and Marilyn Reid came to our home on Kodiak Island. It's the only single kayaq I know of you can stand up in.

   They needed some stable kayaqs to paddle in our waters for a few days and do some photography, before returning to their home on the North Island of New Zealand. We had become friends after meeting on our Alaskan ocean ferry Tustumena, while they were vacationing after skippering Mike Ball's diving operations off the east coast of Australia, but this was the first time they had had a chance to try my kayaqs for any extended period of time. They enjoyed several days along our northern shores and channels, finding the puffins especially humorous when they tried to take off the water after a full meal. (My wife had also found them to be in like character, so when she decided to paint one, she gave them some dignity in "Puffin's Formal Portrait". A fantasy, of course, but she had fun doing him that way!)

   The life on the water and surrounding tundra has in their turn, fascinated me in many ways. Yet when there one cannot forget the basics - such as where you are while enjoying that fascination. I needed a solid nav watch to help, and knew that the usual would not handle the strain. There's no greater equalizer on equipment than the stress of the working ocean environment.
   So I turned to Don, who as a Skipper for Ocean Tugs would understand what I needed. He didn't let me down, recommending the Sector watch to take with me. His council was good, the stainless unit standing up to not only the sea, immersed and hammered as it was while kayaqing, but also years later through my service in the shipyards - with only an occasional change of batteries and one cleaning.
   But it was the friendships I gained through association with their company that made the memories special, and Jonathan Nettelfield proved to be chief amongst them as their North American Director. The friendship we forged through our Arctic years went well beyond the watches, and his family likewise. Those two watches are with me still, and the Titanium is on my wrist now as I write.
   Time and distance is everything on the water, and having these watches has stood me well when I had my hands full with building weather. A good case in point was my run from Demarcation Point into Canada. This was a time that the design of the boat and the navigational aids had to hold up.
   I had only been on the water barely two hours, having crossed the Canadian Border when the weather began to pick up - again. Within the next three hours, the previously modest swells were running at six to eight feet high, and the wind blowing at well over 35 knots. The shallow approaches were what were steepening the swells, and after several hours I was also learning as I passed, that the openings which would have normally been available to get out through, had been cut off from me by the surf crashing over the bars. The only refuge left that I could count on was behind Herschel Island, over 50 nautical miles from where I had started. To say the least, I had my hands full.
   By the time I reached the Island, I had been in the boat over 16 hours without a break. What awaited me, however, wasn't the relief I sought - the seas were plowing forcefully into a spit across the small bay I needed to reach to get out of this. As I approached, the seas were steepening and by watching along the shoreline to my right the waves could be accurately measured. And, just as I was realizing that the 10 + foot waves, which were burying my kayaq and me up to my chest, were going to drive me relentlessly into the bar, an opening appeared that would let me through and out of the surf - if I could quarter across the swells enough to reach it.
   Fortunately, the kayaq proved up to the pounding, and maneuvered the seas well enough to allow me a shot at the entrance to the beckoning calm beyond - only to run as I shot for the opening right into an opposing current! The river behind the bar was feeding an ebb tide, which needless to say was only worsening the conditions I was in by piling the seas higher against the wind. I fought for over a half hour just to get through the small opening and into the protection of calm water behind the bar.
   Once in, I sought a spot where I could get out of the boat, only to find a barren land grizzly patrolling the shoals. No brainer as to my next decision - I bid him good fishing, and went down the coast past his domain, then turned up into the bay at the end of Herschel Island itself - and right into the wind. For another hour and a half my 19 foot kayaq and I fought against it, my paddles against the unhampered wind and choppy seas. It was better than the alternative, however, and after working nearly an hour and a half to cover less than one nautical mile, I was finally able to crawl out of the boat. We had been struggling together for over 19 hours, and camp sounded really good - with warm soup!
   I have a general rule of thumb when kayaqing - always set up a full camp at the end of the day's run, no matter how tired you are. If there was ever a time I was tempted to just haul out the one man bivie tent and crash, this was it. But experience has taught me that the weather can turn only too quickly, and what you are caught in could prove to be your shelter for a long time. And if you've been sweating for several hours...?
   I set up a full camp.
   Room to rest, clean up, eat, enjoy light and a good book, stretch out. I've been accused of being too well equipped, but I've lived a subsistence lifestyle and know the difference in what is necessary and too much.
   And in my humble opinion, a roomy tent and a warm meal is not too much to ask. Prior planning prevents poor performance. Wet and miserable does not an intelligent person make. Especially when you know better.
   Here is also where the kayaq herself makes the difference, as it is in her design that the abilities to carry her cargo in a seaworthy fashion begins. I felt a sincere gratitude for my Yupik Grandfather's council in this, given many years ago. Grandpa Tim told me something then I would never forget.
   He had just taken my 17 foot hunting kayaq out on Lake St. George, (in the state of Maine), and had returned my boat to me. At 80 he was still hunting moose in Alaska (which was our home then), so wanting to try out the kayaq didn't surprise me one bit. As we were walking away, he put his arm around my shoulder and told me he had liked the boat, because it wasn't as unstable as the skin boats he had grown up in. I remembered that he grew up being stuffed into the older skin boats as a boy with his mother, and paddling the same boats himself as a teenager. So his next council I took to heart, when he said,"Remember, Bill, that the Kayaq is first and foremost a vehicle of transportation. If you ever forget that, you will not have a kayaq - you will have a toy." Then he smiled, patted my shoulder, and walked to the car.
   With that, knowing his history, he was telling me that the kayaq (not kayak, as is pronounced by outsiders, or gussucqs) was as important to a families' ability to provide for themselves then, as the car or truck is to a modern family today.
   And when returning to my Island home in Old Harbor, as I used my kayaq to hunt and feed my own, I found again the realization of his council to me that day so long ago.
   So the kayaq I am forming now is crafted under my hands in his memory. As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, family is everything to me. And though my blood ancestors are Crow and Irish, his warm friendship over the years has kept that part of our family alive for me, and I feel that even now. I miss him. So I tie each knot remembering his council. And knowing that this Kayaq will make him proud.
   She's going to be 18 feet long, shorter now as my wife has expressed a desire to double up in our canoe I'm also restoring, and paddle our kayaqs as they are. I actually don't mind, as this frees me to make this Kayaq an extension of the builder, as tradition would have it, making her distinctly my own.
   The cedar byforcated bow is attached to the keel now, which is close grained fir formed and ready to have the cedar stern piece attached later. The bow stands straight, solid and ready for a life in the sea which she has been formed to embrace. The Arctic I have lived is in her creation, and the wealth of her heritage is going into her lines.

   I think Grandpa Tim would approve.

                                           -WKD

       
  

Crystal Cathedrals

   Brownlow Point was a barrier that had hung in the distance, as a promise of safety from the approaching ice that July day over a month previous. The wind and ice had other ideas, however, and as related in the first entry, had turned into a corkscrew to cut me off. 
   Now, as I approached this mid August morning, the ice had changed it's strategy. Towering chunks of ice sculptured by the elements were mobilized by the encouraging of the wind, to cut across my path and push me relentlessly into the shore. If I didn't make it past the Point, it could be weeks before the wind shifted and pushed them away to allow my passage through - weeks that I did not have. 
   If they moved at all.
   I bent to the paddle, blades winging into the spray as I pulled with a will in a desperate race to beat the crowding ice. The encroaching pack swayed around me, rolling with the swells as it steadily slid closer into the last opening left. Grinding as a staggering wall into the shallows, they pitched and rolled as they hovered over me. Then the growlers moved out from hiding behind them, to ground and bump their way around the bergs towards the Point. 
   The shallows would not stop the approaching growlers, though they were breaking up in the steepening swells as they began to mass towards the shore.
   But the way the pack was closing in, it could easily stop me.
   I was surrounded by those swaying towers as I made a bid for the only opening left to me - the surf crashing over the bar extending from the Point. If I timed it wrong, the Kayaq's hull would grind to a halt against the bar between the waves, allowing the next breaker to crash over and roll me. But if timed just right...the fan tail stern lifted her up... back paddling hard now to ride the crest for the next, larger swell. Feeling her slide back, then stagger, to lift on the next - This had to be it - Bending into the force of the building sea with everything literally riding on this wave, the sleek hull lifted, hesitated, then shot ahead. The bow protruded from an immersing wall of water, as the submerged Kayaq raced amidst a foaming, turbulant breaker towards a barrier naked of the very water desperately needed to pass. Then the entire wave explodes against the bar - and the Kayaq shot through, carried to slide almost nonchalantly, like a duck settling into a pond of calm, undisturbed water. 
   Taking off the sunglasses to clean them, I turned to look back at the swaying monoliths behind me now, as they bumped and rolled against the bar. The growlers remained to ride the swells around them as they ground to a halt against the shoreline. Before me the water was open, and a calm lagoon at Thompson Point awaited the evening, with a playful Arctic fox in his brown and light tan tux there to greet me. 

   These were the memories that further the design before me now. The tundra wind, the grinding, hammering ice and sea - She will be of either composite construction in aluminum, or of a nylon ballistic cloth and wood, to live again as a creature amidst the sea. Here her challenges are not as intense, but life can be. And as my Wife travels with me often enough, upon the very seas that could care less about any of us who travel her expanse, it falls upon me to design and build her well. Because we never know when or where she may be required to fight to survive, and us with her.

   She is still inquiring after me..?
   And I'm listening.
   A good designer always does...
-WKD       

Ice Breaker

   Her bow is reaching up as I stand studying her, as if asking a question to the skies...

   The beach before me is an avenue of broken chunks of ice along the shores of the Beaufort, crystal boulders and small hills sparkling in the brilliant Arctic sunlight. The beach is torn with the surf, too rough for a loaded Kayaq.
   But the channel running behind the beach is calm, and had an opening allowing me it's access. I beached behind the roaring wall of water, behind the glistening pebble expanse that reached shining as far as I could see under a partially clouded sky. The sun's rays reach out through the apertures as fingers of light radiating through the wet, frozen sculptures before me, wrought by the fluid fingers of an invisible God made real in the gleaming artwork...

   Her bow is still extended in hope, rising up before me, pleading for release from the confinement of her birth. To reach her potential, to stretch her graceful length across the waters of our Arctic home...
   Home, it has always been, hard but honest, uncompromising in it's integrity, demanding the best from me. I realize that now.
   A sea and tundra wind that speaks a silent language to the heart, without the shroud of civilization's confusing noise.
   Is my reality there something of enough worth, that anyone else could want to even begin to understand the emptiness I feel now without it? 
                                                         Maybe, 

 but then...

    Why...?
   -WKD

Water Dragons

   A long day can mean more things than one. The lightning flashes across the tree tops around my attic office, while thunder keeps my 115 lb. Chesapeake Retriever/ Sheppard's ears perked. It will be a long night for him.
   It's already been a long day for me, but I wouldn't feel it so much if I had been working on the Kayaq. As it was, I was getting things in order to get back to her. In a small shop, space is at a premium, so to continue what has been started I have to stay organized. Especially being ADD.
   I love working in wood. I cannot escape the feeling of life that comes into a wooden boat under your hands, especially as it is a living substance coming into it's being in a living environment. A Kayaq is in the water, not on it as with most other boats, and so is more the life of the water you are, with her, a part of. As the sea lions who often follow me are only too aware.
   For the Dragon Lady, that routine started with a trip into the timber, where a logging crew had just felled the trees in a small area close to our former Washington home. I got a kick out of the lumber boss, when I asked for permission to come on their land and cut out some knees for my boat. He asked, "Is it a war canoe, or a peace canoe?"

   I replied that, as it was for my Wife and I, it would be a peace canoe, because this was something we both enjoyed. He laughed and told us to go ahead, and pull as many knees out of the roots they had left as we wanted. We thanked him and his crew, then went into the area to locate the roots with the special curve and grain we needed. I was hoping for cedar, but there weren't many to choose from - so when my Wife, Kim, called out that she had located some we might be able to use, we went right to work. They were fresh felled and solid, so we were hopefully optimistic as I cleared out the area around the base and began the cut.

Plunge cutting is serious business with a chain saw, as any timberman knows, especially in the tricky footing around so much fallen timber. The space had to be carefully cleared and the wood cleaned as far down as possible, to afford a clear cutting area, as well as getting rid of the surface abrasion of rocks and dirt, etc. A dull chain saw doesn't work very well, especially when shaping the piece after it has finally come free.
   I try to cut off the sides while still attached to the base of the tree, as the piece I am working with is more solid, and much safer to work with. It also allows me to get a better view of the condition of the wood, and the lay of the grain. If it's in poor condition or twisted, or splintered from the felling as is often the case, it has to be rejected - something I would rather find out before going to all the work of pulling the piece out - especially before getting it home.

   The shaping is done while still locked into the original form held by the tree - and has to be scoped carefully, because the wood when released from it's part of the tree's base, will move as it drys with the lay of the grain. So it has to be cut in line with the grain, so the stress in the grain is pulling together evenly, which helps to prevent not only distortion, but checking and cracking as the wood drys and cures. I will oil my wood once home during the curing process, preferably with teak oil, as it penetrates well, dries slowly, and works well after it dries. I can also draw my form out on the flattened sides, which allows me to see how the piece will work with the lay of the grain, and check the measurements as it dries.

You can see the shape and lay of the grain appearing as the wood is cut back. I never cut too close to the specifications for the finished piece at this stage. I allow for the extra stock for trim and finish work.
   You'll notice Alabama, our cat standing vigil - he's a story all to himself. Finding him in my wood shed with a bullet hole in the head was only part of the story. But even with only one eye, he was still a force to be reckoned with - as the village dogs found out only too often.
  

   As it cures, after it has been oiled several times, and had at least a few  months to adjust itself to the stresses of it's new shape, it can be worked carefully into it's finishing form. I oil it and let it dry between workings, to prevent checking or cracking, and to preserve the shape and condition of the wood. The end result can become a striking work of art, as can be seen by the closeups of first, this piece of wood formed into the Dragon Lady's byforcated bow, and in the following pictures of my daughter's 15 foot Hunting Kayaq, before it was covered.

Then came the day when Mother and Family
 had to try out out, before it was sent to Alaska for my youngest Daughter's 21st Birthday!

A work in process to a work of art, capable of feeding the family. Which I have done for several years, as a subsistence kayaqer in my home village. Most people don't even know what that is - I'm realizing that I am a survivor of the breed that still uses the kayaq for what it was originally designed and built for.

My beautiful Wife uses the vessel now, and looks a lot better in it than I ever did!

  

And so the Dragon Lady also earns her stern piece, pulled together with her new byforcated bow into the fir keel and gun'l rails, and finally locked together as a unit. A beginning of a new Kayaq, and a new life, as another work of art is born.

And I have a feeling my Wife will have a new name for her...which, with her, I know will be good.

Very good.

-WKD

Water Dragons

   Today was less than I had hoped, but was a preparation for the next entry nonetheless. When a thunderstorm threatens, and your Jeep's top is down (I mean completely off!), your priorities change somewhat. So the outline for today was compiled, but tomorrow will see the completion of the finished article, with it's photographs. Life is what happens when your planning something else.
   I will, for those interested, be taking the time to lay out the procedure for pulling together a wood frame kayaq. I've started on another one, a double for my Wife and I, that measures 24 feet Length over all, 36 inches at the extreme beam, and draws 08 inches at load capacity. Her byforcated bow reaches up like the dragon prow of my Norse Irish ancestors' ships, 24 inches above the bottom of the fir keel at the top of the finish cap. And that, with the fantail stern piece, are of both of cedar native to my Wife's home state of Washington, as is the close grain fir gun'ls and keel. She will be a serious ocean hybrid, sleek and seaworthy. And built to carry a load. 
   We've called her the Dragon Lady.
   It seems to suit her.
   - WKD  

Fire and Ice

   I remember standing outside that night after completing a vehicle's document inspection. It was - 80 degrees F, no wind, and the endless Arctic night had been clear for some time.

   Was.

   While outside, the skies had begun to come to life. Tired of the apathetic demeanor enforced by their frozen environment, they decided it was time to throw off the chilling countenance of the evening in a dazzling display of brilliance. When I turned to retrace my duty post, I was wonderfully spellbound by a sight that, though so familiar, has never ceased to fascinate me. The Aurora Borialis had trumped by far the Arctic evening's entertainment.

   And was doing a spectacular job of it.

   That wondrous display of sparkling, dancing colors has etched itself in the gallery of my memories, even along with the other events of my emancipating seclusion there. So it was not a surprise to me, that as I reflected on Solus in his Arctic environment, and Kola standing on the Bridge of his People's Transport Starship while orbiting a war torn Earth ("Lightship", Amazon.com), I could see them there as I wrote. The memories were a flooding relief, and the writing became an open gate from which the elation could illuminate my struggling hopes. The landscape of diamonds glistening across crystal snows enveloped me, and I was in a world free of the crushing demands of the present difficulties. Only for a moment, only a glimpse, but still there, whenever I needed the reprieve.

   I could appreciate how Solus felt with my view from below, but I had a special opportunity present itself over a year ago, allowing me to see that same wonderful display from Kola's viewpoint, as he would have seen those lively, dancing lights while orbiting earth. Thanks to the generousity of the International Space Station, they have offered for public perusal a view of our Home from their orbit - right through, as the last segment shows, a beautiful display of the Northern Lights. Whenever I struggled to capture in words what "Lightship" needed to say, I would play this back again. It takes me home, to a world beyond ourselves, and into the hope we believe. And in so doing, we create our realities.

   -WKD