Camp cruising the Sea of Cortez in a skin on frame boat
“Why exactly do we have leave at 4 am?” Ginny asks as she hands down the last bag and I lash the waterproof duffel in place. “When you’re cruising,” I reply, “the weather and tide define everything you do. In this case, we’re avoiding a half mile slog through the mud.”
As Ginny settles into what suddenly seems like a much smaller boat, I raise the small lug and we glide east down the dark channel lined with palms. “We did it, we’re sailing!” I beam, just before the mast collides with overhanging branches, dragging us to a stop. “Promise me,” I beg, “you won’t tell anyone I sailed into a tree.”
The sun rises over the Sea of Cortez and our wind dies a few miles from shore. We slather on sunscreen, continuing under oars. An hour before noon we round Punta Conception, a low sandstone point dotted with scrub and cactus. Cutting the corner close, I risk a bite out of the rudder in exchange for a view over the gunwale into the reefs. A fleet of four Drascomb longboats that crossed our bow a half hour ago are just now opening their wings. Tanbark mains and jibs unfurl. Ginny and I are glad to follow suit, exchanging the ash breeze for a fresh one. Our little red lug stands at attention and I’m delighted to see that we’re gaining ground on the larger, more heavily canvassed boats. The instructor on the nearest boat later tells me “I looked back and thought we were being chased down by a Sunfish.”
“I think we need to reef!” Ginny yells to me. She’s right, but I won’t listen. The GPS reads seven knots and we’re starting to surf on the building seas, almost overtaking the longboats. I run my eyes over every inch of the experimental framework, looking for any movement to indicate strain, listening for creaking that might tell me I built her too light. This is a perfect opportunity to drive her. If anything is going to break I want it to happen under the eyes of four potential rescue boats, before we get too far to limp back to the truck. Surrounded by whitecaps and driving a pile of spray, Ginny loses control of the tiller. We careen off on a broad reach that registers 8.4 knots. We break off the friendly pursuit and head toward shore tracing the cliffs and desert canyons. We ride the bumpy afternoon chop, reefed but still making six knots.
That night we make landfall behind a tiny point with scant protection. Ginny feeds me a camp dinner as our little boat bobs in the waves anchored off this gravelly nowhere beach. Every few minutes Ginny picks up a new bit of petrified marine life and brings it over for identification. By nightfall we’ve amassed a collection of bleached puffers, triggers, urchins, trumpetfish, crabs and sponges. Millions of stars show psychedelic intensity as I torch off a driftwood fire. Our tea never tasted so good.
The next morning only dolphins break the glassy calm. Dolphins, but not a puff of wind. After 14 miles rowing past undesirable anchorages, we tuck into a rocky corner with a little beach backed by canyon and caves. Dozens of goats file out of the brush and down to the waters edge as we prepare to anchor. They look hungry and stare at us eagerly. Tired and late, neither of us wants to say it, “I don’t like the look of those goats.” I finally muster, picturing all my possessions shredded while I slept. “Me neither,” Ginny agrees, “lets keep rowing”. An hour later the sand dune we spotted in the distance materializes into a limestone cliff. We’re exhausted. At sundown I set the anchor on a tiny offshore rock at ten feet above sea level. Acting as though this were a perfectly normal place to camp, I set up the tent on a stone ledge. Unique, secluded, and beautiful, over the next two weeks these unknown campsites would become our favorites. With our little boat’s shoal draft and manageable size we explore all the places the yachtsmen can’t.
Huevos al Gusto is an 18’ cat rigged double ender with two rowing stations. 4 1/2’ on the beam, 2’ deep in the bow and 21” amidships. The sail is an unstayed standing lug of 86 sq feet with a single set of reef points. From a distance she could be mistaken for a gunning dory. Before building Huevos, I’d allowed myself an obsession with a chopped down Chaisson. Knowlegeable friends persuaded me that I didn’t want a dory and instead led me to a Joel White design. The enlarged Shearwater incorporates the fuller bilge found in his Shearwater design but with extra waterline and capacity. A daggerboard replaces the centerboard of a dory, minimizing slot drag, and the rudder mounts more vertically, allowing it to work more like a rudder and less like a brake. It still looks like a dory, rows well, and sails better.
The biggest departure from traditional lines is building this boat skin-on-frame, a light wooden frame covered with fabric or hide. This is the traditional construction of the Eskimo Umiak, a large open paddle/row boat designed to carry payloads in rough conditions. These boats ranged from 18 to 60 feet and made long passages, serving as both transportation and shelter on arctic voyages. In purpose the Umiak served many of the same functions as a Dory or Whaleboat. The Umiak, however, predates the Dory by at least four thousand years. Before Europeans ever dreamed of America, hardened natives thrived on its frozen northern frontiers. Families traveled thousands of miles through ice-choked waters to reach new land or summer hunting grounds. Using the Umiak as home base, Eskimo kayak men hunted seals, whales, caribou and walrus. Sea mammals were the key resource in this harsh landscape, providing tools, oil, clothing, cord and food.
The Umiak is a pieced wooden frame, lashed together and covered by split walrus hide. This allowed a flexibility that was critical to withstand rough use on the ice while staying light enough to haul ashore. Construction was inventive. Historic boats sometimes incorporated both metal fasteners and scavanged dimentional lumber. Pieced frames were later abandoned in favor of bent ribs as European influence spread throughout the Arctic. Most important to the Eskimo, for whom daylight hunting hours are precious, the Umiak is easily constructed, requiring a minimum of tools and wood.
In this aspect the pressures of the modern world are reflected. People today have less money, less time, and trips to the lumberyard are always more expensive, while found and recyclable materials remain abundant. The Umiak and other medium sized skin boats provide an attractive way to get on the water for less work and less cost. Typically weighing less than 200 lbs, the Umiak can be set atop or towed behind even a small car.
I took to the idea of building a skin on frame rowboat after assessing the cost and effort of building a traditional planked dory. I quickly realized that I’d be spending a few months, at the very least, and a lot of money to do it ‘the right way’. Even the design I eventually chose, drawn up as a broad strake plywood boat, employs a lot of plywood, fiberglass and epoxy. Work, waiting and endless sanding, these are the evils that grind boat projects to a standstill. I wanted a boat, not a project, and so I decided to build skin-on-frame.
Plans for the ‘enlarged Shearwater’ were tough to come by. This design was mostly unknown. Only one boat had been built, and it’s owner had the only surviving set of copies. Through a circuitous transaction, a copy of the copies arrived to spread out on my workbench. Twenty two work days and 2,000 dollars later I glanced from the finished boat on the shop floor back to the plans. Satisfied that they looked pretty much the same, I slid into the waters of Nehalem bay under grey Oregon skies. I rowed out, sailed back and forth a few times, and then tied her back onto the truck. Back home, I stuffed everything that looked like camping gear into the pickup and headed for Mexico.
On the water Huevos al Gusto proved seaworthy. Loaded with 350 lbs of people, 250 lbs of fresh water, and 200 lbs of supplies, she settled in the waves with 12” freeboard amidships and 18” at the bow. We sailed twice in winds up to 25 knots with 5’ breaking chop. A small open boat sails poorly in these conditions but she stood it when we needed her to and shipped only a few seas. Still, these were tenuous moments and I wished for a true dory, knowing that another 10 knots of wind or an unmarked shoal could swamp us far from land. With this in mind, we sailed conservatively and stayed off the water in the afternoons. Known for it’s unpredictability, the Sea of Cortez delivered winds from all directions during our trip, including a sudden gale force westerly that sent me scrambling in the dark to haul the boat ashore before it sunk.
After our initial ninety mile run we docked in Loreto on day 7 for hot showers and a civilized dinner. I checked in with the Port Captain who allowed us to stay despite my lack of ships papers, required for cruising in Mexico. We enjoyed the city of 9000 residents, the oldest in Baja, with a town square and Mission dating back to the 1600s. We didn’t enjoy returning to find our boat held hostage by the dock guards due to a baffling bureaucratic mix up. After 10 minutes of fierce arguing in broken Spanish, I gleaned that the dock was partially private and that use was exclusive to shuttle cruise ship passengers, and my permissions from the Port Captain were void for the rest of the day. I became a sour and hateful person and was contemplating commando operations by the time our boat was released at sundown. We happily sailed out of port the next morning.
The Loreto Bay National Marine Park encompasses half a million acres and five precipitous volcanic islands. We chose a lazy route, jumping from island to island. We toured sheer basalt harbors, idyllic white sand crescents, sculpted limestone canyons, and crumbling red moonscapes where cactus grows from fields of solid rock. A typical day would find us breaking camp at dawn, rowing a few hours then sailing a few hours. Massive exhalations signaled the arrival of Blue or Finback whales and we’d stare dumbstruck as huge backs and tails broke the surface. At other times we’d sail right through a school of hundreds of dolphins, some chasing after us and streaking across the bow. Landing by noon, we’d set up camp and suit up for snorkeling in the heat of the day. Ginny flopped happily on the surface while I plied the cracks and caves for triggerfish to be yanked out by hand and tastily prepared later on. At sundown we had a fire if wood was available, and read from our small library. I immersed myself in Simon Alvahs’ North to the Night while Ginny devoured Sci-Fi novels.
During the 15 days we spent on the water Huevos held up well to the rigors of being dragged over rocks and withstood the twisting forces that can make skin on frame craft impractical for upwind sailing. We were able to row her at 4 knots, she reached and ran easily at 7, and we could beat 5 knots to windward in 15 knots of wind. I liked the high peaked lug. For a boat this size it’s a simple and efficient rig that sets a lot of canvas on short spars. Releasing the halyard drops the whole thing in the water which is less graceful but much safer than dangling the yard overhead. I was not pleased with the thin plywood kick up rudder, I’ll be replacing it with a solid, foil shaped rudder for better steering. The plans show a push pull tiller, but for all the freedom and extra space it provides, the relatively short arm lacks leverage. A standard tiller would give surer control. For a return trip to Baja I’d strongly consider adding a deck and some solid foam flotation. The trade off is the loss of elegance and superior lounge-ability that an open boat provides.
Everywhere we went the boat raised eyebrows and provoked the same questions, “What happens if you put a hole in it?” I couldn’t answer; in five years of building and brutalizing skin boats I’ve never punctured one. The other common question pertained to longevity, and here I must concede that a skin boat doesn’t last forever. You build a skin boat cheap, beat it until it seems tired, and then build another one. You might get ten years, maybe more. There are things a skin boat won’t do easily, such as bulkheads and hatches, although I’ve seen it done. In exchange you get an attractive exposed framework that won’t hide rot. Skin on frame construction techniques are intuitive and easily learned, which means that more people of less means can get out on the water in something beautiful, built by hand. For me at least, that’s the point of it all anyway.
Building a Skin on Frame Boat
The variation of traditional Umiaks and Irish Curraghs shows us there is no wrong way to build a skin boat. As long as the transverse and longitudinal members remain balanced, equal in strength to each other, the entire frame will flex subtly, dissipating the shock stresses that would tear a rigid boat of equal weight apart. A skin boat doesn’t pound in a short chop and can take quite a battering against the rocks. Of critical importance when building skin on frame is not to force the wood. You may get it to wrap around an unusual mold but when you remove it, the frame will try to spring back into fair curves. My challenge with Huevos al Gusto was stiffening the framework to keep it from working loose under the press of sail. I employed stiff wood, metal fasteners, diagonal truss lashings, and a nylon skin that, when coated, both sticks to and shrinks over the frame.
I began by lofting the shape onto plywood stations and then fairing the faceted sections into a smooth curve. Attaching these forms to what could hardly be called a strongback, the next step was to lay on the gunwales, keel, stringers, and laminated stems. These pieces are temporarily attached to the frame with sheetrock screws.
Next, white oak ribs are steam bent at 6” intervals, and blocked in to prevent springback. Each intersection is fastened with a piloted bronze ring nail. Breast hooks are fabricated and screwed in. Screws and lashings are added where appropriate. The inner frame is removed and an inwale is added. The riser will support both thwarts and mast partners, it takes quite a load so I both lash and screw it to the frame.
With the ‘basket’ complete I add thwarts, partners, and mast step. After cutting a slot for the dagger board, the frame is oiled and left to dry.
It takes longer to construct the dagger board trunk, dagger board, rudder, tiller, and oarpads, than it took to build the frame. The dagger board trunk is bedded in adhesive sealant, screwed down, and braced with knees to the ribs.
Outer stems are laminated from 1/8” mahogany strips and shaped into a V, leaving a flat area to support a strip of brass half round. The bottom plate is 1/4” white oak. Later on the stems and bottom plate mount outside the skin, bedded with 5200 sealant and screws.
12oz nylon cloth is wrapped over the frame, cut with a hot knife and sewn up the stems, stapled at the gunwales. The skin is then saturated with two-part polyurethane. A half round rub strip hides the staples.
Building the spars and oars took another few days. I used a simple plan for spoon oars, which deliver 40% more power to the water than straight sticks. I love these oars. The plan is available from Walt Simmons at Duck Trap Woodworking for $10. Walt also sells hard-to-find rudder hardware for double enders. I had Hunter and Gambell Sails of Camden, Maine cut my sail. These guys build more traditional rigs than just about anybody, nice guys, very nice sail. Another few days of details and there is nothing left to do but go sailing. Looks easy? It is!
Ten cruising tips to keep you out of Davy Jones’ locker.
1. Shipshape. It applies to little boats every bit as much as big ones. Shipshape means you are well organized on deck. Everything has its’ place and everything goes in the same place every time. All your ropes coil in the same direction, all your knots stay the same, all your gear is well stowed. Remember, no matter how calm the day, lash it down if you don’t want to lose it.
2. Sail conservatively. Leave the high-flying antics for day sailing at home. Cruising your boat in wilderness areas, with remote chances for rescue, you can’t afford to be daring. If you think you need to reef you should’ve reefed half an hour ago. Want to shake a reef, wait a half hour.
3. Navigate. Just because you’re following a coastline in a cockleshell rowboat doesn’t mean leave the charts and plotting tools at home. Currents opposing the winds, cliff lined passages, and shoals that extend far from land are just a few of the hazards that can kick up boat-sinking waves.
4. Keep an eye on the weather. Learn the patterns in your cruising area. Read everything you can and then grill the locals. If a VHF report is broadcast in your area, take advantage of it.
5. Carry at least 2 anchors. These ought to be real anchors, with 150’ of nylon rope and a minimum 7’ of heavy chain each. Never forget to properly seize your shackles, stainless wire or zip ties works well. Otherwise they will work loose, and when that happens your boat will float away.
6. Tie a bowline in the end of the halyard, that way when it slips out of reach you can retrieve it with a boathook. Avoid the temptation to stand up on the partners.
7. Learn the language. Halyard, sheet, head up, three points to starboard. Why? Because “Douse the main!” is going to be a lot more effective than yelling “Um, grab that rope, no the other rope, OK, now untie it, at the cleat not at the end…” Meanwhile you’ve been blown over.
8. Always take the safest course of action, even if that means sacrificing your personal goals. This is undoubtedly the hardest thing to do. It means stopping at the first protected anchorage when you could push onward for a nicer spot. It means staying put and waiting out a blow when there is a city with cold beer a few miles away. It means taking a sick or weary crewmember back to port even if it means cutting your vacation short. Your responsibility is to the safety of the ship and the crew. Don’t take chances!
9. Be careful on shore. Walking in shallow tidal areas may actually be the most dangerous part of your journey. It’s easy to step on a spiny critter, or even more likely, to slip and break an ankle. I always carry a boat hook as a third leg. Watch out!
10. Finally, a word of personal advice to help you avoid embarrassment while searching for pirate treasure: If you plan on rowing into a sea cave, don’t forget to unship the mast.
Be safe, and have fun, You have your orders.
