well-known works. WoodenBoat 

 magazine has sold more than 

 1 ,500 sets of plans for it, in the 9- 

 foot-6-inch version, which I build, 

 and also in the 7-foot-7-inch 

 length. 



To buy one of these vessels 

 already built is beyond the tax 

 bracket of a free-lance writer. To 

 build one myself is a preposterous 

 proposal until a casual conversa- 

 tion with Allen takes a momen- 

 tous rum. The Nutshell is his 

 favorite design for the 

 boatbuilding courses. We talk 

 about its superb qualities. 



"Take the course and build 

 one," he says. I scoff. He insists. I 

 point out my past is devoid of 

 woodworking and I am inept with 

 tools. He shrugs and says it 

 doesn't matter. I argue I would 

 make a mess of measuring 

 because I am mathematically 

 dyslexic. 



"Boatbuilders hate math," he 

 says. That does it. I sign up. 



I have another motive 

 besides the boat. I long for tool 

 literacy and the self-sufficiency it 

 promises. Most students do not have this 

 tool deprivation syndrome. Though I am 

 not the first female, enrollees are generally 

 men who know their way around a shop. 



Allen assures me even housebuilders 

 have no advantage when it comes to 

 boatbuilding. Building a boat is not like 

 building anything else. Boats are all curves 

 and angles. 



Still, I feel ill-equipped even after two 

 preparatory courses. I hope the four other 

 students will pick up the slack. Only one, 

 however, shows up. He is committed to 

 building a canoe. 



I am alone with the would-be Water 

 Lily. Well, not really. Allen is beside me 

 much of the time, explaining the next step 

 and what it means to the boat. 



In boatbuilder terms, the Nutshell is of 

 lapstrake construction. That means its 

 planks overlap. The technique dates to the 

 Vikings and is capitalized on with modem 



Staff and volunteers at the watercraft center share knowledge 

 and praise as Powers brings Water Lily to life. 



materials in the Nutshell. The seams are 

 fortified with epoxy. The hull is marine- 

 grade mahogany plywood — tough, 

 lightweight and water-resistant. 



The Nutshell is a pram. Its hull planks 

 join a transom at the bow instead of 

 tapering to a point. The squared-off style is 

 distinctive. Someone says my boat is a 

 twin to the wooden shoe Wynken, 

 Blynken and Nod sail in the nursery 

 rhyme. I take it as a compliment. 



Besides offering a look I like, the 

 pram bow gives the boat a large capacity 

 for the length, and it's easier to build than a 

 pointy one. 



Of course, "easier" is a relative 

 concept in boatbuilding. I am over- 

 whelmed with unfamiliar terms and tools 

 the first days. Even the directions are 

 foreign to my ways. I prefer printed text as 

 a means of instruction. Here, I have only 



drawings and patterns to tell me 

 what to do and Allen's demon- 

 strations to learn how. 



Mostly, my mission is to 

 pursue complete — and elusive 

 — compatibility among the 

 boat's many parts. I saw, plane, 

 bevel, chisel and sand, seeking 

 harmony wherever two surfaces 

 meet. 



I am awkward with the 

 hand tools, timid with the power 

 saws. I cringe at the potential for 

 disaster as I drill holes for bronze 

 screws. Progress is maddeningly 

 slow, made even more so by 

 mistakes. I must cut a new bow 

 transom when the first mysteri- 

 ously rums out asymmetrical. 

 The forekeel gets stuck to the 

 mold when I am too liberal with 

 epoxy. I also epoxy some of my 

 hair. It seems I spend half my 

 time correcting errors. Allen 

 assures me this is normal. 



"Boatbuilding is problem- 

 solving," he says whenever I am 

 frustrated. It is a triumph when I 

 suspect the keel's curve isn't 

 quite true before I cut it and find 

 a misread fraction in the 

 dimensions. I realize I am solving — and 

 avoiding — problems. I am flattered when 

 Allen says I am thinking like a boatbuilder. 



In fact, I hardly think of anything 

 except boatbuilding. I don't open mail. I 

 don't return calls. Friends wonder if I have 

 gone to sea. Not quite, but I am in a 

 different world. Dozens of tourists who 

 pause, enthralled, at the big front doors 

 every day remind me just how extraordi- 

 nary my environment is. 



"Look," I hear over and over again. 

 "They build boats here!" 



It is a bit unnerving at first to work in 

 such a public place, but I am soon too 

 engrossed to notice the flashbulbs. In a 

 pleasant way, the building of my little boat 

 seems everybody's business. Wood in the 

 shape of a boat has an irresistible magnetic 

 effect on the human hand and eye. Water 

 Lily develops a following of local self- 



22 WINTER 1999 



