Learning to Stitch and Glue

February-March 2001

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.
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by Donna Wilford

“Best is just to stop sometimes and feel every little thing suddenly brought to stillness.” Photo by Paul Wilford

The morning I walked into my first build-your-own-wooden-kayak class, I nearly dropped from shock. On the workbench lay four of the flimsiest pieces of plywood I could ever recall having seen. My heart sped as I picked up one of the pieces gingerly and wiggled it up and down. It agreeably waved back.

I was expected to build my kayak out of those? How was it possible for such thin, wobbly wood to keep me afloat? My 140 lbs would shatter the wood in a twinkling right at the shore line.

Or, maybe even worse. My kayak would break apart far out to sea, and I’d sink to the bottom.

Then another thought crept into my mind. Maybe the instructors had run into financial difficulty and cut corners on ordering their wood.

I needn't have worried.

By the end of the first weekend our team of four classmates had sanded the flimsy plywood pieces smooth on one side, ‘sewn’ the pieces together with 18-gauge copper wire, twisted the wires to hold the edges flush with each other, and gone on to construct three other such hulls. We checked each boat for being straight and true, inserted bulkheads in the proper places, carefully laid out two layers of finicky fiberglass ribbon along all inside seams and joints, and painted the whole inside with epoxy.

The jigsaw pieces of 4 mm (3/16 in.) Okume marine-grade plywood (from okume trees in Africa, finished in Israel, shipped to the USA, and registered by Lloyd's of London as being high-quality, marine-grade plywood) were beginning to look like something. Maybe even something that would ultimately hold me afloat in the great big sea. And maybe something that would again bless me with that quiet taste of freedom I'd experienced the first time I slipped into a kayak five years earlier, and gently pushed off into a rolling swell of water.

Donna’s kayak CirSea (right) and sister craft. Photo by Donna Wilford

There's a sudden separate universe that exists when you push off onto water. It doesn't matter that others may be with you. You choose whether to paddle alongside and join in conversation or not. Best is just to paddle and listen to the sound of the sea, your heart, your breath and paddle strokes joining together in one long, deep pulse. Best is just to imagine the water under you running in one big ocean river all around the world. Best is just to stop sometimes and feel every little thing suddenly brought to stillness.

But to get there in my own hand-made wooden kayak required noise, dust, perseverance, patience and just the maximum-I-could-stand of sacrificed weekends.

The second weekend involved more basic construction and by the third weekend, we all had our decks on, involving more epoxy and nailing. The boats looked stronger and stronger.

“And in between all this you sand, sand, sand,” dictated Mother Therese, quality control officer and co-instructor of our classes, with husband John.

That repetitive sanding was one of the boring parts, which our class relieved with ribald tales of past relationships, discussions abou today's teenagers (our children), writing and performing a song for our instructors and reading some rather questionable literary pieces having to do with sanders during lunch breaks.

As we rounded the corner to the finish line, it was sand, sand, sand, varnish, varnish, varnish, epoxy, epoxy, sand, sand, sand, paint, paint. Then artist David Lloyd came to do custom artwork on our kayaks. This was the most exciting part for me (after I realized I was in good, experienced boat-building hands of my instructors every step of the way, and that my kayak was not going to break apart on me).

I had imagined the top of my kayak looking like a beach, and the natural grain of the wood showed me where the rocks and tidal pools would be. But I also wanted some kind of sea witch or monster coming up from below. I turned the project over to David and left.

When I next saw my kayak, a sea witch of weird fantasy swam along my aft deck, seaweed hair trailing out behind, crab claws slicing the water of my deck, fish tail undulating below the surface, her face that of a First Nations mask. She was both beautiful and terrible at the same time. My kayak named herself—CirSea.
I could hardly wait for the final steps to be finished—all the bungy cords, seats, adjustable foot pegs, etc.—so I could launch. Other classmates felt the same. We had created four wonderful pieces of floating art, pieces of beauty and function.

Instructor John'Hurley was impressed as usual, surprised once again at the uniqueness of each boat and the imagination of each design: “We assume everyone's going to go in there and build a wonderful boat, and they do. I'm proud of every boat that has come out of the classes.”

Ever since CirSea first slipped into the ocean, I've enjoyed each minute of peace upon the waters. I'm what you'd call a complete novice at the craft of kayaking, but I look forward to years of paddling pleasure, the sea witch at my back, but never, never catching me.

Donna’s classmates with finished kayaks. Photo by Donna Wilford

There are several build-your-own-wooden kayak classes offered in the Nanaimo-Ladysmith-Duncan area. The class I took through'Hurleys' Wooden Boats in Ladysmith involved six weekends in a row of half-days each Saturday and Sunday (www.ohurleys boats.com).'Hurleys' can be reached at 250-245-5199 or 250-246-8578, or by email at: ohurleys@sprint.ca.

Donna Wilford was born and raised on the west coast but didn’t get into kayaking until her 11-year-old son Paul attended an outdoor wilderness camp at Strathcona Park and then led the family on a kayak trip. ©