I like wooden boats. The first boat in which I sailed was built by my friend’s father. It was when the Cadet first appeared on the market — about 1946 or 1947, I believe. The plans were correct, but the boat finished up a little differently, planked with orange boxes, covered with canvas and tarred. The mast was a bamboo pole, the sail track was a gramophone spring unwound and the sails were from a red target drogue rescued from the sea. We boys called her Gypsy, and made out ship’s papers, with my pal skipper and me first mate. I still have my papers. The Isle of Sheppey was our home, and we cruised mainly on the River Swale round by Harty and Elmley. Swallows and Amazons was our Bible.

In 1948 I saw the plans of a 16’ gunter-rigged sloop by Robert Holt in one of my yachting magazines. Liking the look of her, I sent off the required cash. In due course I received three sheets of blueprints covered with meaningless information. Somewhat shattered at the amount of work involved I dropped the plans in a drawer and carried on sailing in other people’s boats.

In 1949 I commenced my apprenticeship as a shipwright at the local dockyard, and during the next five years the plans started to take on some meaning. During this time I built myself a GP14. In 1954 I was a fully fledged shipwright; I packed my bags and was off to see the world. The plans were packed in the bottom of my suitcase, and now I understood them better I was resolved to build her one day.

This is not a life history, so we now arrive at 1972. I had settled in Leicester, about as far as one could get from the sea. I had a wife, two young children, a hefty mortgage and a small car. The last few years had been spent doing such mundane things as making furniture and decorating. Things were easing up a little, and the plans came out of the bottom drawer once more. They were certainly a little faded now and starting to tear at the creases.

If I did build her, I wondered if she would be what I wanted. All right, she would sail, obviously — that was what she was designed for — but my attitude had changed towards sailing. I tried listing the things I considered most important, as all the books suggest. Eventually, to keep it simple, I decided speed had no importance whatever; seaworthiness was certainly top of the list; a boat one could sit in and not on; a low rig; strong simple construction. I had to be able to tow her behind my small car and build her in an 18’ garage.

Surprisingly, my plans — with some minor modifications — were ideal. My wife says I am old fashioned, and did not think it strange that I should build a boat from a set of plans that were now 25 years out of date, merely commenting: “You didn’t expect any modern boat to meet your requirements, did you?”

The books all say the first thing to do when building a boat is to draw out the plans full size from the table of offsets. I started by making cleats out of some scrap pieces of oak. I was on my way.

Time was not important to me — eventually I would get my boat built — but money was, for the simple reason that I had none to spare. I resolved to save all my pennies in a piggy bank, and also put 15 pence aside each week. Then, when I did want to buy anything, I would at least have some cash available without taking too much from the housekeeping money. One of my first tasks was to let it be known to one and all I wanted anything scrap made of wood. If no good I could at least light the fire with it. I became an expert scrounger, and kept my eyes open at the factory where I work. Whenever any modernisation started which involved tearing down partitions, changing offices or discarding old office furniture, I asked if I could have it or buy it for a nominal sum.

In this way I started to amass quite a collection of bits and pieces. The kicking strips around some old cabinets were oak — for frames. A large cupboard was thrown out, black with age and stained in places. It was very hard to plane, but it came up a beautiful red, and proved to be kerrin — the transom. An old drawing board top was thrown out. This I purchased for £1; it proved just sufficient to make the four thwarts. Some partitioning was knocked down and in the process of being burned when I rescued it for setting up the frames. I also rescued some second-hand hardboard.

By this time the garage was starting to fill up with what neighbours called junk and I called my boat. I could still get the car in, however. Some of the hardboard was laid out on a wooden frame, painted with white emulsion, and I started laying out the frames full size. The plans gave dimensions to outside of skin, so each frame had three sets of lines: the outside skin, then back ⅜” to outside edge of frame, then back 2⅜” to inside edge of frame. When all 9 frames had been drawn, the board looked utterly confusing.

The frames were to be oak, 2⅜” x ⅜” thick. It was hard work cleaning the face of a varnished piece of oak, then an edge, gauge to 2⅜” wide, saw, plane and finally adze and plane from 1” thick to ⅜” thick. Care had to be taken in choosing a scrap piece to work on to avoid too much wastage. I dare not use any wide piece in case I needed it later; this became one of my major obsessions or troubles throughout the whole task. Eventually the frames were all finished and tied in neat bundles.

The first thing I bought was glue and hardener — the ‘pig’ supplied the cash. This was for the transom, made up from the old cupboard I had obtained from work, planed and jointed and fitted with a fashion piece down each side.

About this time I acquired the nickname “Noah”, and neighbours often popped in to ask how the Ark was coming along; unfortunately there was nothing to see that looked like a boat!

My brother, who lives nearby, told me one day he was having his fireplace surround taken out; it was wood, and he wanted a nice modern gas fire. A trip around to his house when the workmen had left, and I returned home with some nice nieces of oak 1” x 7” wide, the longest 5’ long. He also gave me an old double bed which, when skimmed up, proved to be American white oak. I could now start on the stem.

The plans were drawn, as I said before, in 1948, and were intended for the builder to build in the traditional manner, i.e. from the keel upwards on a set of stocks, the stem and keel to be rabbetted for the skin — the plans said 7/16” larch, carvel built with inside seam battens. I intended to use ⅜” marine ply.

To save myself trouble and a lot of useless timber, I decided to build upside down from the frames outward. After skinning, I could build up the deadwood, lay the keel overall, and fit a false stem from laminations. Luckily the stem has a long slow curve; this I made from nine 1” thick oak boards, avoiding short grain, constructing a sort of sandwich 3” thick, the inside butts overlapped by the outside planks, the overall length being about 5ft. The whole thing was then cut to shape from the full size lines which I had already drawn on the frame board. The scarf joint was cut where the stem would meet the hog.

The next excursion took me to Bell Woodworking to buy some 1” x 8 brass wood screws and some ⅜” marine ply offcuts for gussets. It hurt me to have to actually pay for something.

On the frame board I drew a horizontal line where the risings would be. I then started assembling the frames, fitting gussets and screwing a temporary batten to the frames in line with the horizontal line indicating the risings. When these were all put together, I had the stem, frames and transom all ready for setting up.

Up to this time I had only spent the occasional £1 on the odd box of screws, but now I would really have to spend some money. A carpenter friend said he could order me timber at cost price from a local timber merchant, so I ordered timber for the hog, keel, chines and gunwales. These were to be supplied in Oregon pine, straight-grained and free from knots. While waiting for this order to arrive, the car was removed from the garage — it has never been back — and I started on a base on which I could erect the frames.

The garage floor is concrete, but not particularly level. Two lengths of 3” x 4” approx. were built up running the length of the garage and parallel to each other about 2’ apart, cross braced and tommed down each end from the roof bars. A line was stretched from one end to the other to mark the fore and aft centre line, and I was ready to start setting up the frames.

The garage being 18’ and the boat 16’ meant I had 1’ spare each end. From the garage door I measured back 1’ and screwed a batten to the base frame; from this batten I marked the positions of the nine frames and the transom. To frame 1, two stout members were screwed 1’ each side of the vertical centre line, screwing through frames and also through the brace connecting the rising marks. The lengths of the members was determined by drawing on the plans the garage floor above the side elevation. The frame was then taken to its position on the base frame, turned upside down and clamped in place. The rising batten was checked for level, the frame itself checked for being vertical, a plumb line dropped to check the centreline of frame to c/l of base frame, and each chine checked to a point on the base frame c/l to provide a squareness check. The whole frame was then braced and screwed down. No.2 and following frames were easy. Each one was positioned after attaching the two ‘legs’, plumbing the c/ls, and placing a spirit level across the preceding rising batten. When all the frames were in place I could sight through and check that all the rising battens were in line. Unfortunately, one frame looked decidedly odd: apparently I had made two of frame No.6 and no frame No.7. Even ex-professionals make mistakes! This slight error was soon rectified.

To fit the transom, I extended its rake on the lines drawing, measured the angle it made with the w/l, made a couple of oversize templates and clamped them to the base frame. The transom was then clamped on the templates and the whole fixture moved around until a vertical line from the transom met the 16’ mark on the base frame. The table of offsets stated that the bottom corner of the transom was the w/l; frame 9 stated distance of chines above w/l, so after clamping a batten across the chines of frame 9, I laid a spirit level from batten to transom and moved the transom about until I achieved the required dimension.

Setting up frames in boat building is one of the most important tasks. When one gets down to basics it really is not as complicated as it sounds; however, constant checking is a must. In my case I found a kick could move the base frame, then I had to check the c/l against the marks I had started with.

Arriving home from work one evening my wife called out: “Your wood has arrived — it’s in the garage.” At last, thought I; but upon opening the garage doors I found the keel, hog and gunwales were nice pieces of timber, but the chines looked short grained — one lay in two pieces broken at a knot. On telephoning the suppliers I was told they were not boat builders, but they did saw up a massive baulk of timber just for my small section.

Finally the frames were all set up correctly and it was time to proceed with the hog. This was skimmed up, the slot cut for the centreplate — less 1” each end to allow for adjustment in situ — and the scarf cut to mate with the stem. The only problem encountered at this stage was not knowing how far to recess the hog into the frames. If I went too far, by the time I had planed the skin flush with the bottom of the hog, the flat area so formed would be much wider than the keel; if not deep enough, the hog would have to be planed thinner to get the required width for the keel. This problem was overcome by drawing the doubtful area of each frame full size. The frames were then cut. Of course the slots had to be bevelled forward and aft, and this could only be determined by the well known method of trial and error. The stem being screwed on, the whole unwieldy length was ‘offered up’ many times before I was finally satisfied and it was eventually securely fastened.

The stern knee, made from oak scraps half lapped and glued together, was then fastened through the hog and transom.

The starboard chine was tackled one Saturday afternoon. The ideal way is to bend from forward to aft, but the garage is only 10’ wide, so I had to work from amidships towards each end. After notching the frames and estimating the amount of bevel, the chine was clamped at frame No.6 and, moving forwards, was clamped at each frame. By the time frame No.2 was reached, I was eyeing the chine suspiciously. The old trick of wrapping rags around and pouring boiling water over the rags took me to frame No.1. Finally, with the help of my neighbour’s wife who was unfortunate enough to drop in to see how the ‘Ark’ was progressing, I managed to get the chine round to the stem. The aft section was bent reasonably easily. While admiring my handiwork and congratulating myself, I was rewarded by an ominous creaking sound! Yes, a broken chine. Before packing up that afternoon I spliced the two broken pieces together and reversed ends. Overnight both chines were left wrapped in well soaked rags.

The next morning, with the use of plenty of boiling water, the odd prop, a Spanish windlass and an occasional cuss word, both chines were bent successfully, notched into the stem and screwed, the scarf being positioned over one of the aft frames. To play safe, they were left for a week to dry out, then the screws taken out and re-fastened with screws and glue. The second time I had no trouble bending the chines.

The gunwales, being of much lighter section, were bent quite easily. Incidentally, the chines were both bent on the same day as were the gunwales, the reason being to avoid setting up uneven tensions in the frames. If only one side is secured at a time, the frames will be distorted.

To stiffen the bottom of the hull, an old floorboard was cut and fitted as a stringer between frames 2 and 9, thus avoiding any excessive bending to the stem.

After fairing the frames and finishing the slot in the hog for the centreplate, the limber holes were cut in the frames.

Two pieces of ½” thick Burma teak were then selected from my hoard and tennoned into the hog to form the uprights for the centre-box.

An acquaintance called one day to view the boat and said he had some wood in the back of his car for me if I could use it. Could I indeed! The wood was iroko, 3” x 6” x 6’ — the door frames from a bank being dismantled. I was given three lengths. At work, another chap mentioned that his father had a circular saw, so eventually I prevailed upon his good nature and succeeded in getting my wood cut into strips ¾” x 1½” x 5’. These strips were edge glued and screwed to form the side panels of the centre-box. Each board in turn was fitted to the hog and glued and screwed in place, the ends left hanging.

While working on the centre-box, the marine ply for the hull planking had arrived — another expensive item. With everything faired-in nicely and Christmas approaching, the planking was commenced.

Fortunately I had plenty of old hardboard, so I was able to make a template of the bottom forward panel. Each of these panels was cut to shape, clamped in place, and marked where it met stem, hog, frame, stringer or chine. The panel was then removed, drilled and countersunk as required, glue was spread, and the panel clamped back in place. Where the panels met the frames they were to be fastened with barbed ring nails, but they were screwed down elsewhere first with 1” x 8 brass screws. When it came to driving in the nails, my 8 year old son was talked into being ‘dolly boy’ inside the hull. Butt straps were fitted where the two panels met, copper nails driven through and clenched, again with the help of my son. With the bottom planking in place, the edges were trimmed at the chines and the side panels fitted, no attempt being made to fit to the sheer line. The join at the middle was staggered so it avoided a continuation of the bottom panel join. Unfortunately, the side aft panel did not reach the transom at the top edge due to the rake of the transom. The whole panel was cut shorter, thus enabling a butt strap to be fitted midway between frame 9 and the transom.

The marine ply was now trimmed in way of stem, hog, transom and chines, the latter being well radiused. The plans stated that the keel was to be tapered in depth from 1½” thick at frame 2 to 3⅜” thick at frame 9, then slowly radiused to nothing at the transom. This was built up from a number of tapered deadwoods — again using scrap wood — with the necessary slot for the centreplate cut in. Finally the keel 1⅛” thick was fastened down overall, the whole assembly being slightly veed in section, more so for the last 4’. The false stem was then built up from a number of laminations using my kerrin.

To protect the bottom of the boat, four bilge battens were made from scrap oak and fastened two each side of the keel using copper nails and roves.

The plans indicated a chine rubber was to be fitted, but I thought it would look ugly, so instead the chines were fibreglassed. Hundreds of countersunk holes were then filled with a compound of Polyfiller mixed with paint. The hull was sanded down and the whole family turned out with glee to help Dad paint on two coats of aluminium primer. When this was dry I was ready for the great day — turning over.

This happy event took place one Saturday morning in February when several neighbours, including wives, were cajoled into offering aid. After I had crawled underneath to release the boat from the building frame, the garage doors were opened, the boat picked up, carried into the drive and turned bodily up the right way. The building frame was quickly dismantled, a few bearing blocks laid, and the boat carried back into the garage. With the doors shut once more, the garage seemed overfull: whereas before the maximum beam was near one’s shins, now it was near one’s waist. We all stood talking and looking at the boat while drinking ale. I felt quite pleased now I could see how her lines were developing. When visitors called, at least now I could show them something that looked like a boat.

The next stage in building Gandalf was probably the most enjoyable but in many ways the hardest. I had a boat in the garage and the temptation was strong to sit back and dream of sailing her instead of knuckling down to work. My store of wood was replenished as the work progressed; not all of it was suitable for boat-building and so was consigned to the firewood pile. The last pieces of shop bought timber to be fitted were the inside gunwales. These were notched into the frames and bent quite easily. Filling pieces of soft wood were fitted between the wales so the top rail became a solid beam 1½” x 2¾” wide. With the gunwale thus stiffened, the excess ply planking was cut back to the sheer line, as were the frames, which intentionally had been made a few inches too long.

The risings were from a bundle of mahogany architraves (the trim around door frames) surplus to the builder’s requirements. When planed to the required section, two were spliced together and nailed to frames 2-9. The drawing board mentioned earlier was cut down its glue lines, the correct width made up for each thwart, and re-glued with marine glue. Fortunately, I managed to get the four thwarts out of this board, with the addition of a couple of battens. The foremost thwart was fitted against the aft side of frame 3 resting on the risings. The next thwart tied into the top of the centre-box, which had to be trimmed accordingly. This thwart was 1” short each end, so had to be built up with a packing piece. The third thwart was removable; this rested each end on pads screwed through the hull and located by four brass screws whose heads had been filed back to the shank diameter. The centre of this thwart was later supported by a chamfered mahogany pillar tennoned into a pad attached to the centre fixed floorboard. The last thwart was fitted a few inches forward of the transom and again attached to pads screwed to the hull. The foremost two thwarts were fitted with half-lapped oak knees, one each end, each knee glued and screwed in place. I was disappointed in the manner of fastening, preferring to copper fasten wherever possible. I found some long nails but could discover no roves to suit. Later, when the boat was finished, I did discover a supplier — too late!

With the thwarts in place, the rising battens connecting the sides of the frames were removed and the centre-box trimmed to shape, cover pieces of teak fitted over the exposed end grain, and fillet pieces fitted where the box met the hog. Plywood brackets were fastened three each side of the box, connected back to the frames.

Quarter knees and breasthook were made from scrap oak and fastened in place. The mast step, also of oak, was screwed to the hog forward of frame 3. The mast box — not really a tabernacle — was three sided with the open side facing forward, the aft side was checked into the forward thwart and fastened also to the mast step and frame 3. A brass ‘gate’ was made and fitted across the open side. Two curved oak beams were made to take the foredeck and fitted across the top of frames 1 and 2, and the king plank sunk in flush with the beams. A strip of dark wood was nailed and glued on top to form a false king plank, thus saving me the task of rebating. The foredeck of ply was laid, glued and copper nailed in place, the heads being flattened and punched just below the surface. A tip to would-be boat builders: never drive nails in square to the wood, always, ‘steve’ them at varying angles; that way it is harder to tear the two pieces apart.

About this time I started to look around various boatyards and chandlers for fittings. This caused me quite a shock in a number of ways: first the price, second how complicated equipment has become, and finally how flimsy that equipment appears to me. No doubt some expert would quickly jump up and declare that they are perfectly adequate, having been stressed, but I believe boat gear should be simple and strong. The more complicated items become, the more chance does ‘Sod’s Law’ have of striking. One old shipwright once said to me, “If you cannot knock it off with a 2lb hammer, you should be safe.” I would hate to treat modern equipment in that manner!

After a long search I discovered a fair sized pair of galvanised rowlocks in the back of a chandler’s shop, but no plates to fit; these I made from brass plate, and eventually made most of my own fittings — gooseneck, stem plate, halyard pulleys, rudder fittings, centreplate pin and jaws for the yard. I was fortunate in that I had a friend who was kind enough to braze any brass items I made.

Well, the boat’s construction progressed steadily; each week that passed saw another small item completed. The last big piece of kerrin from the cupboard went to make the rudder cheeks, copper fastened over the blade, which was two pieces of ⅜” ply glued face to face. I made two tillers since I like to carry a spare, both laminated, one from oak and the other from iroko. A beautiful curve was built into them and they angled upwards very nicely. I was to discover the error of my ways on the first sail. With the bottom boards made and side benches fitted, the hull was almost finished late that year. I still had the spars to make.

My search through the Midlands for a pair of oars had been fruitless. The design length to suit the boat’s beam was 8’ 9”, and no one had heard of oars that length. I was offered an old pair of sculls with curved blades, but I declined to accept as they were 1’ too short. On one of my trips to Sheerness to visit my parents, a friend obtained for me a pair 11’ long. He also led me to a gentleman with quite a collection of old boat gear in his backyard, where the only thing small enough for my boat was a 5’ long boathook with a phosphor bronze head, which he sold to me for 50p.

Back in Leicester the oars were cut to length and the task of reducing them to a manageable size began. The first oar to be worked on weighed 14 lbs when I commenced planing, and was finally reduced to 8 lbs and several bags of shavings. Even now I can only just get my fingers to meet around the loom. The second oar had to match the first one. By checking carefully and frequently with callipers, I managed to achieve the same size, but the weight came no lower than 10 lbs. If readers bump into a chap with one arm bigger than the other, then it’s probably me!

Since the local timber yards could not supply me with material suitable for making the mast, yard and boom, I had to order the timber from a northern supplier. This, on arrival, was in first class condition. The plans stated the spars could be hollow if so desired, but gave no dimensions to achieve this, only overall sizes.

The yard was made first, it being the easiest. The sizes are 12’ 4” x 2⅛” dia. at the heel, tapering to 1⅝” dia. at the peak, with a curvature of 3½” at the centre. Shaping was easy, but the fun began when I tried to obtain the curvature. I had never tried to achieve a permanent set in timber before, but knew of the principle: soak well, bend more than required and leave for a week or so. But how much set would I need? To obtain the bend I had to use the garage wall. My garage is a sectioned concrete one, so one of the bolts holding the tie-plates was removed from the wall and replaced by an eyebolt. Two veed boards were held in place where the ends of the yard would be — level with the eye-bolt — and the yard placed in the vees. A Spanish windlass was made by passing a rope round the centre of the yard and through the eyebolt, a stick placed through the loop and tightened. Slowly a curve appeared which, when checked, proved to be 4½”. A kettle of boiling water was poured over the yard, and I sat back to await the result.

Two weeks later when I released the yard I had a set all right — ½”! For the second attempt I determined to be more ruthless. The yard was wrapped in rags, bent to 9”, and several kettles of boiling water poured over all. Two weeks later when released, the yard had a set of 1½”. The operation was repeated a third time with a set of 15” and left for three weeks; this brought me to the final figure of 3¼”, which I thought was good enough.

The boom was of parallel oval section 10’ 9” long x 2⅞” x 1⅝”. This was made from two pieces 1½” thick, hollowed for its length, and a groove cut for the bolt rope of the mainsail. I had no rebate plane, so had to chop out both grooves with a gouge. After gluing, the corners were well radiused.

The mast was 17’ 9” long, which just fitted inside the garage. At the heel, the section was 3⅞” x 3⅛” rectangular; 3’ 6” from the heel it was worked into an oval which in turn tapered to 2½” dia. 3” from the top. The top 3” was shouldered for the stays — 2” dia. to 1¾” dia. The top shoulder was almost overlooked and the mast nearly ended up 3” too short, but luckily I spotted the hidden dimension just after cutting the slot for the halyard sheave, which of course had to be modified. The mast also was made from two planks 2” thick and hollowed out with a gouge for some 12’ to give an internal diameter of 1½” tapering to nothing at the top. The two halves were glued, and a multitude of clamps applied.

The slot for the halyard sheave should have been lined with copper, and the stay shoulders also sheathed with copper, but regretfully I could obtain none. Prior to varnishing I followed an old maritime tradition and bored a hole 1¼” dia. in the heel of the mast and placed a 10 pence piece inside, fastened with the heads of copper nails. This, I hope, will bring us luck.

Slowly the bits and pieces started to fill the garage. Every week or so I would make a list of jobs to be done, then cross them off as completed, and then on to another list. My friend at Sheerness managed to get the centreplate cut for me from ¼” mild steel plate; all I had to do was file the edges. The cleats were bolted in place, and a rubbing strip riveted 3” below the capping. A friend at work said he had some wire in the back of his van which he kept for a tow rope. When I measured it, the size was just what I needed — ⅜” flexible steel wire rope. From a huge coil he gave me enough to make the three stays. Another chap at work, an ex-P.O. in the Royal Navy, offered to splice the thimbles each end for me, and did a much better job than I could have done. The splices were packed with grease, covered with insulation tape, and whipped. Each stay was wire brushed and well coated with boiled linseed oil. A bit more for my collection.

The yard is raised while attached to a traveller, a wire strop with 14 parral beads ⅝” dia. The jaws of the yard required a number of beads of the same size. The strop was easy, but I could not splice it until I had the beads. From all chandlers in the Midlands I received a polite “What is a parral bead?” In a chandlers in Queenborough in Kent I discovered 12 the right size. Then one day someone at work had the idea of trying a draper’s shop; many years ago, curtain fittings included little wooden balls. From a box in the back of the shop came a dozen boxwood balls ⅝” dia. Luck was with me.

The plans stated the halyards and sheeting to be 1¼” rope. I thought of manila for the halyards and cotton for the sheets. Yes — howls of laughter from the chandlers. The rope I was offered was not much thicker than cod line, and breaking strains were mentioned as being far in excess of what I would need; also the now familiar fact was mentioned, “It is what the ---- class uses.” The thought of heaving up a heavy yard with cold, wet hands using such a small diameter rope made me shudder. Eventually I bought a 1” circ., which the salesman obviously thought was ridiculous. When buying the sheets I was asked what colour? Apparently main, fore and spinnaker sheets are coloured so that one knows which one to pull. We shall be sticking our hands out next when we go round a corner.

The anchor was 14 lbs, and again the chandler assumed I had a large cruiser; he said I would only need a 7 lb one. The first glimmer of sanity appeared whilst in Sheerness buying the anchor warp. Since my sailing would mainly be where the rise and fall is about 18’, and assuming I would anchor in 12’ of water at low water, the minimum length of warp would be 90’. I asked for 30 metres (97’ approx.) and was told most people bought 30’, and it was hard to persuade them to buy more. I am beginning to understand why accidents occur at sea.

The sails were supplied by a sailmaker in Essex. I had written to several sailmakers enclosing a sail plan and a request for an estimate in Terylene or cotton. Yes, you’ve guessed it — nobody wanted to know about cotton. The sails when delivered were of 5 oz. Terylene, the foresail was not mitred as I remembered them to be, and the mainsail had no leechline; perhaps modern sails no longer have such things. Two rows of reef points were fitted each 1’ apart; later I must add another row.

One task that defeated me was the mainsheet horse. This should have been from ½” dia. brass or ‘galvanised iron’, the total length being nearly 4’. This I could not find or afford, so I made do with galvanised eyebolts in each quarter knee, and made the lead of the mainsheet run from quarter to a double block on the boom end, to a block on the opposite quarter, back to boom end, and then to hand via a cleat on the end of the centre box. When sailing, two faults with this system came to light. The double block on the boom end, although a swivel, has to provide a lead in two directions, athwartship and to the cleat on the centreline. The second fault is that the load from the boom end to the cleat passes over my thigh when sitting in the boat, and this gets a little painful at times. A cure for the first fault could be two single blocks, and the cure for the second would be a claw ring on the boom, but they are a bit expensive.

Before putting all the bits and pieces together, I had to paint the boat. The inside of the hull was varnished. After five coats I’m afraid I got fed up with sanding down and then cleaning out with a vacuum cleaner, so I called a halt. The bottom of the hull received six coats of paint: 2 of aluminium primer, 2 white undercoat and 2 white enamel. The sides received the same number of coats, but were painted black as far as the rubbing strip; this and the side above were treated to several coats of varnish. From a distance, the minimum freeboard of 18” is thus reduced. The mast and spars were given seven coats of varnish. This may sound a lot, but if one considers that varnish is only half as thick as paint, one realises why so many coats are needed.

The task of choosing a name required much thought, especially when I had to find one which appealed to all the family. Whilst building the boat I had read a book entitled The Lord of the Rings — a great fairy story. Of course, I had to recount the adventures of Frodo and his friends to my two youngsters, who adored the tale. Gandalf was a wizard who helped Frodo in his quest. At the beginning of the story he was Grey, and eventually became White, hence the name Gandalf the Grey. Unfortunately I did not have enough room on the transom for the whole name, so only Gandalf appears.

In May, just two years after starting, Gandalf was pulled out of the garage into the drive and the mast stepped. The whole day was spent making sure everything went together correctly. The stays were set up with lanyards, the mainsail laced to the yard and hauled up, as was the foresail. The neighbours appeared with cameras, and veiled threats were made to telephone the local newspaper. For the first time, the DCA burgee was hoisted to the top of the yard. Late that evening everything was stripped down once more and, feeling quite pleased with my efforts, Gandalf was pushed back into the garage.

A few more items needed to be made before I was ready for sailing. I had never taken my children sailing before, having always sailed with experienced people. Obviously some form of safety was required. Each child was made a safety harness from canvas folded to give three thicknesses and stitched by my wife on her sewing machine. Another aid I thought might prove useful was some means of floatation. Several blocks of cork scrounged from the local fish market were pegged together, wrapped in canvas, stitched, and painted white. According to the plans, I should have fitted a number of copper buoyancy cases giving a lift of 126 lbs. These were beyond my capability, so I fitted two bags which gave a total lift of 224 lbs.

My trailer started life as the chassis of a caravan, and was modified to take the boat. Mudguards were made from scrap ply, a central spar bolted on to take the keel, and a roller made to make getting the boat loaded easier. With the boat on the trailer, a bow chock was made, as were side chocks to steady her. A strongback was made to hold the boat down.

Gandalf was towed to Queenborough, a bottle of beer poured over the bow, and the lashings released. She was heaved off the trailer and into her natural element, and I was pleased to note she floated to her marks as designed.

The wind was quite fresh and westerly. I rowed out of the creek and, once clear, hoisted the foresail. The boat’s frantic motion steadied, and we bore off on a reach as close as she would go to the wind. My decision was made — yes, we would go. Back in the calm of the creek the mainsail was raised and two reefs taken in — quite easy with reef points. Alan, my neighbour, weighs about 13 stones, so he made good ballast! His instructions were simple: sit on the high side. While tacking out of the creek, everything went perfectly. We went about twice, which took us to the entrance. I could see the wind whipping the water ahead, but before I could warn Alan, who was sitting calmly in the centre of the boat, the wind hit us while on the starboard tack. Gandalf heeled rapidly before she had a chance to move, but quickly started to make way through the water. The lee gunwale was just about level with the water, and, sitting on the starboard gunwale, I shall always remember the look on Alan’s face as he frantically clawed his way up to join me, casting fearful glances over his shoulder. By this time it was time to go about again. Alan was warned to get over to the other side, and we were off once more. Close-hauled, we tore through the water to the buoy marking the entrance to the creek, then bearing away on a broad reach down the Swale to roughly where the end of the old Flushing Pier used to be. Coming around once more we beat our way back towards the Creek buoy. Whilst doing this, I asked Alan if he was enjoying it. His reply was, “NO!”

Gandalf was proving easy to handle, but I had to spill a lot of wind to keep her upright, so I must have been overcanvassed. Of course, neither of us were sitting out properly, but I was enjoying myself immensely. She seemed slow in coming about, and certainly did not spin round. In heeling, the gunwale came almost to the water level and then stopped. This first sail was rather brief, and we stayed in the sheltered waters of the Swale, although the wind was certainly whipping across Deadman’s Island.

Two years of effort had been proved, and I was satisfied. Once more I had my own boat. To try and fault one’s own boat is an unfair task: only other people do things like that. Gandalf came up to my expectations. She does go about in rather a sedate manner, due possibly to so much keel aft of the centreplate. Rigging takes more time, and connecting the main halyard round the yard and onto the traveller can be awkward. She is a heavy boat — as we discovered when we tried to get her on the trailer — but that can be an advantage in heavy weather. I think the work involved was well worthwhile.

Finally, if my remarks regarding modern boats and equipment have offended anyone, please forgive me. I did say at the beginning of this article that I am old fashioned.