Syzygy Sailing

Finally.  10 months after it started, the sail is finished.  It was supposed to be done by June.  Then…. that didn’t quite happen. And so it got put off.  And put off.  And put off.  And soon, the boat was threatening to leave!  So I doubled down over Thanksgiving break and brought the thought of the completion of the sail into the ballpark.

Those first days of sewing in the gym were fun.  Huge panels getting sewn together and enormous visible progress of work.  It was fun back then!  But at Thanksgiving, I was no longer in a large gymnasium.   I was squashed into the smallish living room of a house.  The sail’s luff was three times the length of the room.  At one point, I felt it absolutely necessary to stretch out the luff of the sail.  It went through the living room, through the kitchen, over the island countertop, out the door to a deck off the kitchen and to the other side of deck railing where I anchored it so that I could stretch it taught.  There was snow out on the deck.  It felt ridiculous.

I was stretching the luff line of the sail to try and see by how much I had to chop off the top of our sail.  The luff line, which came with the sail-making kit from Sailrite is made of T900 from New England Ropes, requires two double braid eyesplices, one at each end, to attach the sail at it’s head to the mast, and at it’s tack to the bow of the boat.  After making the first eyesplice, I then,carefully measured the T900 line to the exact measure ment of our luff, (48′9”)  and marked that point as where the other eye-splice should end.  I then remeasured it as I’ve had trouble measuring things in the past.

With the second eyesplice made I tried as best I could in a 18′ wide room to see how well the luff line matched up to the length of the luff of the sail.  And everytime, it seemed to come up short.  And then I remembered that when making the second eye splice the rope will bunch up, thicken and consequently shorten. This happens because the eyesplice is designed to have the rope double back on itself.  The core of the rope, after going around the eye, goes back inside itself.  It’s a very cool thing and it locks itself into place.  I highly recommend making them simply because they are so cool.  At any rate, I had to chop off about 2 inches from the head of the sail and short both ends just a smidge so that the luff line would be better aligned.  Such are the trials and tribulations of a first time sail maker.

A week after Thanksgiving, I took two days off from work during a major push where I was determined to get 30 hours of work done on the sail.  Sorry boss, priorities.  One half of one of these days was spent trying to figure out how to install the cleats for the leech line and the foot line.  My first issue was with the rivot/grommet thing they sent me.  Home Depot was baffled as to what tool should be used to both A: cut a hole through the 9 layers of fabric where the cleats were to be installed, and B: how to press home the rivot/grommet.  Finally a leather store, Tandy Leather Factory, came through for me with a suggestion, while I was there buying a sewing palm.  I Suffice to say I ended up using a cordless drill to make the holes in the sail, at very low RPM and with clamps within milimeters of where the drill bit was.  All of this was conducted in the kitchen.  See pictures.  I was at Tandy after suffering through a day of using a makeshift palm out of duct tape and a tiny plastic cup.  Tandy wasn’t open on Sunday and I had work to do, so makeshift palm it was.

Within that time, though, there came a moment of celebration when I could finally put the sewing machine away and move on to hand sewing.  My roommates were also happy that I didn’t have to rearrange all of the living room furniture every time I wanted to work on the sail.  To begin the hand sewing, I first installed metal rings next to the head and tack of the sail.  Then there was anchoring those to the edges.  Then there was sewing the leather patches on.  When sewing the leather patches (this was done in California after driving out there over my winter break with an unfinished sail in the back seat), I began attaching the sewing palm to a leg of a chair turned upside down so I could then more effectively use both hands and all my weight as leverage to drive the needle through 5 layers of 1.5 oz ripstop nylon, 5 layers of 4 oz dacron, and if it was near the edge of the sail, another two layers of the 5 oz Dacron tape folded around the sail edge.  By my count that’s 37.5 ounces of fabric to push through.  That means something, I’m not sure what though.  No easy task is what it meant to me.  I had to simultaneously hold the needle so that it wouldn’t flex and bend and hold the fabric around the needle and hold the chair with the palm attached to it with my feet so that it wouldn’t slide away and make sure I didn’t stab myself.  I’m impressed I didn’t draw blood more than twice.

It’s finished though and I have an enormous sense of exhaustion, elation and pride.  This was the largest boat project I got to be a part of, and it was pretty much all on me.  No help, no other expertise from the other guys.  It felt good to be the sole expert.  At one point, Matt said, “You better finish it, ’cause I sure as hell have no clue how to.”  Well I finished it, even if I stretched it out until December 28th.

After finally finishing and toasting, with a much deserved beer, the official hand-over ceremony of the sail to Matt, Matt began playing with the scraps of sail left over for repairs if that might ever be necessary.  Karen, please make sure you’ve made him some better shorts by the time I get out there.  Because if I ever see him in just the sail cloth like he was showing off, I think I might be permanently scarred.

I was back out in San Francisco helping with a big last minute push on getting work done.  And giving Karen and Matt, and me in particular a big morale boost.  There was mention of going sailing to see the sail get flown.  Given the state of the boat, I knew that wasn’t really a possibility.  But we did end up hoisting my sail in the marina just to see how it looked, and to cut some drifter sheet lines for it.  It looked beautiful.  I felt proud.  I also felt embarrassed that I left on highly visible small stickers identifying each panel. I think Karen took some pictures.  If so, I hope she posts them.  I was too busy just looking at it,  thinking about how long it had taken, and how much has happened in my life since I started it.  A ten month sailboat project was right there flapping lightly in the breeze.  The last ten month saga of my life was there, playing lightly in my mind.

I’m envious that I won’t get to be there when it is first flown.  But I looking forward to joining the boat in June and being there as long as my money can sustain me.  We’re not exactly sure where the boat will be.  I’m committed as I can be to being there.  And finally getting to use the boat, instead of just talking about it.  Looking forward to it.

I don’t have the energy or passion for a well-written update this time, but I know there are at least a few people out there who are curious about us.  Full disclosure: I just finished reading an idiotic book and drinking a cup of jonny walker following a full 10 hours of stupid fiberglassing so my mood is shitty.

-We moved out of our studio apartment over the holidays, while four friends visited and slept in our living room.  Our guests were perfectly fine with the furniture and bed disappearing from underneath them (no kidding).  Jon and Rishona came out to see the boat, work a bit, and meet us, because they are planning on joining us in the south pacific this summer, if all goes according to plan.  Gary and Anna came out to california because they are awesome.

-We moved onto the boat, though half of the boat is intermittently unlivable (and I mean 1/4″ fiberglass dust snow all over everything toxic air to breathe unlivable).  Our belongings get shuttled around on an hourly basis like all those tiles in that hand held game where there is a grid of jumbled number tiles that you have to move around to put them in order but there’s only one blank space to use so you have to move all of the other tiles that you don’t want out of the way to move the number you want into place and it turns out that that process is difficult enough that they invented a game around it.  Fully 10% of my waking hours are occupied by moving the same stuff back and forth and around and around.

-As reported in the previous post, the knees of the boat came unbonded from the hull, a situation which justifies me giving a big middle finger to the fucking assholes who built this supposedly indestructible boat.  The bomber reputation of the Valiant 40 is bullshit.  Glassing the knees to the hull is second in importance only to actually having a hull in the first place, and the peons that glassed my knees to my hull did a shitty ass job of it and now I’m busting my ass to fix something that should have been included in the first 2,000 dollars of the much higher price of this boat.

-We were planning on leaving January 14th, and our good friends Pete and Ray bought plane tickets to fly out and join us (the only reason for the very specific jan 14th date) and help us sail down the coast for a month.   Since it’s down to just Karen and I and a busted boat, I am incredibly grateful to have their experienced assistance to do the first (wet cold worst) month.  Well, now that the boat is sucking a big fat one, I mailed Pete one of the chainplates that needs to be replaced and he’s making a new set for me.  How’s that for a friend, right?  I screw up their plans and as an apology he gets a hunk of metal in the mail to duplicate 8 times over for me and they don’t even give me a hard time for it?  Damn good friends, that’s for sure.  (I even called him this morning and greeted him with a “so I have this windlass, and the threads on the shaft are crossed . . .”)   I owe them big.   So now Pete and Ray changed their flights and we’re planning on leaving February 7th now.  All I have to do is rebuild the boat before then, no biggie.

-Karen is being much more productively outspoken about our current situation in her booming blog, so please visit her site to get cheered up after reading this post.

I’m actually not all that bummed out as I sound, I’m just super exhausted and it just started raining and all I can think of is how many places it is undoubtedly leaking into the boat this very moment.  A-we need to catch a break and B-we need to get the hell of out of this place, prontospeed.

I’m still working on the boat, don’t worry.

I’ve been trying to finish painting the deck, for months now actually, and I am discovering that November 25 in San Francisco is a terrible time to try to dry anything.

Here’s a picture I took today:

Notice that it appears our boat is leaving the slip. Don’t be fooled: I pushed the boat half out of the slip in a desperate attempt to shine a little bit more sunlight on the deck. Unfortunately, the boat’s little trip half out of the slip and back in was the farthest it has travelled in months.

Here’s another one for you:

In this one, notice the box fan in the upper right background. I ziptied this to the stanchion and have been running it for the past 36 hours.

I don’t have a picture of me holding up one of my photography reflectors trying to dry the side deck–I lasted about 15 seconds before I realized the futility of that one.

Here are some pictures of the progress:

Also, I borrowed a heavy-duty sewing machine from Greg down the dock and I’ve been sewing our lee cloths with really crooked lines of stitches:

A brief glimpse into what working on the boat has been like for us the past few weeks:

A while back I designed a mast step for us, we had a sailor/machinist friend advise us and then make them up for us, and Jonny installed them.  We love them, and it turns out that others do, too.  We had enough requests that we decided to start making and selling them on a small scale, and see if it goes anywhere.

We’re calling it “Climb the Mast“.

They are sweet steps, as far as mast steps go.  They’re small, so lines don’t catch on them, they’re easy to install, and they’re cheap.  The only reason we made our own is because we weren’t happy with any of the other options available–the others are either to big (the fixed stirrup-style), too unwieldy (the folding ones), or too expensive (all of them).

They work so well that we’ve been running up the mast regularly while we are out in the bay under full sail.  It makes for good group pictures during our social sails, to do them from the top of the mast looking down with the sails flying and our wake spreading out behind us.

Anyway, we hope that maybe this little side project could help fund the trip, so if you know of anyone looking to put in mast steps, point them to the website Jonny set up: www.climbthemast.com.  Also, check out the original maintenance blog post I did when we first put them in, and also Jonny’s post about drilling the holes in the mast.

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In honor of Independence Day, and brave adventurers like Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, I dug up an American flag from the wet locker and hung the stars and bars from backstay. I hate to get all jingoistic, but there’s something fantastic about a boat, a flag, and the water, something almost timeless, something that people 233 years ago and long before that must also have recognized. I’d call the combination a triumvirate of awesomeness, were not that label already taken.

The flag, five feet off the deck, bestowed upon Syzygy some glory. That afternoon, the wind picked up from the west, and the flag began flapping loudly, wrapping around itself, fluttering and flicking about. I was working on the lazarette — aka stern locker — and kept ducking to keep from getting smacked in the face by the flag. There’s a metaphor for a boat: sacrificing practicality for beauty, functionality for symbolism. These are sacrifices worth making, sometimes.

So I kept my head low, determined to crank some productivity out of the holiday. Unfortunately, I kept my nose so close to the deck that the wisdom in the air almost blew by unnoticed. Almost, but not quite.

Jim, from Kanga, stopped by, and we chatted about ideal gasket-making techniques, the better to keep the ocean out of the new stern locker. “Water’s gonna come in the hatch,” Jim said. “You can’t force it, just direct it.” He paused. “Actually, you can’t direct it, just coax it.” He recognized the poetry he’d spoken, and laughed. It applied to so many hurdles before us. I told him I wouldn’t forget it.

An hour later, two of Jim’s friends stopped by. I was upside down and backwards in the new propane locker, fiberglassing away, and when they — a couple — yelled hello, I waved with my foot before extracting myself. They laughed because they’d spent three years fixing up (“nerding out” they called it) a 1988 Passport 42 before sailing it to New Zealand, and recognized what I was up to. Their work had paid off; their voyage wasn’t compromised by mechanical failures or catastrophes, and that bolstered my spirits. They recalled having to explain to friends that, contrary to popular opinion, sailing wasn’t all fancy drinks and white shoes; that nautical-themed pashmina afghans never entered into the equation. “You’ve probably heard this before,” he said, “but remember: It’s a lifestyle, not a vacation.” Here’s to the eloquence therei

Two days later, still nose-down, Matt and I stopped by Svendsen’s, to empty out our bank accounts and acquire some information and goods in the process. I’d been having a bitch of a time polishing the metal of our new radar arch, so I stopped by Svendsen’s metal shop, and asked Chris for advice. He led me around the workshop, revealing industrial-grade tools I could only fantasize about. No, I could not borrow them, and no, I could not afford to pay $80/hour to have them polish the metal for me. Chris told me where to pick up jeweler’s rouge (aka grinding paste) and then, all Yoda-like, sans-pronouns, offered the best advice I’ve heard all year: “When faced with daunting task, lower expectations.” I may take him up on that.

The sail-making kit arrived from Sailrite two months ago.  I immediately opened the box and had, on a mini-scale, the same feeling upon seeing our boat for the first time.  “What the hell am I getting myself into?”  I slowly plodded through the instructions and all of the components.  Like poking around the boat for the first time, this induced more feelings of dread.

34 yards each of light blue and dark blue ripstop Nylon Sailcloth
79 feet of leech line
81 feet of 5-ply Waxed Bobbin Twine (I still don’t know what this is for)
1 square foot of 2-3 oz Pearl Gray Cowhide Leather
240 yards of Seamstick Basting Tape (both 1/2” and 1/4”)
a variety of other stuff

One last item caught my eye.  2400 yards of 1 oz V-46 White Polyester UV Thread.  Over 1.36 miles of thread.  It would take me 9 minutes to sprint a distance the length of the thread included in the Sailrite kit.  It would take our boat over 7 minutes, at top speed in heavy winds to cover the distance.  I tried not to think about how much sewing this implied.

I did know the first step, though, of this project:  securing a location to do the sewing.  My condo would not do.  The total square footage of my condo is 1126  feet, not including the balcony.  The largest room is a mere 220 square feet.  The square footage of our sail: 706.37 square feet.  My condo would not do.

I had been to another sail-making shop though, when we needed a patch put on our jib.  They had an enormous wood floor that immediately made me harken back to my high school basketball days.  The perfect location was so obvious.  I even work at a school… easy access!  A week later I sheepishly asked my principal at my school if I could use the gymnasium after school the next week.

“For what?” she inquired.

“I’m sewing a sail for our sailboat.”

“Wow.  Do you know how to make a sail?”

“No.”

“Do you know how to sew?”

“No.”

She laughed and wished me luck.

A week later I carted into the gym a box of supplies, including my sewing machine, some scissors, pens, black clips and scotch tape that I borrowed from school, and the Sailrite kit.

I then left and fetched a 48-inch wide dust mop.  Because I knew the floor was gross.  No way was I laying our brand new thousand dollar sail down on that floor.

I pulled out the scraps they include for patches and making sure the settings on your sewing machine are correct; they would be my practice test runs and only the fourth time I had ever operated the sewing machine.  I hemmed and hawed, but finally set up a work station in the middle of the gym floor and went at it.

And it was surprisingly easy!

Step 1: Take a roll of Seamstick basting tape and methodically roll it on to the edge of one of the sail panels.  
Note: Be careful to keep the sail taught but not stretched while applying.  There can be no bunching or buckling of the sail or of the basting tape.

Step 2: Line up two panels.  Remove backing to basting tape.
Note: a little at a time is best.

Step 3:  Apply one sail panel on top of another, lining it up on the marks drawn on the sail by Sailrite.

Note: This time both sails must be taught, but not stretched, as they are joined together.  
This results in awkward positioning wherein one knee is on the union of the sail panels where they have already been basted so as to provide the main anchor point for proper sail cloth tensioning for the next basting. The other leg, so as not to be on the sail cloth, thus providing another anchor point on the sail, resulting in improper tensioning, and consequently buckling or bunching of the sail cloth, must wrap on top of and behind the other leg.  Now while balanced here, one hand pulls taught one sail, the other hand pulls taught and applies the other sail to the basting tape.  Yoga helps.  The position I would get into, incidentally, looks a little like a kneeling eagle pose.

Step 4:  You should only do the joining of sail panels in small increments so as to ensure a proper sail union.  “Basting is a  critical step in sail-making.”  So says Sailrite.  Therefore, repeat step 3, 8 inches at a time, and just to join two sail panels you might be at this for 40 feet.

Step 5:  Roll up both panels from each end so that only the seam is showing.  
Note: Rolling the 4 foot wide panels at the head (top) of the sail by yourself is easy.  Rolling 40 foot wide panels at the foot (bottom) of the sail by yourself is not.

Step 6:  Finally some sewing!  Drag entire ensemblage over to sewing station and begin to sew.  
Note: A 45 degree zigzag stitch is proper, 3 mm wide.  No backing of the thread is required at the edges because luff tape will cover and anchor the strands of thread.  Be sure to sew as close to the edge of the seam as possible.
picture

Step 7:  Repeat Step 6.  Two rows of zigzag stitching are required at each seam.
Note: Three rows if using a straight stitch.
Note: On 40 foot sail panel seams, two rows of zigzag stitching will require you to change the bobbin on a standard consumer sewing machine a minimum of three times.  This will be annoying.
Note: On 40 foot sail panel seams, two rows of zigzag stitching will take beginning sewers 2 hours.
Note:  Your back will hurt from leaning over.
Note:  Your eyes will get fuzzy from staring at one spot for hours.
Note:  Your left leg will cramp from being awkwardly positioned to the side while controlling the speed with your foot on the footpad.
Note:  Your right knee will hurt from being on the ground for hours.  Even if wearing a knee pad.

There you have it.  Sewing the sail panels together in 7 easy steps.  All it takes is time.  Lots of time.  Next comes the reinforcement patches on the corners and the edges.  Both do not seem as straight forward as stitching in a straight line for 40 feet.

I built this:

Out of this:

I read Nigel Calder’s “Refrigeration for Pleasureboats” three times, I read Richard Kollman’s forum on marine refrigeration, and I spoke with Marcus a few times (a fellow cruiser-friend in the marina).  Marcus is lending me his top-quality, indispensable refrigeration tools (much thanks to Marcus!), and also turned me on to RParts, where I ordered all my stuff.  I learned how to “sweat” copper tubing (i.e. silver soldering copper), how to form flare fittings, how to use a refrigeration gauge set, the detailed principles behind refrigeration, and I built my own refrigeration system.  I’m pretty proud of this 1.5′ x 1.5′ x 1′ cube of refrigeration goodness–it’s hard to believe that a month ago I didn’t understand how this thing worked, and now I’ve built my own out of parts.  It’s not making anything cold yet, but I pressure tested it yesterday and to my immense satisfaction and relief I have no leaks!  (that’s huge–to find and fix a leak would have been a nightmare)

Refrigeration is a lot more interesting once you understand how it works.  You don’t want to hear the details, but I have admin access on this blog so I’m going to tell you all about it.

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A refrigerator works by moving heat from one place to another.  It does not “create” cold.  Heat is removed from the icebox and deposited at the “hotbox” (that’s my own term, it will be helpful for the discussion).  On our boat, the hotbox happens to be the storage space under the quarterberth; for your fridge at home, the hotbox is just the space behind the fridge.

On each side of the circuit there is a heat exchanger.  The heat exchanger transfers heat from the air to the refrigerant in the icebox, and from the refrigerant back to the air in the hotbox.  The heat exchanger in the icebox is called the evaporator; the heat exchanger in the hotbox is called the condenser.

The refrigerant is the medium that moves the heat around the circuit.  If the refrigerant was simply pushed around in a circle, it would not be inclined to transfer heat out of the cool icebox into the warm hotbox–that would be trying to push the heat uphill, so to speak.  The key is to pressurize the refrigerant, using a compressor.  When the refrigerant is compressed, it warms up; when it de-compresses (expands) it gets cold.  The refrigerant comes out of the icebox medium-warm.  The compressor pressurizes the refrigerant, which heats it up.  Then the pressurized refrigerant passes through the condenser–which looks like a mini car radiator–and as the refrigerant passes through the condenser its heat is transferred to the air (just like your car radiator, in fact).  The refrigerant returns to the icebox at a mediumish temperature, but this time it’s pressurized.  At the icebox, the refrigerant is allowed to expand–which causes it to get cold.  The cold refrigerant sucks up heat as it passes through the evaporator.  Then the process is repeated.  Good diagram.

There’s one more principle at work: phase changes.  If you just pumped a liquid around in circles, from the evaporator to the condenser to the evaporator to the condenser, etc, then you might be able to remove a small amount of heat from the icebox and dump it at the condenser.  However, you can’t suck up much heat just by warming up a liquid and then cooling it off.  The real way to suck up heat and drop it off elsewhere is to use a PHASE CHANGE to your advantage.  The phase change is the key to the whole process.

Consider heating a quart of water in a pot on the stove.  It takes 320 BTU of energy to heat that water from 33 degrees F to 211 degrees–320 BTU to change the temperature of the water by 178 degrees.  Then, to heat that water only 2 more degrees, from just 211 degrees to 213 degrees, it takes 1934 BTU!  Because at 212 degrees, the H2O changes from water to steam; this is the phase change.  During the entire process of converting water to steam, you keep dumping in large quantities of energy and the temperature stays the same–all the energy goes into the conversion from liquid to gas.  The message is that the energy required to do a phase change from water to steam is WAY GREATER than the energy required to change the temperature of the water itself.

In refrigeration, we store our heat as a phase change of the refrigerant in order to efficiently transfer it from the icebox to the hotbox.  We don’t use water though, because we want the phase change to take place around the 20 degrees F in our refrigerator (not very helpful to us for it to take place at 212 degrees).  We use refrigerant specially formulated to undergo the phase change near freezing (in our case, R134a).

We pump a liquid to the evaporator, and then let it expand into a gas; that expansion to a gas sucks huge amounts of heat out of the box.  Then back at the compressor we compress the gas, which heats it up (essentially exchanging “pressure energy” for heat).  Then we send it through the condenser, where the the hot gas dumps off all its heat and turns back into a liquid (condenses!) in the process.  Then we sent the liquid back to the evaporator, where it turns into a gas again . . . and so on.  The refrigerant goes to the icebox as a liquid, but it returns as a gas; the phase changes that happens in the icebox and the hotbox are the primary means of temporarily storing the heat in the refrigerant for transfer from one location to another.

Refrigeration is by far the single largest energy sink on a cruising sailboat.  In the average residential home, refrigeration is 5% of the energy bill–not an insignificant amount. One site says that the average fridge uses ~$8 of electricity per month, depending on how big, what kind, and where you live.  The efficiency of the refrigeration system depends very strongly on the refrigerant dumping off heat as it passes through the condenser.  Most systems use air-cooled condensers (I put in both air-cooled and water-cooled condensers–the air-cooled is the radiator-looking thing in the picture above; the water-cooled is the black circle of tubing on the top of the apparatus).  If the air-cooled condenser is located in a cool spot with good air-flow, this heat dump can happen very effectively; if the condenser is located in a hot spot with stagnant air, or even worse in the hot engine room, then the refrigeration cycle’s efficiency plummets.  Meaning that the fridge runs much longer, and consumes much more power.  Moral: the quickest improvement you can make to reduce your energy needs on a sailboat is to improve the air circulation around the refrigeration condenser.

You can do the same for your fridge at home: just pull the fridge away from the wall an extra inch, and you’ll greatly increase the air-circulation around the condenser, improving the efficiency.  Avoid shoving plastic or paper bags between the wall and the fridge for storage–that’s not helping out your fridge, or your electrical bill.  Even better, use a vacuum to clean off the condenser tubing on the back of the fridge–that gunk kills the condenser’s ability to dump heat.

just to let you know what we’re up to . . . Jonny and I are taking the boat apart, starting too many huge projects all at once, and getting way in over our heads. Good times! We are simultaneously rebuilding the fridge, moving the propane locker to build a lazarette hatch, and rebuilding the entire radar arch/bimini/solar panel setup. A few pics:

When I was growing up on the farm my dad would weld out in the shop all the time. And so I placed that activity in the same realm as everything else shop-related: loud, dirty, greasy, uncomfortable, involving flying hot shards of metal, and as a result I wanted nothing to do with it.

The boomerang of rebellious devil-may-care youth may fly far, but oh how often it eventually ends up right back where it started . . .

Since buying a boat I have become more and more fascinated with welding. I decided we needed a new radar arch to accommodate our future wind generator, solar panels, and radar antenna, and that I needed to learn how to weld so I could make it myself (of course, right? how else? everything always all by ourselves). Like Jon with his sailmaking–like everything else we’ve done–I went big all at once. I got a membership to the Tech Shop for $70/month, paid $50 for the introductory TIG welding class, and bought $250 worth of 20′ long sections of 2″ diameter 304 stainless steel pipe that were a real hassle to cart around on top of the xterra down the highway.

Maybe I used my learning to weld as an excuse to make a radar arch, or maybe I used the radar arch as an excuse to learn how to weld; either way at this point I’m in ‘ass deep to an elephant’, as jonny likes to say.

Turns out welding is absolutely amazing. Totally space-age modern-marvel out of this world activity. Welding is proof of how far science and technology has taken us. The welding machine that I use at the Tech Shop is a box approximately 1′ x 1.5′ x 2′ in size–much smaller than a suitcase. It plugs into the wall, and it hooks up to a gas tank. Then you grab a stylus-shaped “torch”, bring it close to a piece of metal, and press your foot on a pedal on the floor–and then would you believe that little machine ignites a 1/4″ cone of light hotter than the surface of the sun. That’s right: instant 10,000 degrees in the palm of your hand, a little mini sun that melts metal. (Crazy!) You have to wear a face mask too dark to see through in full daylight; without it the 10,000 degree arc will blind you in seconds. (Scary!) You have to wear gloves and cover all exposed skin, because it creates so much UV that it will give you a sunburn in a minute. (Hot!) When you hold that torch, your hand is 6″ away from a tiny 10,000 degree cone of orange and green plasma that dances on the metal. Now why didn’t they tell me THAT when I was younger? Who wouldn’t want to hold the sun and fire it up and melt some metal with 10,000 degrees of blinding light?

The type of welding I’m learning how to do is commonly referred to as TIG welding, which stands for “tungsten inert gas”. It’s more accurately called GTAW welding: “gas tungsten arc welding”. It is the most precise and most versatile, yet also slowest, most difficult, and least used form of welding. In TIG welding (as in other forms of welding), the metal is melted by heat created by an electric arc, EXACTLY like the static electric spark that jumps from your hand to the doorknob after you walk across a carpet with rubber soles. Welding is a sustained form of that static electric spark–if you could keep that spark going and then make it 100,000 times more powerful, you could be welding. In TIG welding, you connect the electricity to a thin, sharpened stake of tungsten (called the “electrode”) and then you bring the electrode really close to (but not touching!) the metal. Really close–like an 1/8″. Then you press the pedal to give it juice. And you have to hold it that exact distance while you move the torch along a path which you can hardly see because you have some dark-as-hell facemask on. And you have to move kind of fast but not too fast. And I haven’t even mentioned yet that with your left hand (the torch is in your right hand) you have to precisely jab (dab) a rod of “filler” metal into the melted pool of metal, to add metal to make the weld.

Get this: if the electrode touches the metal accidentally, or if you jab the filler rod into the electrode accidentally–both of which I do far too often–the event is punctuated by an even brighter spark and pop immediately followed by an accusatory green flame, which indicates that you have contaminated (i.e. fucked up) your weld with some of the metal from your electrode. At which point you have to CEASE AND DESIST, gingerly dismantle the torch (gingerly because it is still bloody hot, remember), and take your tungsten electrode over to the grinder to grind a fresh new uncontaminated tip onto it.

The whole thing is really hard. It’s really, really damn hard. It’s not hard to make any old arc, it’s not hard to melt any old metal. But it’s hard to get a result that doesn’t look like cyclops went wild on your metal with his phaser eye–I’m talking all black and gobby and bubbly and smoking crappy. And in welding (like in climbing), if it looks bad, it probably is bad: weak and worthless. Why is it so hard? There are tons of different settings, and it’s hard to tell which setting is having what effect. That little suitcase of a welding box is a freaking computer with a gazillion different options and blinking lights and whatnot. And then you have to have super fine motor skills to be able to hold both the torch and the filler rod so steady, and move them so quickly yet precisely, so close to the metal, all while you play this foot pedal to control how many thousands of degrees of heat you’re pumping into a tiny spot on the metal. And all metal is different, and different thicknesses need different settings, and each different joint requires a different technique . . .

All of which makes this radar-arch project daunting. I don’t want to add some ugly weak heavy janky piece of shit to the back of our boat now, do I? I agonized for months over what diameter and thickess and type of pipe to use, and how to join them, and where the support struts should go, and the moment of truth is coming in a day or so and I hope that it isn’t all shitty and stupid looking. I’ve spent a fair bit of time at the tech shop welding practice sections of tubing, and even at my best they are still black and ugly and melty. (You might well guess that at this point “ass deep to an elephant” may be too deep for me.) But I’m not getting much better and I don’t know what else to change and it’s time to move forward with this project and I think that my welds might be good enough. So tomorrow jonny and I go to the tech shop to make the first real welds on the actual radar arch. I KNOW they are going to be ugly. I’m hoping that they will at least be acceptably strong. I’ll post some pictures, regardless of how dissatisfied I am (especially now that I’ve laid the groundwork about how impossibly difficult it is . But damn! no matter what welding is a totally amazing thing that now I can (kind of) do!

*addition note: Pictures are complements of Jonny; I still have to add some shots of the resulting welds