A Journey: Oak Chapter
Dear brother Ken Powell and his wife Penny, sailing Tillicum in Georgia Strait.
OAK CHAPTER
“Me and Baby Brother sure had fun together. Love that Baby Brother!” A song by War I sing nowadays to go with my memories of Kenny. For a long time, our lives crossed only occasionally, since I was 9 years older, with brother Scott and sister Sandy in between. We drifted in separate currents most of those years, until he came back from the Spokane Expo with that wild dream of building his own schooner. Somehow I had to tag along after him this time, just to see where he would go. What a ride! He swept us all up in his dream, friends and family alike, we were all charmed and drawn in to this vortex of Kenny’s boat.
He started gathering the raw materials all over the state, prime slabs of old growth doug fir, red cedar, yellow cedar, yew and choice cuts of oak. Tons of lead for the keel, nails and screws, and outrageous tools, all were carefully gathered up and stashed, while he found an old Dodge power wagon and restored it. He built a floating cabin on the Turner Bay beach and later towed it to Guemes Island and hauled it up to the middle of the island where it grew stilts and spawned a gigantic boat shed, wherein he lofted the lines, and commenced to make magic. With his black shepherd Wyatt constantly barking and getting in the way, Kenny built his boat, 45 feet of grace and beauty. And while the boat was under construction, Kenny built a community. His closest friends were the other shipwrights who crowded around, some to help, some to learn, some to scoff and bet he wouldn’t make it, and all to be won over by the glorious obsession that was Kenny’s schooner Tillicum. I got to join in, I had the wonderful fortune to share in some of his joys and challenges, as the job went forward. We worked together, and I came to respect him like no other man I had known.
The richest segment was the bending of the oak ribs, and I got to help him with almost all of them. We started with white oak boards about 3” by 10”, and ripped them into 2 1/2” square sticks, most about 12 ft long. While ripping these pieces on the table saw, we worked in a cloud of sawdust, and it was my first experience of oak. The tangy tannic smell has stuck in my memory ever since, to be repeated and refined by the richer smell of the oak steam, when we bent the ribs into place. That part of the job was thrilling. Wood fire blazing, with a 20 gallon closed vessel boiling away, delivering steam through a pipe into the long box containing the sticks of oak, 3 at a time, or 6 if we were feeling really able. Kenny checked the oak every few minutes, to see when they were done. Each piece had to be pulled out of the box quickly when it was at just the right degree of softening, hot enough but not too hot, dripping with boiling water, and it was one of the few chores requiring us to wear gloves. The rib was hoisted straight up, high above the shear, and fed down into the space between the horizontal timbers that had been fastened to the molds. The first couple feet were easy, then as the oak met the curve, one of us would take up the maul and start bashing it on the end, driving it down and around the curve. If it was properly cooked, it would bend just enough to follow the curve and drive on down to meet the keel. If we had misjudged the steam, or if the stick had a flaw, it could either refuse to bend, and break, or the driving end would shatter, or worse yet, it would get almost all the way down, and separate, the fibers tearing apart inside the curve. About a quarter of the pieces failed for one reason or another, and we would have to wrench them out, or reach in with the chainsaw and cut them out in little bits. And of course each time that happened our rhythm would be shot, the next piece would cook too long and be more likely to fail too. More cussing, toss ‘em out, reload the steam box, have another smoke, and go again. All the while the oak steam penetrated everything , soaking us and our clothes with that whiskey aroma, and I was in heaven, learnin’ and churnin’ with my brother Kenny. Those days are with me always, especially every time I sip a little Scotch.
Then came the planking, and I could only watch, as the skill and patience for shaping each plank and fitting them so snugly just eluded me. It was beyond my doing, but not my admiring, and I sometimes stood and watched in awe as Kenny sawed and planed and gently coaxed those planks into place, every seam perfect for corking. And the final plank, the whiskey plank, was an event of glorious celebration, bringing friends and family from all over the place to carouse and toast the birth of that graceful stout hull. Tony cooked up a batch of his famous octopus stew, and we partied like the night would never end, while Wyatt played one of his favorite games, racing through the crowd with a 6 ft beam in his mouth, crashing into as many pairs of drunken legs as he could. He came at you from behind, running between two people so the stick catches both right behind the knees, bowling us over and dashing off to the next pair with that wild wolfy gleam in his eye. If he ever dropped the stick, he would commence barking, and Wyatt could bark so forcefully his whole body would thrash around, and he could knock you down even without the club. All the while somebody is always yelling “Shut up Wyatt, Wyatt shut the fuck up!” and the party goes on, beer and whiskey and cigarettes and sea chanties, and the storming warmth of loving friends, caught up in Kenny’s dream.
The months rolled along, and Kenny kept at it, mostly alone, piece by hand-shaped piece assembling that beautiful craft, until she was ready to launch, and sure enough that too was an event to be remembered. August 14, 1982, the day chosen by the sun and moon together, for we needed the widest spread possible between low and high tide in daylight.
The day before launch, we cleared away all the trash, lumber, tools, furniture, cans, bottles, and barrels that had accumulated around the boat during its years of construction, and opened up the south end of the shop. Kenny had already built the trailer under the boat, and we hitched it up to Kegan, the 46 Dodge power wagon that seemed able to move mountains, and tried to get the boat trailer under way. Grunt! No way. She won’t budge. Well maybe a few more horses would do the trick, so Phil brought in his flat bed, another Dodge, tho much newer and with questionable class, having a slush tranny and all. Chained up in tandem, they both managed to burn a little rubber, but the boat won’t go. So Harold to the rescue, my 50 Dodge flatbed, granny gear and all, with a couple tons of ballast on the bed for good measure, another length of chain, and we are ready to go. Grunting and groaning, with fearful lurchings and the unmistakable smell of burning clutches, we finally broke her free and started to pull Tillicum out into the road, and the sweet afternoon sun. Gently we cleared the end of the driveway, and headed west onto Edens Road, and as soon as all 22 tires were safely on the pavement, we shut em all down and ran off into the field across the road, to look back in awe at the beautiful hull of Tillicum, out in the open for the first time in her life. What a site!
Kids and dogs running around, backs being slapped, and toasts being made, we had a little party of admiration for that gorgeous lady taking her first tentative steps out into the world. Gently we rolled her down to the park at the intersection, this time with Kegan proudly doing the honors all by himself, and carefully parked her on the shoulder of the road, headed west toward the morrow.
First light found us inching our way westward, a few miles across the island, and finally parking her down at the lowest spot on the beach we could get to, that goofy trailer pushed the last 100 yards by logger friend Bill and his skidder. Cut out all the unnecessary bits of the trailer, paint the bottom, and wait for the tide to float her. Plenty of time for another party. And of course we did. More beer, more songs, more hot August sun beating down on us all, unheeded in our joy. Through it all, Kenny never lost his cool, calmly making sure that everything that had to be done was properly done, and no more. Every detail attended to, he sat in the cockpit, and unwrapped his special present from Susy, a beautiful concertina, which would sound much better when he learned to play it some. As more and more boats gathered round, and more people hollered and sang, sister Sandy swam out with a bottle of champagne, just as Tillicum finally slipped her bonds, and gently floated free! Our hearts soared. At that moment, Kenny entered the world of the Immortals, and we knew we had been a part of something truly magical. These are the memories of my dear baby brother I cherish most. They were his most treasured moments too.
Nine short years later, Kenny died in my arms. He met and overcame so many obstacles, but the cancer finally won. I miss him terribly. I will always be grateful for the magic he shared with me.
“Me and Baby Brother sure had fun together. Love that Baby Brother!” A song by War I sing nowadays to go with my memories of Kenny. For a long time, our lives crossed only occasionally, since I was 9 years older, with brother Scott and sister Sandy in between. We drifted in separate currents most of those years, until he came back from the Spokane Expo with that wild dream of building his own schooner. Somehow I had to tag along after him this time, just to see where he would go. What a ride! He swept us all up in his dream, friends and family alike, we were all charmed and drawn in to this vortex of Kenny’s boat.
He started gathering the raw materials all over the state, prime slabs of old growth doug fir, red cedar, yellow cedar, yew and choice cuts of oak. Tons of lead for the keel, nails and screws, and outrageous tools, all were carefully gathered up and stashed, while he found an old Dodge power wagon and restored it. He built a floating cabin on the Turner Bay beach and later towed it to Guemes Island and hauled it up to the middle of the island where it grew stilts and spawned a gigantic boat shed, wherein he lofted the lines, and commenced to make magic. With his black shepherd Wyatt constantly barking and getting in the way, Kenny built his boat, 45 feet of grace and beauty. And while the boat was under construction, Kenny built a community. His closest friends were the other shipwrights who crowded around, some to help, some to learn, some to scoff and bet he wouldn’t make it, and all to be won over by the glorious obsession that was Kenny’s schooner Tillicum. I got to join in, I had the wonderful fortune to share in some of his joys and challenges, as the job went forward. We worked together, and I came to respect him like no other man I had known.
The richest segment was the bending of the oak ribs, and I got to help him with almost all of them. We started with white oak boards about 3” by 10”, and ripped them into 2 1/2” square sticks, most about 12 ft long. While ripping these pieces on the table saw, we worked in a cloud of sawdust, and it was my first experience of oak. The tangy tannic smell has stuck in my memory ever since, to be repeated and refined by the richer smell of the oak steam, when we bent the ribs into place. That part of the job was thrilling. Wood fire blazing, with a 20 gallon closed vessel boiling away, delivering steam through a pipe into the long box containing the sticks of oak, 3 at a time, or 6 if we were feeling really able. Kenny checked the oak every few minutes, to see when they were done. Each piece had to be pulled out of the box quickly when it was at just the right degree of softening, hot enough but not too hot, dripping with boiling water, and it was one of the few chores requiring us to wear gloves. The rib was hoisted straight up, high above the shear, and fed down into the space between the horizontal timbers that had been fastened to the molds. The first couple feet were easy, then as the oak met the curve, one of us would take up the maul and start bashing it on the end, driving it down and around the curve. If it was properly cooked, it would bend just enough to follow the curve and drive on down to meet the keel. If we had misjudged the steam, or if the stick had a flaw, it could either refuse to bend, and break, or the driving end would shatter, or worse yet, it would get almost all the way down, and separate, the fibers tearing apart inside the curve. About a quarter of the pieces failed for one reason or another, and we would have to wrench them out, or reach in with the chainsaw and cut them out in little bits. And of course each time that happened our rhythm would be shot, the next piece would cook too long and be more likely to fail too. More cussing, toss ‘em out, reload the steam box, have another smoke, and go again. All the while the oak steam penetrated everything , soaking us and our clothes with that whiskey aroma, and I was in heaven, learnin’ and churnin’ with my brother Kenny. Those days are with me always, especially every time I sip a little Scotch.
Then came the planking, and I could only watch, as the skill and patience for shaping each plank and fitting them so snugly just eluded me. It was beyond my doing, but not my admiring, and I sometimes stood and watched in awe as Kenny sawed and planed and gently coaxed those planks into place, every seam perfect for corking. And the final plank, the whiskey plank, was an event of glorious celebration, bringing friends and family from all over the place to carouse and toast the birth of that graceful stout hull. Tony cooked up a batch of his famous octopus stew, and we partied like the night would never end, while Wyatt played one of his favorite games, racing through the crowd with a 6 ft beam in his mouth, crashing into as many pairs of drunken legs as he could. He came at you from behind, running between two people so the stick catches both right behind the knees, bowling us over and dashing off to the next pair with that wild wolfy gleam in his eye. If he ever dropped the stick, he would commence barking, and Wyatt could bark so forcefully his whole body would thrash around, and he could knock you down even without the club. All the while somebody is always yelling “Shut up Wyatt, Wyatt shut the fuck up!” and the party goes on, beer and whiskey and cigarettes and sea chanties, and the storming warmth of loving friends, caught up in Kenny’s dream.
The months rolled along, and Kenny kept at it, mostly alone, piece by hand-shaped piece assembling that beautiful craft, until she was ready to launch, and sure enough that too was an event to be remembered. August 14, 1982, the day chosen by the sun and moon together, for we needed the widest spread possible between low and high tide in daylight.
The day before launch, we cleared away all the trash, lumber, tools, furniture, cans, bottles, and barrels that had accumulated around the boat during its years of construction, and opened up the south end of the shop. Kenny had already built the trailer under the boat, and we hitched it up to Kegan, the 46 Dodge power wagon that seemed able to move mountains, and tried to get the boat trailer under way. Grunt! No way. She won’t budge. Well maybe a few more horses would do the trick, so Phil brought in his flat bed, another Dodge, tho much newer and with questionable class, having a slush tranny and all. Chained up in tandem, they both managed to burn a little rubber, but the boat won’t go. So Harold to the rescue, my 50 Dodge flatbed, granny gear and all, with a couple tons of ballast on the bed for good measure, another length of chain, and we are ready to go. Grunting and groaning, with fearful lurchings and the unmistakable smell of burning clutches, we finally broke her free and started to pull Tillicum out into the road, and the sweet afternoon sun. Gently we cleared the end of the driveway, and headed west onto Edens Road, and as soon as all 22 tires were safely on the pavement, we shut em all down and ran off into the field across the road, to look back in awe at the beautiful hull of Tillicum, out in the open for the first time in her life. What a site!
Kids and dogs running around, backs being slapped, and toasts being made, we had a little party of admiration for that gorgeous lady taking her first tentative steps out into the world. Gently we rolled her down to the park at the intersection, this time with Kegan proudly doing the honors all by himself, and carefully parked her on the shoulder of the road, headed west toward the morrow.
First light found us inching our way westward, a few miles across the island, and finally parking her down at the lowest spot on the beach we could get to, that goofy trailer pushed the last 100 yards by logger friend Bill and his skidder. Cut out all the unnecessary bits of the trailer, paint the bottom, and wait for the tide to float her. Plenty of time for another party. And of course we did. More beer, more songs, more hot August sun beating down on us all, unheeded in our joy. Through it all, Kenny never lost his cool, calmly making sure that everything that had to be done was properly done, and no more. Every detail attended to, he sat in the cockpit, and unwrapped his special present from Susy, a beautiful concertina, which would sound much better when he learned to play it some. As more and more boats gathered round, and more people hollered and sang, sister Sandy swam out with a bottle of champagne, just as Tillicum finally slipped her bonds, and gently floated free! Our hearts soared. At that moment, Kenny entered the world of the Immortals, and we knew we had been a part of something truly magical. These are the memories of my dear baby brother I cherish most. They were his most treasured moments too.
Nine short years later, Kenny died in my arms. He met and overcame so many obstacles, but the cancer finally won. I miss him terribly. I will always be grateful for the magic he shared with me.
Above: Son Tracy Dylan, me, and Kenny at Bowman Bay
At right: Tillicum at Lovric's marina, Guemes Channel |
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