Wet Toad
The Toad is in the water.
Toad Afloat
Toad in the Yard
Sunday broke cool and glorious, and the Millennium Toad squatted
in the dooryard, full to the top of her garboards with Floyd and
hosewater. The level was only down a fraction overnight, so it
looked like the beast would float. We cornered a couple sheetrock
buckets and began to shovel her out.
It's been a long six months turning Erik's wood into a vessel,
and the last weeks were truly frantic. Juggling the 1001 boat
things meant dropping all my other balls. I'd stagger in at sunset
covered in solvents, and stumble out at dawn with a cuppa and
a new list.
Ready to go
Chainplate
The weather shone on us. Dry and sunny may be hard on the pumpkins,
but it's been a boon for the boatist. In the runup to Floyd we
had a string of pet days which dried the paint as quick as I could
slop it. Cousin Susan and I originally daubed the decks green,
thinking that was toadish, but it was much too frog, and lurid.
Strange to find myself opposed to lurid. I went and found a sandy
beige that looks like an old workboat. The Toad already has a
personality demanding respect. I suspect she's now in charge.
There was a steady parade of encouragement through the boatyard.
Every time I needed a hand, someone was there. Mr. Mann helped
me crawl around and hang the rudder. Bob Kane took me out in his
woods to fell a gaff and mast. Torbert spent two days roughing
out spars with a chainsaw and drawknife. The sailing rig wasn't
aboard for the launch, but not for want of trying.
Spar Sawing
Steerage
Managed to get three coats of deck paint on top of three coats
of green and primer. Even the last installations got at least
two coats of varnish as the perfect days rolled past. Steering
frames, lee boards, lee board brackets, oars, hatch covers. After
a fruitless search for water-tank epoxy to paint McLaughlin's
metallurgy, I settled on a triple dip of Ospho, Zinc-chromate,
and marine epoxy. The first turns iron oxide into iron phosphate,
the second is an effective galvanizer, then boat paint to perfect.
Bold and black. Even got another coat of white on her windage
and red on her bottom before the blow.
Floyd was just a two day drench with a bit of tree tossing by
the time he blew through here. I got soaked both days, tinkering
with details. Hanging lee boards and running lanyards. It took
me six hours of head scratching and hat wringing to get her steering
rig to work. The descriptions of drum and pulley steering on a
stockless rudder neglect to mention how crucial the placement
of purchase points is. In the end I dispensed with the quarter
pulleys, replaced them with lignum vitae fairleads, and positioned
them inboard of the rudder's arc about 18 inches. This took up
the foot of slack in the steering lines in the hard over position.
Rigged
Nose to
By Sunday noon I was in the hard over position. Too nervous to
eat. Bruce fed me a Sam Adams and made calming noises. Walked
me round like a restive horse. By one there were 50 people in
the yard, scoffing pot luck, and more hanging at the landing,
but no Delano. Finally Bruce drove me up the Post Road to roust
him out. "Thought you said 2 o'clock." Yeah. But I was too anxious
to wait.
Sandy squirted some ether in the intake and the diesel shuddered
into life. We bounced out of Milton's field towing the flatbed
and highballed for Brooklyn. Bruce had gone ahead to clear the
drive, and Delano backed the outfit up to the Toad. I'd agonized
over slewing her round, jacking, and blocking, but the boys had
said, "Aw hell, Bryce, we'll just pick it up and put it on."
So we did. One-two-three and a lift. A centipede shuffle to the
trailer. And a smart shove aboard. Eastman called the numbers
and major domoed, having survived more boat launching than the
rest of us combined. Not that there weren't some salty types in
the mix. There's nothing like a launching to put flavor in the
soup. Must have been 40 rough looking characters doing the doh-se-doh.
Hope someone got pictures.
Piper
Mike was in full kilt. He pumped the bag, set the pipes wailing,
and stepped out for the landing. We paraded the Toad to the water.
Peggy and I rode the float, and she declared herself Miss Pickled
Fiddlehead, for the occasion.
Parade
When the troop had circled round the ramp, I thanked everyone
for having been a part of the creation, and Peggy smacked the
cranse iron with a bottle of fizz. Once, twice, three, then four
times before the bottle broke. The Millennium Toad was wetted.
And off she slid to Scotland the Brave.
Cranse
And she's dry. Just the least bit of seep. Barely enough to wet
your feet. The Toad rides so high that her anticipated waterline
is 5 inches out of water. Eastman had insisted I have propulsion
ready, and we'd checked out the 9.9 that morning, so I hitched
a ride back up the hill to get it. Poor CC was all upset. She'd
stayed in the dooryard while everyone had gone to the party, because
no one had told her to come. We put her and the motor aboard,
and made a victory lap of the anchorage.
A victory for community, too. This vessel has been a vehicle to
bring people together. I feel it's been as much a town project
as an individual absurdity, and I tried to say as much at the
launch. Those who egged me on shared the vision of a local traditional
workboat sitting at the head of the harbor. A Bowdoinham barge
to remind us of our history. The crew at the Town Landing had
solutions to most of my puzzles, and kept my heart up. It took
a gang of us to move this beast to the water, and there aren't
many gatherings like that these days. And it's going to take a
full load to set her down to her marks, so the party continues.
Eastman's Crew
Another view
This journal has taken on tunnel vision as the Toad has swallowed
me. I'll try and catch you up on town news in later installments.
Maybe even do a painting or two. Right now all I can do is croak:
the Toad is in the water.