60 percent Git-Rot and 40 percent mahogany, this 1930s daysailer never stopped leaking
Issue 10 : Jan/Feb 2000
When my husband was a sophomore in high school, he and his friend Mike bought an old boat they found in a yard up in Traverse City, Michigan. It was a 19-foot daysailer, constructed of molded three-inch-wide planks of mahogany overlaid by a layer of poorly applied fiberglass.
A small bronze plaque in the forepeak proclaimed that the boat had been built in the late 1930s by an aviation company named Kagard. The sails were Boston originals, made of cotton. The inventory was small but serviceable and included a mainsail, a working jib, and a storm mainsail sewn to belly out and spill air.
The auxiliary engine was a 5-hp Wizard outboard of unknown age. My husband, Clancy, estimated that the centerboard, constructed of wafered steel and lead, weighed in between 400 and 500 pounds. The boys sailed the boat on Big Glenn Lake for the next two summers. After graduation, college loomed ahead and the boat was left on a trailer in a relative’s barn.
Several years passed by. College, marriage, and kids took precedence. Clancy moved to Florida with his young family, leaving the wooden boat behind. While he lived in Florida, he honed his sailing skills on a Flying Dutchman. He sold the Dutchman before his return to Michigan and was boatless until after his divorce. During the first year of our relationship, Clancy traipsed back to Traverse City and salvaged the old boat from the barn. Mike was no longer interested in the boat and turned over his interest to my future husband. At that time we both lived in the city and had nowhere to store a boat. A kind friend with a double lot allowed us to park the boat and trailer so we could begin the restoration process.
Injecting Git-Rot
The first thing that became apparent was that a lot of dry rot had set in under the fiberglass. Clancy crawled around the interior of the hull with a Phillips-head screwdriver, poking, prodding, and injecting the bad spots with Git-Rot, a penetrating liquid epoxy. The next hurdle was a slightly delaminated mast, which he proceeded to glue and bolt together. It wasn’t pretty, but it was solid. A lot of the hardware was either worn or gone, so he made several trips to various hardware and boat stores to replace what had been broken or lost. New turnbuckles were installed on the stays and shrouds. We were ready to go.
The day of our maiden launch loomed gray and gusty. We hitched the trailer to the truck, and off we went to put the boat into Reeds Lake, in East Grand Rapids. We launched the boat from the public ramp, and she immediately began to take on water. Clancy assured me this was normal, that the wood had to swell to stop the leakage. Heck, I was in love. I believed him.
Fortunately, he had thrown in a small bucket. The engine cranked over with no effort, and we motored out into the lake for our first sail. This was my first sailing experience. I came from a motorboat family and was familiar with boating but had never been on a sailboat. Clancy raised the sails, and off we went. Boy, could that boat go! We toodled around Reeds Lake, Clancy sailing, me bailing. The wind piped up past the point of being comfortable so we decided to call it a day. We prepared to tack and — twang! — a shroud came loose and a spreader banged up against the main.
We have a problem
We doused the sails, and Clancy turned to start the engine. A most horrible grinding noise came when he pulled the cord. No start. He pulled the cord again, and the grinding continued, but still no start. He pulled back the housing, tinkered with the air supply, then the gas, and then the spark plugs. Still no start.
After 30 minutes of pulling, grinding, and tinkering, Clancy informed me that we had a problem. Little did I realize that I should never have mentioned that I had my Senior Lifesaving Card and could swim a mile. Seeing that he couldn’t swim more than 50 feet without sinking, the dubious honor of swimming the boat back to the ramp became mine. He tied a rope to the bow eye, and off I swam.
The next day we took the engine to the local outboard fixit shop. When we picked it up, we were informed that it would now start — but they usually didn’t work on lawnmower engines.
For our second jaunt to Reeds Lake, we decided to invite a friend. Ralph had worked his way through college by serving in the merchant marine and had done some heavy voyaging on freighters in Lake Superior. He came prepared, his feet ensconced in his merchant-marine-issue deckboots. Oh well, we told ourselves, if it comes to the worst, he can use them to bail with.
The wind was up and gusting. We sailed close-hauled, tacking back and forth across the lake with the rails in the water. There were no reef points on the mainsail, and we hadn’t thought to bring the sailbag containing the stormsail. Ralph turned the most peculiar shade of green. Clancy and I looked at each other and shrugged. Ralph never asked to sail with us again.
We decided to sail a new lake for our third adventure. We had been informed that Bostwick Lake, north of town, was very sailable. We had no trouble launching, and the engine fired right up. This time, we brought along Clancy’s two boys, Ian and Brad. The boys were a little skeptical about the expedition but did what they were told while we raised the sail and beat a course up the lake.
Bailed furiously
Water began to seep in. We had planned well, though, and had thrown in two bailing buckets. We sailed for an hour. Halfway back, the wind died. We doused the sails, and Clancy pulled on the starter. Nothing. As we drifted along, we took on more and more water. The centerboard housing was leaking. The boys bailed furiously, grumbling about the wacky things their dad thought was fun.
Clancy looked at me. I knew what was expected. Over the side I went, rope in hand, side-stroking my way back to the ramp. The boys were not impressed with their future stepmother.
We bought more Git-Rot, more epoxy, more filler, and more grout. By this time, we figured the boat was 60 percent Git-Rot and 40 percent mahogany. Clancy pottered around with the engine and got it running one more time. Fall arrived, school started, and the boat was put away for the season. The boat sat on its trailer for two years.
We married and moved out to a small town east of Grand Rapids, putting the boat in the backyard. Then the sailing bug bit us again, and we decided to fix the boat once more. This time, we decided to do a total restoration. We decided to remove all the old fiberglass from the hull so that every bit of dry rot would be in full view. The centerboard housing had to be fixed, and several other minor repairs had to be made. Clancy used the truck and the come-along to remove the centerboard from the housing.
Everything stank
We decided that the best way to remove the fiberglass was by the heat-and-yank method. Clancy worked with a propane torch and locking pliers. I used a torch and a large paint scraper. For weeks we torched, yanked, and scraped. On the first day of our endeavor, we realized we were poisoning ourselves with the fumes. We tied wet rags around our faces. The process stank. Our clothes stank. Our hair stank. Our skin stank. And the stench wouldn’t wash off. The boys refused to have anything to do with us when we were in our “boat mode.”
After we had removed the majority of the fiberglass, we realized we had another problem. The glue that had been used wouldn’t come off, and large portions of thatchy-looking cloth backing still adhered to the wood. We began to sand. Then we spent hours trying to get fiberglass fibers out of our fingers. We finally came to the conclusion that this boat was never going to be fair, and filled whatever holes we could, slapped the paint on, and called it good. We were running out of summer and wanted an outing, so we planned our next sail carefully.
We chose a hot August Saturday. The wind felt like it had been blowing across a desert. We decided to take the boat up to Wabasis Lake, about 25 miles northeast of Grand Rapids, because it had a nice picnic area and swimming beach. We had to have something to bribe the kids with.
More bailing
There was a lot of traffic on the lake that day. Fishing boats were trolling along, ski boats were zooming back and forth, and a few catamarans were zipping here and there. The lake was weedy, and the water was muddy, so we headed out to the middle where things wouldn’t be so stirred up. The boat leaned against the wind and began to pick up speed. Wham! We were aground. The centerboard was protruding though the housing. Water poured in. Clancy pulled on the starter furiously. I yanked the sails down. The boys bailed and sputtered.
I got my rope and didn’t wait to be told. Over the side I went, into three feet of water and a foot of muck. I am not a squeamish person, but lake muck is just not my thing. There were too many weeds to swim through. I envisioned thousands of leeches attaching their slimy selves to my body. I began the long slog back. Clancy sat in the boat, and I walked the boat back in. There was something wrong with this picture. I decided right then and there that I’d had enough of sailing that particular boat.
One warm fall day I looked out the dining room window and saw a stranger examining the wooden boat and trailer in our driveway. I went out into the yard, wondering what was up. The man looked up and apologized for intruding. He had seen the boat from the road and was intrigued. He asked if the boat was for sale. I was incredulous. For sale? Someone would pay money for the boat?
A miracle sale
Clancy and I had discussed how much it was going to cost to do further repairs and had decided that mahogany made very good firewood. And this man wanted to buy it. He explained that he had just taken the Power Squadron course, and that a friend of his was interested in wooden-boat restoration. He asked how much we wanted for the boat.
I seized the day. I told him that if he hitched the boat up right then, he could have it for $200. The man was overjoyed, drew out his checkbook, and wrote out the check. He hitched the trailer to his truck and off he went, never to be seen or heard from again.
I didn’t say anything about what I’d done. No one noticed that the boat was gone. One day, three weeks later, Clancy came to me and asked: “Where’s the boat?” I handed him the check and told him the story. He laughed, took the check, and deposited it into our account.
One bright spring day we were out for a drive, just enjoying the weather, when what should we see but a little yellow O’Day 22 sitting in a driveway, looking quite forlorn. Clancy stopped the truck. We gazed out the window at her. A man came out and asked if we were interested, because his wife said he had to sell her.
And we started all over again.
Catherine and Clancy have been sailing together for 20 years. Over the course of time, they have sailed the 19-foot daysailer, an O’Day 22, an O’Day 27, and their current boat, Chanteuse, a 32-foot Kirié Elite Mark II. They cruise Lake Michigan on vacations. Cathie lept ahead and made a boat purchase of her own this year, a Butterfly, which she intends to refurbish over the winter and race next season.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
