Reflections on the art of the possible
February 2010
I’m a fan of non-glossy varnish. Call it ignorance, call it chicken, call it the path of least resistance, but it’s working for me. I’m brushing all of Nil Desperandum’s brightwork with Epifanes Woodfinish Matte. You can assess the results from a couple of photos.
Here’s the mast tabernacle, which turned out to be January’s main project—a really strong, heavy chingadero made of khaya mahogany. (It’ll bolt to a reinforced cabin front and 3-inch-thick laminated deck beam with six 6-inch stainless steel carriage bolts).
And here are some of the cabin hull ceiling planks, ¼-inch vertical-grain fir, removed for their varnishing:
Why a matte finish? It’s vastly more forgiving than glossy varnish. Doesn’t show bubbles, waves, ridges, dips, chicken pox, or any other embarrassing surface geography. Yes, it’s much less showy than a flawlessly reflective varnish job. But we nonprofessionals have so little hope of pulling off the latter. My philosophy is to cultivate the art of the possible—and to let the natural beauty of the wood’s grain and color make its own statement, unadorned.
Or, as a Charles Schulz Peanuts cartoon from ‘way back in the ‘60s said (through a sick-grinning Charlie Brown): “I feel much better now that I’ve given up all hope.”
I didn’t make great progress on the boat in January due to heavy teaching duties. But I did complete the tabernacle, the hull ceiling, and passed an important milestone: the boat is now guaranteed to float. By that I mean I’ve now completed more than enough watertight flotation compartments and foam installations to counter Nil Desperandum’s 700 pounds of lead ballast and batteries.
I’ve made use of every possible 
cranny. There was a ¾-inch space between the inside of the hull and the ceiling planks, so I bought a roll of minicell foam of the same thickness, cut pieces to fit, and installed them behind the ceiling. There’s about 2,500 cubic inches of the stuff, enough to counter 90 pounds of lead.
There are three or four more air or foam compartments to make, and by the time I’m finished I’ll have flotation exceeding ballast by at least 20 percent—not counting the bouyancy of all the wood. That margin of safety is already making me feel very good about this boat.
There’s one small thing I didn’t feel very good about in January’s work.
Two of the ceiling planks turned out to have some natural discoloration in them—pale brown-green streaks several feet long. The flaw was barely noticeable on the unfinished wood, but the varnish upped the contrast.
I debated it with myself for several days. Why not let the wood be what it is? (Knots never trouble me unless they’re going to weaken a structure.) Is this a resurgence of the old perfectionist impulse?
Finally I asked my wife Patty to come out to the shop and offer her opinion. She said, perceptively, “I think it’s going to bother you every time you go into the cabin and see it.” I knew she was right, and that was really all it took. I unscrewed the offending planks and made replacements. It took about an hour.
How good is good enough? That’s one of life’s central issues, and as with so many others, building a wooden boat is a remarkable instructor.
Ultimately, it comes down to how the issue in question makes you feel. It’s as simple as that. Pride or embarrassment? Pleasure or disgust? Play the movie forward, imagine yourself in the boat (or house, or job, or marriage) a year or two in the future. The emotion that stirs tells you what you should do.
Next month: I really, really need to complete the cabin area from sole to sheer. I’ve been messing with it for too long. Nil Desperandum’s projected launch date is June 2011. Feels like a deadline—and a needed motivational force.
Tags: boatbuilding, devlin, varnish, winter wren