Canoe on the Dart

An unseasonably warm but windy November day started, as so often on the Dart, with a melancholy vista of bare branches, mist and veiled sunlight.

Dartmouth is a naval town, so Remembrance Sunday was marked by a marching band and veterans walking behind banners. In the harbour a mysterious naval vessel towered over the town. It looks like an icebreaker, with helicopter pad to scout for open water. Water cascades from the anchor port, perhaps hot water to melt the ice.

The Dart at low spring tide is a busy place. Here soft shell crabs are fetched from under the short lengths of drainpipes which they like to burrow under.

Further up river the oysters are being shaken in their wire envelopes. This spreads them out, knocks off the sharp corners and prevents them growing together into a massive lump.

tim

The Dartmouth Yacht Club sea kayak fleet of P&H Delphins puts out to sea with destination Blackpool sands. The Venus cafe offers refreshment, but the steeply shelving shingle beach can be a hard landing in a south east wind, so it is best to take emergency rations. However, the cafe has slatted chairs, in case of a wet entry.

Picture by Tim Freeman

On a windless, foggy October morning one can safely paddle out of sight of land on Dittisham pool to enjoy the eerie sense of being enclosed in white space.

But right in the middle is a line of turbulence where the flood tide rises over a submerged sandbank and meets another flow of water coming from the opposite side. The vigorous eddies collect all the river debris of leaves, branches, bottles and bags.

As the sun burns up the mist, other paddlers emerge against the lovely landscape of the Greenway promontory.

The quiet sea, the low spring tide and the low October sun give a rare opportunity to explore a ruin of the wartime defence of Dartmouth. This is the torpedo station which guarded the harbour entrance.

The sunlight reflected into the gloomy interior reveals the hasty wartime construction laid over the finely detailed granite sea wall built around the tower folly.

tim

Our tour started on the Lilleäen which flows northwards to meet the Ätran flowing almost parallel southward. It eventually drains to the sea at Falkenberg on the Swedish west coast. Our base was a small wooden cottage, called a torp in Scandinavia, conveniently placed close to the end of our tour and not far from the beginning, 10 m higher. Thus we could slide down with the current.

The route can be followed on this map: http://www.svenskkanoferie.dk/download/kort_2_big.pdf (12Mb!)

There had been much rain, so the river was running high, which presented paddlers used to the open sea with an unusual demand on their flexibility.

Fallen trees provided a similar stress test to paddlers who allowed the water flow to pin them against the obstruction.

A more serious obstacle was provided by hydro electric turbines which we had to bypass on foot.

The Lilleäen is a pleasant small river lined with alder and birch trees, passing through forests ravaged by a recent storm.

After its almost imperceptible merger with the larger Ätran the river widens and becomes less interesting, until one comes to a short grade 2 rapid.

This was our lunch stop, short and held standing in a light drizzle.

For a tour of 37 km, a generous lunch stop would have been better, but we pushed on, carrying kayaks over branches and through puddles to the set-in point below the rapids.

We got rather strung out towards the end of a long paddle. Here we tail-enders are puzzled which way to go as the river enters the lake formed by the dam for the second hydro power plant.

Fortunately the river was running higher than necessary to feed the turbines, so the roar from the water rushing down the spillway indicated a right turn.

The take out is close above the dam. If one misses it there is an exciting grade 6 adventure.

Dinner back at the torp was in typical Scandinavian style, gathered tight packed around a table, with a 10kW wood burner warming the modest dining room so energetically that I chose to sit in the farthest corner.

After decades living in Denmark I have not really learned to enjoy the long drawn out evening ceremony of eating, drinking and small talk sitting at a table. However, I thought I had learned to relax and let more fluent folk keep up the ping pong exchange of mild witticisms, but as the dessert arrived I overheated then fainted during a too long delayed flight towards the cool of the Swedish autumn landscape.

Fortunately, my companions have multiple skills including first aid, so I was revived and sent off to experience the Swedish welfare state’s admirable health service. After a long ambulance trip to Varberg hospital the cause of my low blood pressure was investigated as I spontaneously recovered.

Judged fit early the next morning, I found myself looking mournfully at the violent rainstorm flooding the hospital entrance. Not blessed with a smart phone, I had wrongly guessed that the first train towards Denmark would be soon after eight. The taxi deposited me at the station which was closed until nine thirty. The first train south was at 1020.

As the rain abated and the sun slowly forced itself through the mist I wandered the deserted Sunday morning streets and discovered a spacious and elegant town which also was a centre for water sport: the 19th century spa culture of sipping tea to the sound of a string orchestra and submerging oneself in cool sea water for therapeutic restoration.

As I wandered, the town woke up: first the runners in sporty tights, then the elderly pairs exercising their dogs, then the cyclists. A touching scene of small town life on an autumn Sunday morning. By fortunate chance I found the tiny early-opening cafe of the cold bath house, a lovely 19th century (reconstructed) structure on piles in the harbour, providing discreetly screened submersion facilities.

So my frightening, but brief indisposition brought me to a charming town which I would otherwise not have thought of visiting.

My warm thanks to my sympathetic companions from the Vedbæk kayak club, particularly to Birgitte and Martin and to those who dismantled my hermit’s hammock strung between the ideally spaced oak trees that graced the clearing around the cottage.

tim

There must be many paddlers who need to divide their paddle for train or air travel but will then keep it at full length for the expedition period. A traditional solution is the scarf joint. For this particular purpose the joint needs to be keyed at the ends to prevent twisting, and it needs a removable key in the middle to stop it pulling apart.

The construction is sketched in the diagram (click to enlarge). The first thing is to mill two slots to hold keys against lateral twisting. The central drill hole is filed square. Then an electric jig saw can be inserted to make the long straight cuts. A fretsaw is used for the tenons, which are cut straight across, exposing the slots which are then filled with hardwood keys, glued into one part of the joint. The central key is a wedge of hardwood which is removable and easy to carve from drifwood if the specially made key gets lost.

The joint is oiled with boiled linseed oil. It is assembled and held fast by about three turns of duct tape, which doesn’t adhere strongly to the oiled wood, so can be removed for transport.

For a proper vernacular solution, one can drill or groove the joint so it can be lashed together with sinew instead of being wound with industrial sticky tape. The three hole lashing gives a very tight connection. It has endured for months without any sign of slack in the connection. Indeed, it has less play than a cylindrical tube connection.

The paddle design is by Lars Herfeldt (see the previous post about kayak building). It is a modified Aleutian design, unsymmetrical and with a thickened mid section, which gives a strong scarf joint with very little increase in the moment of inertia of the paddle. It is made of Sitka Spruce. A jointed paddle also allows construction from shorter pieces of wood, which are easier to find without faults.

tim

The Boat Building Academy in Lyme Regis offered a course in kayak building, taught by Lars Herfeldt. The course was held outside Lyme, at Trill Farm.

http://www.boatbuildingacademy.com/

Trill farmhouse, north facade

Specifically, the course was held in its vast ancient barn where our saw and hammer strokes were accompanied by strange fluttering and squeaking from the dim recesses of the roof structure. This was accompanied by a steady rain of shit from the biomass above us, ranging from bats to guinea fowl.

This minor inconvenience was more than compensated by the Trill food of astonishing quality and visual appeal and mostly local growth.

Trill soup

The adjacent farm, Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall’s River Cottage, has a worthy neighbour. Zoe and Romy were the principal kitchen artists.

I won’t describe the whole kayak building process, which is well described in two books which I recommend: C. Cunningham ‘Building the Greenland Kayak’ and F & C Claeys and Huguenin ‘Construire et utiliser les kayaks de l’arctique’. However, our instructor Lars uses some interesting and time saving variations. In particular he spared us much of the calculation and template construction required by the authors mentioned above.

To fix the deck beams we made shallow sloping recesses to provide a step for the beam.

The recess chiselled into the gunwale to receive the deck beam, which is sawn to an angle about half that of the gunwale

The line of the keel was established before the ribs were steamed into shape.

Setting the line of the keel by eye and measurement from the deck beams. The keel ends are clamped to extended bow and stern pieces

The vertical distance between the gunwales and the keel, together with the horizontal distance between gunwales, were combined in a wooden mechanical computer to form a template for bending the ribs.

The adjustable template for bending the steam-softened oak ribs

The bent ribs were clipped to the beams to harden, then cut to size so that they just touched the keel.

Lars clamping the rib to the inside of the gunwale. It will later be shortened so it fits in the mortices and just touches the keel

Most of the boat was pegged and lashed, with just a few glue joints forming the bow and stern pieces.

Over the first week we built the frame.

Yves (left) and Douglas, enjoying a brief opportunity to work in the sun

We made time to visit some antique woodworking tool emporia in Beer and Colyton. The first time the shops were closed, so we had a beer in Beer.

Douglas, Lars and Yves enjoying a break overlooking the pebble beach at Beer

Berliner Lars, having worked for months in the boat building academy, knew the area better than many natives.

I had time to explore the farm, its sheep and pigs and the ancient abandoned railway line from Axminster to Lyme Regis.

A finely crafted bridge over the abandoned railway line from Axminster to Lyme Regis

Then it was time to fit the masik.

Douglas has stiff knees, so needed a deeper than standard masik

Here we all are with completed frames. From the left Yves, Douglas, Lars and Tim

Draping and stretching and sewing the skin was quite time consuming but eventually our boats were shining white in the sunlight

The waterproofing polyurethane would take several days to apply, and then there was the fitting out with strings to hold the paddle for getting in and out, so we took our boats home shrouded in polyethylene. My available space is very small, so I made the kayak slightly shorter than standard so that it would fit diagonally across the family living room.

Coating the nylon skin with two part polyurethane, using a squeegee

I have a kind and patient wife but I hastened to finish the job and get the boat on the water.

Maiden voyage at Dittisham

The result is a more buoyant boat than I intended, with space for camping gear. It is a bit tippy compared with my P&H Scorpio but the secondary stability is excellent.

I greatly enjoyed the whole process and was fortunate that we were such a diverse but amiable group – a German carpenter, a French airline pilot, a retired Scottish lecturer, an English scientist. A very important contributor to our good humour was the staff of Trill farm, equally diverse in origin and skills. Thanks also to the support team from the academy, bringing materials to our outpost in the hills.

Postscript

After sea trials I have concluded that the boat has very little initial stability, since it jumps from leaning on one chine to the other with very little provocation. The maximum width at the waterline is about 410 mm, which seems to be too narrow. This makes taking photographs an unnerving experience. It handles wind and waves well, with a gentle motion through waves. My real problem is that it is very difficult to roll. My analysis is that the boat is too buoyant for my weight, which is a modest 62 kg. It has approximately 160 mm freeboard, which inhibits rotational agility, considering that the minimum allowed for Greenland rolling competitions is 15 mm. I can lie back flat on the aft deck but I still have to raise my torso about 160 mm above the water without any aid from buoyancy in the water. I have trouble doing this lift even when a companion holds the paddle end firmly. The theoretical ideal of righting the boat with torso buoyed by the water, then sliding onto the back deck seems impossible to do with the sharp angle between the side and the flat deck.

The geometry of the emergence from a lay back roll. The boat rolls around the point A while the centre of gravity of the torso is point B, which has to be raised about 160 mm above the water by rotational momentum or by torque from the paddle in the water. A boat which sits high in the water with a lightweight driver is difficult to roll.

This is disappointing, since I want a lightweight, low volume boat for year round solo paddling on the sheltered Dart estuary, and, in calm weather, along the south Devon coast. I can re-enter with a paddle float, but that is a dangerously slow method in winter. I have compared my boat with measured boats in the literature. The height of the side is towards the high end, but the published measurements do not include the weight of the driver.

I welcome advice from experienced Greenland kayak paddlers. It may be that an autumn job will be bending new ribs to make a lower boat. I have too much space in this one. I expected a more intimate fit.

Tim Padfield

This is Euston. He is named in the tradition set by Paddington Bear for using London train stations as animal names. Why Euston? Because he was born three years ago at the M’ewstone, an island off the south Devon coast near Dartmouth.

He was always inquisitive and extrovert. Seals supposedly hunt by sensing water disturbance by fish but he seems to have detected the salmon sandwich which I have bought for lunch and put in a cool bag under the front hatch. He likes to swim on his back parallel to my boat to have his tummy tickled. A less lovable characteristic is his habit of spitting fishy saliva with a loud snort.