On "Elsie"

From the B. Frank Franklin archvies

I was reading about the wild parrots of Washington, D.C., when J.C. called. You may recall that he is the better known of my editors, and a sometimes tormentor of this contributor.

Readers have asked, he said, about my boat, Elsie. He went on to explain why I should stop whatever I was doing and write about Elsie at that very moment, unless I was doing something more important, like completing a previous assignment for him.

He was not surprised when I assured him that I was reading about wild parrots, rather than working. I did shock him, though, when I agreed to get right on the story of Elsie.

I started sailing small wooden boats- Optimists and Sailfish—and designed and built three of my own. All five types were great learning experiences, though Optis and ’fish proved more positive than my own efforts. There were others, too—Snarks and a Seawitch, constructed like the best coolers of the day. There is no question, though, that small boats saved me from delinquency, or at least delayed it until adulthood arrives.

In time, I strayed from beaches and backyards to marinas and docks, and came to act as though bigger was better, and to assume that it was so. It is true that bigger can be more comfortable, and perhaps allow and encourage more expectations. They can certainly become complex, expensive, and a pain to maintain.

Some argue that a bigger boat is a safer boat, though opinions vary, and my experience calls it a draw, as most of my moments of fear or bewilderment have resulted from my own traits, and not the boat’s. I’ve also been just as hungry, cold, wet, and tired on a big boat as a small one.

My last big boat was a full keel, heavy displacement cutter built by Hernia Boatworks. She was well built, well found, sea kindly, and comfortable. Her salon was big enough to dance in, but bottom paint for her cost enough to pay an orchestra.

She was on the hard, and I was hard at work when it happened. I was up the mast, checking the spreaders and shrouds, when a convoy of boats pulled into the rigging area. The crews spilled out and went to work, laughing, joking, and making ready, and I decided to have a closer look when I finished up.

There was a catboat, a melonseed, a Pelican, a SeaPearl, and a couple of others. When I looked again, the catboat was motoring away from the ramp, followed by the melonseed, and it looked like the ‘Pearl and another boat were nearly ready to head out. Before I could finish and get down, the last of them was gone.

I thought about them while I worked, and wondered how they were faring when a storm blew through. A few days later they returned, and I watched them work back to the ramp under sail and oar. The youngest sailor was about ten, the oldest in his seventies, and I joined them as they came alongside and unloaded gear. They were headed to the Grouchy Gull for a burger, and invited me along. That encounter changed my perspective.

When I finished work on the Hernia, Tim Morgan, the pirate who runs the yard, presented me with a bill about as inflated as the Michelin man, providing yet another change in perspective. The use of the yard’s space and stands, along with bottom paint, bits of hardware and the like, was nearly enough to buy one of the small boats. Morgan, the sort of privateer who brightens a room when he leaves it, smirked as he accepted my check.

Soon, I was on the hunt for a new boat, and the Hernia was on the market. I considered Elvers and Pelicans, sharpies, catboats, and all manner of rigs and materials. But the new boat would reside on a trailer and hide in the barn.

In the end, it was Phil Bolger’s designs and wit that got me. His Manatee was enticing, but at over 33 feet and 8,500 pounds, was a bit much. So, after gnashing, noshing, and splicing main braces, Elsie’s design was born.

She is one of a kind, a two-thirds scale Bolger Manatee. A leeboard cat-yawl, she is 22 feet 4 inches, only 5 feet 2 inches at the beam, and draws just eight inches with her big leeboards up. She’s heavily built, though, and heavily canvassed.

There was never any question as to who should build this boat; it would be my old pal Charlie. He and I met many years ago, when he was cruising on a big catamaran he’d built. I cannot attest to the extent of his experience, but he has a supply of gopher wood, and, rather than using inches and eighths, prefers cubits.

She is mahogany and cedar, bronze fastened, and hell for stout. Her leeboards are bronze tipped, and her keel wears a bronze shoe all the way up the cathead.

The cockpit is snug and comfortable, as the seats are lowered a bit, giving good back support; the seatbacks are inclined outward a bit, and the edges of the seats themselves are rounded. It’s a comfortable place, and all lines are close at hand. Even with the lowered seats, there’s ample storage in the lockers, which are tight, and isolated from her interior.

The cabin is short on headroom, but still works well, as a result of the layout and sliding hatches. There’s lots of stowage below, and a gimbaled berth, as well as space to lay out charts and prepare food. There’s a cooler on each side of the companionway steps, and another can go behind the steps themselves.

Manatees are sometimes called sea cows, and Elsie got her name from a well known and very contented cow. In truth, though, she is more equine than bovine, and can be sailed quickly. With the split rig, she’s easy to balance, and can go well under jib and jigger. She heaves to well.

Elsie can put her nose on the beach, though that’s not something I care to do in any amount of surf. I’ve never broached on the beach, but I’ve been reminded of the possibility, so my motto is “when in doubt, anchor out.” That is easy enough, as bow and stern anchors can be deployed from the cockpit.

Elsie has brought me home on days when I shouldn’t have gone out, and laughed at my errors and omissions; she is a better boat than I am sailor, and better than I deserve.

She’s taken me far, taught me much, and asked little.

I expect I’ll keep her. •SCA•

First appeared in issue #81