Boat School
At noon on the second day of boat school, I folded up the
lines of plywood I had stitched together with copper wire. Before me rested
over seventeen feet of something that had the shape of a boat. It would sink, but
it had the feel of water about it. I was not particularly proud of my
accomplishment. All I had done was follow the careful but relaxed directions of
the teacher, a master boat builder named Geoff Kerr. What I had done to arrive
at my boat-like creation was all pretty basic. Drilled a few holes, cut copper
wire, slipped the wire through the holes and twisted them tight. My thumbs were
sore, my back a bit achy from standing and bending over for so many hours; I
had not done anything technically difficult. No wood to cut. No precision to
anything I had done. “Six inches between holes?” I had asked. “About, just eye
ball it.” Whatever might go wrong could be fixed. Nothing that sanding, epoxy
and paint could not fix.
On the first night at the Wooden Boat School, Rich, the generous
and welcoming director, asked everyone to introduce themselves. One man ran a
boat yard down the way and wanted to learn bronze casting; another owned four
boats and needed to know more about diesel engines. A few from the coast guard
were there to learn how to inspect wooden boats. Many people were repeat
students. What was I doing there? All I knew was that I wanted to be a student
for a while, to learn something new that had nothing to do with books or words.
My class was to build an Annapolis
Wherry, a boat I had never seen or rowed but for some reason fell in love with
the sleek lines when I saw an image on the internet. In other words, this was a
version of internet dating, impulsive and perhaps all wrong.“Do you row?” people asked, trying to
understand why I was building this boat, which is 34 inches wide, and rows like
a crew boat, with a sliding seat. Nope. “Is this a stitch and glue boat?” I had
no idea. “Is it made of plywood.”
Probably. (One week later I could say yes, and yes to these last
questions).
I have not built many things in my life. In grade school I
bought balsa wood airplane models and under the guidance of Woogie Ham (not an
invented name; the boy was teased) did a lousy job of gluing them together. I
did not have the patience for the meticulous work of airplane building. Since
then I had acquired a few tools, though I used my drill mostly to hang pictures
on the wall or curtains in the bedroom. But I do have faith that with the right
instruction I can do anything, and that anything can be taught. I wanted to
learn, to be the student, not the teacher.
I am a teacher. I teach creative writing, the personal essay
and nature writing at Bard College. As my students struggle to get their
experiences into beautiful prose, I too also often say, “it will be ok, a
little sandpaper, a little paint, and we can figure this out. Just keep going.”
Determination, going into the writing every day, twisting those bits of copper wires
even if the act of twisting is not inspired, is as essential as the great idea.
Building is building, whether a sentence or a boat.
I was building my boat in the home town and final resting
place of one of the great writers and teachers of writing, E.B. White. For a
clean sentence he can’t be beat. His Elements of Style so often guides me: write
with nouns and verbs. Use the active voice. Don’t place words in the negative
if you can write it in the positive. In tribute to White, I have named my boat
To build something beautiful, truly radiant, I am sure that
it takes more than following the steps. Still, rules are helpful. Stir the
epoxy well. Try not to leave globs, but if you do you can sand them off later.
Try not to use adverbs, but if you do, edit them out later. And it helps to
have a teacher confident enough in his craft to let you make mistakes and still
believe it will all work out.
And lo, at the end of the week, I had a boat. Still not
something that would float—all those holes I drilled now needed to be filled
in--but I was getting closer. It gleamed in the light as I loaded it onto the
roof of my car. I have a few weeks of work left to do—filling and sanding,
daily work that with patience will add up to something called boat.
At the same time, with Elements of Style at my side, I will
be editing my manuscript about kayaking the Hudson River. Daily work that with
patience will add up to something called book.
.