Dream weaver

September 2024

By Paul F. Keyser

Long, long ago, in the 1960s when I was a boy, a freight company pulled into our driveway and dumped two huge crates in it. One contained boat parts; the other, trailer parts. Such was the stuff of our nautical dreams.

For some time, I had been fueling dad’s suppressed sailing interest with classified boat ads. Finally, a company named Luger Manufacturing in Burnsville, Minn., caught his attention. The advertisement claimed to produce “easy to assemble, affordable” sailboat kits. They supplied the fiberglass components, the patterns, wood, screws, epoxy glue, fiberglass matting, and an unassembled boat trailer for storage and transportation of the finished product.

Dad viewed the 16-foot Luger Leeward as a father-son project. The literature claimed that, in only two weeks, we could create a boat we’d be proud of. We did hold tremendous pride in the finished boat, but for us, it occupied the better part of a summer to complete.

Months of work followed. The hull bottom was wrestled onto the finished trailer. The sides and transom were fastened to the bottom by drilling and screwing – every inch of boat length. Each hole had three separate drilling operations: a small hole drilled all the way through the interlocking flanges on the hull side and bottom, a larger diameter hole through just the hull side, and, lastly, every hole was counter sunk to accommodate the tapered brass screws and conical heads.

This translated to about 500 screw holes to attach the transom and hull sides to the bottom of the hull (1,500 separate drilling operations). Then the deck was mounted on the hull in the same fashion – another 500 holes. Oh, yeah, then the cabin had to be installed to the deck and seats attached to the cockpit coaming – a couple of hundred more screw holes.

When the major components were all screwed together, the internal flanges located below the waterline were fiberglassed to add strength and prevent leakage. Mahogany trim wood was cut per the supplied patterns, sanded, stained and varnished, then screwed into place. The centerboard trunk was crafted in two halves, then fastened to the hull bottom: more drilling, screwing, and gluing.

We built wooden molds into which two-part chemicals were poured to create Styrofoam flotation. We then cut the cured foam into shapes and inserted them into a variety of places inside the boat. The fumes from fiberglass and foam production were awful, especially as dad worked in the confines of the bow, so I rigged a fan to blow fresh air up there. On and on through the summer, the project advanced.

Luger failed to send us a bow eye, to which the anchor line and trailer winch line would be attached. Frustrated, we spent a day driving alongside the Connecticut River, searching marinas in Western Massachusetts and Connecticut for a suitable eyebolt. Finally, we found one in Middletown, Conn.

Launching the boat was now an exciting possibility. Luger sent us an eyebolt a month after the boat was completed. I saved it as a memento of our efforts. In fact, it’s now the only piece of Density, as far as we know, that has survived. Dad didn’t like the factory’s rigging, so we drove the boat and its mast to Boston to be professionally rigged.

By late-summer 1969, the mostly finished boat was towed out of the garage, the momentous move documented in a home movie. We trailered the boat to nearby Lake Wyola, in Shutesbury, Mass., and motored for an hour. There were no leaks, and we burst with pride. When we hauled the boat, we saw that the dirty lake imparted a permanent yellow stain on the gleaming white hull.

All boats require meaningful names. The Vietnam War was still raging, and my oldest brother, Peter, was serving in the Marines. Our dinner table chat was somber with his empty seat. During a brief visit home, he shared a dream that he had been chased by an old lady on our street, who called out to him, “Come back, my precious density boy.” After his departure, we recalled this story at the dinner table, and it felt right to name the boat Density Boy. For his family, the name provided closeness to him and honor for him.

We managed a few late-summer sails in New Hampshire’s Spofford Lake after fully completing Density Boy. Over the next 20-plus years, she would sail on Lakes Spofford and Sunapee and coastal Rye Harbor (N.H.), Nantucket Harbor (Mass.), Lake Candlewood (Conn.) and Lake Onota (Mass.). Nantucket harbor was our favorite sailing location.

A favorite run there was to tack the six-mile length of the harbor into town, tie up among the yachts, and grab a fried-clam roll. The prevailing southwest wind provided a wonderful return sail back to our rental cottage in Wauwinet, often allowing us to fly wing-and-wing.

Sailing conversations centered on different handling techniques, sailing terms, sail trim and course adjustments, wind patterns, who had the right of way as we interrupted yacht club races, and courses to take to avoid being run down by the Nantucket Ferry. Three blasts from the Ferry horn gave precious little time to get out of the way. Dad also taught me about knots, navigation, and so much more on these round-the-harbor voyages.

Perhaps my most cherished memories were of periods of silence, absorbing our beautiful surroundings as we slipped through the harbor waters. I clearly recall the sound of the harbor water lapping against the hull, the motion of the boat charging over the waves, and a day of inhaling the freshest air in the world.

During one sail to town, we returned to the boat after a lunch of fried clams. The wind firmly pinned us against the dock, while old salts sat on a nearby bench evaluating our seamanship. An old fishing boat, long past its prime, was tied up adjacent to us. We finally freed ourselves from the dock, but the wind pushed Density Boy into the aged vessel. Each time we separated the two boats, Density Boy would be blown back against the wooden boat with a thud. The old salts watched with contempt.

We took advantage of a lull, separated the two boats, and made a sheepish escape into the harbor. We proudly motored past docks full of yachts, and all was well as we set sail to Wauwinet. Ironically, dad had docked a 350-foot destroyer, but he couldn’t undock a 16-foot sailboat on this day.

On windless days, we motored to Coskata pond or Coatue to explore the blue-crab herds and abandoned cottages. Ever mindful of sunburn on his scalp, dad’s sun protection consisted of a handkerchief with tied corners. This fashionable covering received inquisitive stares while walking through town.

Some days, I swam out to Density Boy as she lay at anchor. I’d lie down on the gray, wooden floorboards to dry, soak in the warmth of the sun, and listen to the waves lap against the hull. I closed my eyes as I gently rocked and was at peace with the world. A 100-foot yacht could not have made me more content. This was my piece of teenager heaven on earth, crafted by my dad’s loving hands.

We launched and retrieved Density Boy in the Town of Nantucket because it possessed the only boat ramp in the harbor at the time. During one vacation in Wauwinet, we misread the weather to sail the boat back to town and retrieve it on the trailer. We found ourselves sailing when we shouldn’t have been. The lesson learned from this trip: Sailboats and time schedules are not a good combination.

The wind was howling; dark threatening skies loomed over us. We hoisted the sails and were immediately overpowered. It took all our skill and strength to keep from capsizing or burying the bow in two- to three-foot waves. As we approached Pocomo Point, the shackle at the mainsail head parted, and the sail dropped down the mast track and blew out over the water.

We dropped the jib and wrestled both sails into their bags. We started the outboard motor and continued under power toward town, the propeller out of the water much of the time. Density Boy was threatening to capsize, and we sat on the edge of the deck to counterbalance the effect of the wind. I was panicked from near capsizes, but Dad spoke few words and focused on controlling the boat with each passing wave. His quiet confidence assured me that we were going to make it. For him, this was probably a cake walk compared to a winter crossing in the North Atlantic during World War II.

During one cool summer day, my brother Mark, Dad and I were sailing off the coast of Rye, N.H. There were big swells, and the waves swallowed the horizon as we descended into each trough. I noticed another daysailer of similar size, about a mile distant. We descended into a trough, and when the next swell lifted us, the other boat had vanished. We turned and sailed in its direction.

We found an overturned hull, with an older couple trying to cling to it in frigid water. We dropped our sails and Mark and I swam over and assisted the couple, who were nearly hypothermic, onto Density Boy. We rigged a towline and righted the capsized boat, which was filled with water and capsized again. We climbed into the cockpit and bailed enough to achieve stability, removed the sails, and tried to tow the boat back to Rye Harbor, making little headway. Fortunately, a large sailboat took up the tow for the remaining distance.

This good Samaritan favor was repaid in full years later. I was working in Danbury, Conn. After graduating from college, Dad had given Density Boy to me. It was early April, and after a long winter, sailing fever had gotten the better of me. The ice had been off Candlewood Lake for only a week or so, but the day was beautiful, and the water beckoned. I launched Density Boy and headed out to the widest part of the lake we knew as “the broads.” The wind picked up. The sail was thrilling, but powerful gusts spun across the lake off the nearby hills, and it was time to head back.

As I turned the boat homeward, a powerful swirling gust hit. I released both sails and threw the tiller over to turn the boat into the wind. My efforts failed, Density Boy’s bow dug beneath a wave, and the boat tumbled end over end. Density Boy now rested upside-down, and I was trapped beneath her in an air pocket. Everything was inky black as I kicked to free my legs from the sail and anchor line. In my mind, I saw the boat sinking, dragging me down with it.

To my great relief, I got out from under the boat. I then noticed that my life preserver was holding my head upright, and the boat had stopped sinking. I tried climbing onto the hull, but it was freshly waxed and had no handholds; I kept slipping back into the water. The frigid water was draining my energy and my ability to think. I decided to stay with the boat and held on to the engine mount.

After 15 or 20 minutes, my grip on the mount was weakening. Then, I heard voices: “Do you need help?” I saw a cabin cruiser approaching, and its crew tossed a line, engaged their engine, the line pulled taught, and Density Boy righted. She was floating low in the water and threatened to capsize again, but I climbed into the cockpit, lowered her sails, and bailed to stabilize her.

My rescuers hauled me aboard and began to tow Density Boy back to my marina. The captain sent me below, wrapped in towels; his wife made me hot tea. I began to shake violently and was incapable of speech. Still having difficulty forming sentences, I managed to express my thanks as I stumbled onto the dock.

Other than that horrifying experience, my sailing days on Lake Candlewood were wonderful. I enjoyed many evening sails after work. In those days, the company mantra was, “If you can’t complete your job by 5 p.m., then you’re doing something wrong.” Lengthy office hours were not viewed as a show of dedication to the company, but an indication of poor time-management. In 1978, at 5 p.m. sharp, I usually headed to the boat for a couple hours. It was more important to me than even eating dinner. Ah, the life of a young bachelor.

We used Density Boy for a camping trip to a Lake Candlewood Island with a couple of college buddies. We loaded up with enough gear for a week’s stay and headed out for our overnight outing. We had no ground cloths and placed our sleeping bags on the rocky terrain. It was good to be young and possess the ability to sleep anywhere.

Of all my beautiful sails on the lake, one truly stands out above the others. It was a late summer day, bathed in the mild warmth of a yellow sun. A light and steady southerly breeze moved gently over the length of the lake. Its flow was uninterrupted by the nearby hills and mountains. Typically, the lake’s surrounding geography produced constant wind shifts of varying strength and direction, requiring continuous sail adjustments and weight shifts to keep the boat upright and stable.

This day was different. With a single beam reach, I sailed north, nearly the entire length of the lake. My return trip required only a few tacks. The water sparkled as I passed islands and miles of shoreline. Strangely, few powerboats rushed past with their noise and wakes to interrupt the serenity. Warm sunlight caressed my skin each time I emerged from the shadows of the shoreline mountains. All the stress of working and living was carried away in these calm and steady conditions. I was immersed in the beauty of God’s creation, and the day felt as much a religious experience as a sailing one.

I didn’t want it to end, but the shadows cast by mountains lengthened and a slight autumn chill was settling in. I turned the boat south on a course for my mooring at the Candlewood Beach Club, in Brookfield. Even tacking into the wind to return home was an effortless pleasure. Without the normal wind gusts, I could trim the boat and, without any adjustments, sail until nearing the shore and then tack to the opposite shore with little effort.

With sails returned to their bags, and the cockpit canvas snapped back in place, I paddled my little inflatable dinghy to shore, where I stood and gazed westward at the crimson sky slowly being swallowed by the approaching night. Again, I was inspired by such a perfect day on the water. I was blessed to have this little boat show me ways to appreciate life that would not be possible without it. In my years of sailing on Lake Candlewood, this was my most perfect day.

By the early 1980s, I was bitten by the classic-boat bug and developed a yearning for a bigger and safer craft. I was now living in Newburyport, Mass., and the nearby Merrimack River was anything but friendly to a boat as small as Density Boy. Transiting the river mouth with her would be suicidal, and the “calmer” harbor area was filled with large wakes from commercial vessels and recreational powerboats. The currents nearly matched my motor speed, meaning it would be impossible to make headway during peak tidal flow.

Wendy, my soon-to-be wife, and I, trailered Density Boy back to her parents’ home in Brookfield, Conn., and she found a buyer from nearby New York. I could sense my father’s disappointment when the transaction closed and we turned Density Boy over to her new owner. I now look back and realize she was more than a sailboat. She represented the love that a quiet and thoughtful father bestowed on his son, but his son had more wanderlust than appreciation at the time.

I have searched the internet for years, looking for Density Boy. The numerous Luger 16s I have found are generally in sad repair, and the telltale identifiers that we custom built into her have never been observed. Perhaps it’s best that she lives on only in my mind.

This article was excerpted from Paul Keyser’s self-published book, “A Family on a Sailboat: A 65-Year Nautical Journey.” At 62, he retired from Stanley Black & Decker as business unit president, after which he taught at the University of Massachusetts. He and his wife Wendy reside in Hampton, N.H., and sail their Catalina 36 from Rye Harbor.

The post Dream weaver appeared first on Points East Magazine.