He painted the epoxy knees, for instance, and rigged up a pair of running backstays to help stabilize the mast. He pondered long and deep about the placement of the sliding rowing seat. Which sent us back to Denny Antram at the Steward's Foundation.
Like sailing, rowing is about leverage. While in sailing the movement is smooth (the force, as it were, integrated across a curve as the wind blows), rowing has more a ratcheting effect. With each pull on the oars, the boat (should) scoot forward.
Since the Frankenscot is beamy, there's a tipping point to find regarding the length of the oars: too short and they won't reach the water; too long and it's like trying pry a boulder out of the ground. For now it's all ball-park estimates, and by last guess, using the 13-foot sweeps was probably going to result in ruptured eyeballs and spleens. Nobody wants that.
Based on his willingness to meet up at the crack of dawn and talk about rowing, we've deputized Denny as a member of the Troupe of Igors. Whether he wants to be or not, he's an Igor.
He swapped out our borrowed sweeps for a pair of 9-foot oars and then tossed in a busted extra for parts. TwoBeers will doubtless cannibalize the carbon fiber for something else on the boat. Luckily, boat-people rarely throw anything away.
While we were at the boathouse, Denny found us a pair of backstays for the oarlocks. (Ironic, as some may find, that the Frankenscot now has four backstays. Proof that it IS a monster. Non-sailors, bless you for your stick-to-it-iveness. You deserve a prize for reading this far. Yay you!)
The oarlock stays resemble inverted dolphin-strikers: stout adjustable struts that brace the oarlock against the mighty forces inflicted by the rower.
In lieu of more words, a couple of action videos from that last sea trial. Pardon the windy audio.