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It was bound to happen.
The 2014 Sailing magazine profile of the first of these experiments: the highly modified Frankenscot.
​That sweet skipper of mine left the house early on a wintery Thursday morning, announcing, "I'm going on a shopping spree!" "Ooh, where?" says I. "The lumber store!" Lumber for a new creation. 
After more than a decade of thrills and spills racing the Everglades Challenge, my favorite skipper has decided to up the ante.
What shape, you might ask, would that TAKE? I mean, 300+ miles along Florida's west coast on an unsupported human-powered adventure craft of his own making—what could be yet more exciting than that? Here are a few of the highlights of that trip: sharks, sinking, salt-water crocs, jumping fish, sunburn, various exotic snakes, lightning strikes and squalls, sleep deprivation, boat butt— How about doing the race solo? NO, not this year. On the first Saturday of this March, the same TwoBeers and Jahn Tihansky (WaterTribe name: Moresailesaid) will onboard Spawn headed to Key Largo from St. Pete Beach. But YES, TwoBeers is currently working in concert with OH Rodgers (aka Ninjee) to build a barky suited to single-handed adventure racing, to launch for the 2026 Everglades Challenge. 
Ooooh! architect at work!
TwoBeers and Ninjee have been scheming and dreaming about this for a while.
​ Among the design criteria: it needs to be quick, but not hazardously overpowered. It needs to be kindly, but not a tub. A shallow draft that's both rowable and sailable, and light enough for one person to launch from the high tide line of Fort DeSoto Beach... And sure enough, a design is drawn, thanks to Ninjee. TwoBeers goes on a lumber shopping spree, and it begins. They make a mold for the hull, ingeniously reproducing the drawn lines from the plans in 3-D with 1x2s. Clever pre-high-tech technique. 
They create a sturdy base from 3/4 inch plywood and 2x6s. It's heavy like gravity is heavy.
Using the 1x2s to replicate the curves of the drawing, they can then make "stations" or ribs.
Now, THAT looks like a mold.
Once the ribs are set, the next step is to layer strakes of 1x2s into the nascent hull mold, and screw them into place.
Now, to make a smooth and finished mold ready for fiberglass or (ooh!) carbon fiber, Jeff applied long narrow strips of very thin plywood (Luan, for those who like details) onto the strakes on the diagonal.
Then a second layer goes in at the opposite diagonal.
This all gets—in the colorful parlance of the boatbuilder—screwed and glued.
The process repeats to translate the drawing of the boat's sides into three dimensions.
How much wood would a woodchuck—wait, never mind.
Again with the plywood strips, this time longitudinally rather than on an angle for the sides, which are referred to here as patterns.
And then...we all wait, as the glue sets.
Just kidding.
The glue set that same day, more or less. But OH and Mr. Linton have been swept away from the boat yard on various sailing adventures, not the least of which is Jeff's upcoming 2025 Everglades Challenge. When next they meet to build, there will be finishing touches to the hull mold, then they'll build additional molds: centerboard trunk mold, ballast tank molds, and a deck mold. ​
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 The Flying Scot is an old-fashioned-looking small sailboat that resembles, to a kindly eye, a bathtub toy. When I was a young and less sympathetic sailor, I judged them a little by their adorable lines. Luckily, I've had the chance to live and learn. When one of our best sailing friends bought a Scot (and sailed very competitively with not just one but three children, Uncle Mark!), it became clear: if we wanted to race against our best local competition, we needed a Scot.  This was seventeen years and seven North American Championships ago (good gravy!)—and experience has lent understanding: it turns out that the Scot is a remarkably civilized vessel, requiring less brawn and more brain than some other classes we know, with races giving an enjoyable balance of fierce competition and kindness.  Sweet trophy. We got a nice deal on our first Scot, a used boat that came to us from New Jersey. The Mighty Majestic (Hull #4925) earned us a couple of North American Championships (NACs), before we horse-traded with Harry Carpenter at Flying Scot Inc. for the nearly-new #5982, Speckled Butterbean, which he had campaigned (minus the name) for a season or so.  Look at those vintage Gill jackets! Look at the dark hair on my favorite skipper. Photo credit: Dad Taylor circa 2009. A few NACs after that, we traded the Bean for #6133, The Scuppernong, which Harry delivered to Tampa. And this year, we made a deal with Tyler Andrews at Flying Scot Inc, trading The Scuppernong for a brand-new boat made by the next generation at Flying Scot, Inc. #6305, The Molly Whomper hit the water for the first time this weekend in Jacksonville.  After putting his preferred bits and bobs on the new boat, my favorite skipper, a fan of useful shortcuts, decided to skip the part where one fiddles around with new shrouds as they stretch and weather in. He figured he'd just slap the new mast and old shrouds into the new boat. Anyone who has worked on a boat knows that boats are manufactured with a lot of hand-crafting—which makes it a challenge to keep each as alike as a widget coming off the conveyer belt. For one-design boat classes, variation like that can spell dogs-and-cats-living-together-crossing-the-streams-level badness for the class.  So it was a pure joy when the mast went up, the shrouds went in, and huzzah! everything fit. Zero fiddling. It's a testament to Tyler and all the folks at Flying Scot Inc. that the one-design portion of the class is holding true. How did the maiden voyage go? We had a great weekend at the Rudder Club of Jacksonville. Jon Hamilton and Donna Mohr are wonderful hosts, and the breeze gods/goddesses smiled on the fleet.  Goofing around on the inaugural sail. The Rudder Club gave us five races (the district regatta in full) by 4 pm on Saturday. The Molly Whomper sailed to her first victory (and a few celebratory splashes of beer), and we are pleased as punch. Knock wood we should be able to keep enjoying this sport and these tubby little sloops for a good long while.  Christening! The Molly Whomper! Photo credit Dave Hemick.  We lost electrical power service for a week or so after Hurricane Milton. As soon as we were able to venture into the Wild West that is Florida driving without working stoplights—old geezer moment, but honestly! People! It's a 4-way stop! Take turns! How hard is the concept?—my favorite skipper and his Mamma Pat and I went to our house and cleaned up a bit. I am beyond lucky in my mother-in-law, who willingly swan-dived into the fridge and not just cleaned it out but–Cleaned. It. OUT. Grateful, I left her to it, only snatching a couple of luke-warm Hershey's Special Dark Chocolate Kisses from the discard pile.  Not a huge chocolate fan, and these days I don't think I can even eat them (the milk sensitivity keeps dialing up and up), but these cold purple cones connect me to my own mom. Mumsie lived in a cute little bungalow in Northeast St. Pete. Messy, cozy, full of books and dust and pets, her house was both a haven and an irritation for my sister and me. Entropy was strong in that place, especially after Mumsie retired. It became habit to perform a quick de-squalorization upon arrival. Mumsie was not really a fan of her daughters bustling around tidying up her mess, but she loved us beyond measure. A student of our likes and weaknesses, she learned that a supply of dark chocolate in the refrigerator would oblige us to sit down, stop grousing about the pizza boxes, and simply savor one or two Specials in her company.  So it happened that when we cleaned out Mumsie's house that final time, I seeded my own fridge with purple foil-wrapped treats left over from her Frigidaire. And over the past decade and a half, I've periodically renewed my supply. It's magical thinking to imagine that, lo these many generations later, any of those chocolate nuggets might be one direct from Mumsie. And it's magical thinking to imagine an alchemical charm transfers from the old stock to the new. But the reason I snatched a couple from the brink is because those kisses are going back into the cheese drawer. And I'm buying a new package to empty on top of them.  And I will know, deep in my bones where magic doesn't need to make sense, that these are kisses from Mumsie.
Decades of living near the west coast of Florida have granted me a certain sangfroid about, oh, you know, Florida things. (www.etymonline.com/word/sang-froid)  With the daily exception of cars and fire-ants, most of the hazards have proven to be hypothetical, rhetorical dangers for me. The stories circulate, and one thinks, airily, it's the price one pays to live in this humid paradise. Oh, well, you tell yourself, shuffle as you walk on the beach. If there's red tide, stay inside. Tread carefully in tall grass. Watch for the glint of the gold chain on the guy driving the cigarette boat, because he's not looking for you. Avoid night swimming. Be cautious strolling with your dog around a retention pond. Never lick a toad. Shake out your shoes before putting them on. At least we don't have to shovel snow. Every so often, however, even the most chilled-blood of us all is taken aback by the casual violence of the place. Two hurricanes, for instance, each with a wide eye glued on home base—that's enough to unsettle a native.  Then you begin to think about the stories: throwing a line around oneself and making a human sandwich between a couple of mattresses while a tornado pulls the roof off. Being chased upstairs, then to the attic, and then tearing one's way out of the roof when the flood waters rise, then clinging to the topmost branches of the oak tree as the waters swirl. Riding the top of the dining room table as it bobs and nudges against the sliding glass doors. Not my stories, but told by pals who survived Katrina and Maria. You wonder if maybe it's better to skip town for the season. We were away for Helene (another North American title for my favorite skipper! Hurrah!) and missed the flooding, but we spent Milton sheltering with Mamma Pat. As dark fell, and the electricity went out, and the wind howled, I kept asking myself, "Does THAT sound like a tornado?" "Wait, how about THAT?"  It was not a tornado. It was a foot of rain and winds close to 100 mph. We were overall so very fortunate: No lives lost, material losses that can be recouped, and ready options for where to stay and how to get around. Many, MANY of our neighbors were not so fortunate.  This "I was a good girl and survived the storm without eating my companions" treat was only Unreal in how much it tasted like soap. According to one of our sailing friends in the Florida Keys (Hi Jim S!), it will be about six months until people generally forget what the hurricane was like, or really, even that the storms happened.  I hope so, but I also hope not.
 The idea of a fierce Goth mouse that hunts on the wing has a certain appeal. To some. Or to me at least. Bats feature in some vivid childhood memories: my sister and me huddled under the dining room table, as the thump of footsteps circles us, punctuated by the whomp of a straw broom swatting the air and making contact with walls and pictures. The sweary battle-cries of our parents, whose bare white legs periodically flash past, and in counterpoint, the tiny high-pitched keening of a bat that has taken a seriously wrong turn in Albuquerque.  This is how scientists weigh bats. A tiny vest! Just look at those tiny fingertips! And that frowsy little frown! In college, bats kind of saved my life. My first year at Cornell, I was sitting in one of those enormous classrooms in Goldwin Smith Hall. My life was in tatters, with no money, a boyfriend off the rails, and the prospect of having to retreat home looming over me. I'd thought there were kind of a lot of bats in Ithaca, but that morning, I nudged the person next to me and had my index finger already pointing up at those flapping scraps of dark when some instinct of self-preservation shut my mouth. I realized, with sudden clarity, that there were, in truth, zero bats inside the classroom. That I was, in truth, hallucinating bats. That my subconscious, always a wag, was poking an elbow into my ribs and saying, "Girl, you're bats!" I did not ignore that message. I made some healthier life choices after that morning, though I have always since kept a weather eye out for warning flaps. So bats are all right by me. Knowing my penchant for the little insect-eaters, my favorite skipper constructed a couple of bat-houses and in the summer of '22, we performed the engineering marvel of hoisting one up on a pole high above the home orchard at the Would-Be Farm. The other went up on the south-facing peak of the barn. My favorite skipper has since kept up a steady stream of batty complaints. "We don't have any bats," he will tell anyone. "We have them, but he just doesn't see them," I will add to Jeff's declaration. "I built two bat houses. 100 bats per house and we don't have a single bat," he grouses. I make the correction with gritted teeth, "We don't have any YET." We're like old married people sometimes. But the truth is, I have an eye for bats, and Jeff seemingly does not.  This summer, however, has categorically refuted Jeff's hypothesis. Mr. Linton stepped into the cabin, and said, with restrained emotion of some sort. (Ire? Shock? Outrage?) "There was a BAT in my PANTS." Okay. What?! For a literal thinker, this kind of statement sets all circuits buzzing and causes a momentary freeze response. Jeff brought me up to speed: As is his wont, he'd removed his very wet and dirty trousers and tossed them over the porch railing to air out the day before. He went outside in the morning and, in preparation to folding them, he held up the trousers, gave them a brisk snap, and Voilá! a chunky brown bat tumbled out of a pantleg. And it was still on the porch. "Aww," I said, pulling on a pair of work gloves. "The poor thing is stunned." As I reached to lift the velvety creature, the bat looked up and opened its jaws like a nightmare and hissed. I drew back and it flapped unsteadily off. "Well we certainly have bats," I said to Jeff. (I didn't add that this should put an end to our perpetual wrangling about them, for pity's sake. But really, it should.)  Then, a few weeks later, I noticed a few mouse-like turds under the bat house at the barn. (The varieties of scat I contemplate on the regular here at the Farm surprises me. We like to refer to it as spoor, as if we are tracking big cats on the veldt.) A consult with the Goog, and then the careful use of telephoto revealed yet more proof: The bat house has an inhabitant! Whoohoo! If you build it, they WILL come. And, let's not lose this particular bit of Google gold: a bat's guano can be differentiated from mousey dung by the degree of sparkle. I kid you not. Bats cannot digest the crunchy outer shell and the iridescent wings of the insects they devour. Sparkle poop. It doesn't particularly show in the photos I took, but...Just another cool feature of die fledermaus.  Bonus Chiroptera (from the Greek for "hand-wing")-adjacent material: Did you know that as part of the Federal Works Progress Administration (WPA) program during the Great Depression, we spent around $6.5million across 4 years to support unemployed theater professionals? I love hearing that part of the FDR plan to help the country recover from the stock market crash and subsequent depression was to rebuild the cultural institutions of our society. How radical! Out-of-work actors, writers, directors, costumers, janitors, secretaries, and so forth, as made up the country's live theater found employment through the Federal Theater. For instance "The Bat," a Broadway hit that the Federal Theater staged in various non-Broadway-ish spots around the nation... Meanwhile, my grandfather enlisted in the Civilian Conservation Corps, another WPA program, where he lived in company with dozens of other young men in a camp, where they were fed, given the odd lecture, sometimes shown a play by the Federal Theater company, all the while building parks and roads.  Just hangin' out with the bats at Carlsbad Caverns. You want more bat content? Or WPA content? Here's a couple of links:
https://www.batcon.org/the-scoop-on-bat-poop/ http://www.amysmithlinton.com/blog/meanwhile-on-the-farm https://www.loc.gov/collections/federal-theatre-project-1935-to-1939/articles-and-essays/wpa-federal-theatre-project/  To be fair, it's mostly my favorite skipper who is finding things... because he is looking. I am meanwhile mostly playing with my electronic screen of paper dolls. Or staring moodily into the near distance while thinking about what misery my little paper people are going to endure next. But Jeff? Less moody and more duty. While using a manual post-hole digger last week, himself was contemplatively lifting and thunking the tool when he heard a non-dirt noise. It sounded a bit too musical to be a rock, though we are amply supplied with rocks at the Would-Be Farm. He gingerly applied fingers and Little Jack Hornered a beefy chunk of glass from the clay. When I saw it at first, I thought it might be antique automotive glass, but thank you Google, it turns out to be a honking piece of an orange drink jug from 1927-1937. https://www.worthpoint.com/worthopedia/1927-35-nesbitts-orange-soda-jug-3880547348 I wonder how long it's been rusticating in this former cow pasture? Nearly 100 years? Did it slide down from the midden pile behind the old farmhouse?  the old farmhouse, slowly bowing to gravity The midden pile. Or, if you like, call it a trash heap, but I like the archeological flavor of "midden." And archeologically/anthropologically speaking, nearly every farm from before the middle of the 20th C usually had its very own spot for trash. Just like the Mesopotamians, chucking used plates and broken furniture over the edge of a rise. Out of sight, out of mind. A few years ago, I uncovered a treasure-trove of unbroken glass bottles that had somehow survived first the pitch out of the old farmhouse back door, second the minefield of granite chunks and previously pitched items, and third the 20, 30, 40 winters between then and now.  But Jeff has found a hand plough, wonderful old oil can/watering cans, stout tin chicken feeders—lovely rusty bits of history that we have festooned about the cabin.  A dabba-do car... My sister even found a grindstone. Which looks an awful lot like one of Fred Flintstone's car's wheels.
Here's a older blog about other archeological finds on the Farm http://www.amysmithlinton.com/blog/would-be-farm-rural-archeology  Roman Emperor Hadrian ruled from 117-138. One of the things he's remembered for is the wall* that he had the Roman army build across the top of England. *Classic "Build the Wall" strategy: the alleged purpose was to keep the barbarians out (didn't work btw) but in practice, very useful in keeping the Roman army busy and out of Hadrian's hair.  So the wall is around 1800 years old, and stretches 73 miles from the Irish Sea to the North Sea. The Roman fortifications included a steep ditch to the north of the wall, and, every mile, a milecastle where troops were on station, and between each milecastle, two watchtowers. For some of those miles, of course, the structures no longer exist—Imagine having a neat stack of beautifully quarried blocks just SITTING there century after century. Of course the rock was repurposed by the locals.  Why, you might ask, is she telling us this? Because since I was a young reader, I have wanted to visit Hadrian's Wall.  Using a big birthday as an excuse, I packed up my kit and betook myself to Corbridge, a little bitty village in the heart of Northumberland in the north of England.  The bridge over the river Cor. I went solo—a decision for which I was profoundly grateful on Day 2 of my walk, when the unending descents and ascents of slippery rock staircases were certainly NOT on the menu when I'd tried to lure my friends to come along.  John and Allison from York, trail friends, climbing a slippery slope.  There's a lot to unpack for me about the stretch of doing something quite new without companions. It was profoundly rewarding to—like any 2-year-old will say—accomplish this myself.  I hiked around 28 miles across three days.  I lost count of the stiles, the stairways, the sheep, the suspicious cattle. It's a polite walking culture in the UK, and I was not the only solo woman on the trail. I slept soundly in very pleasant accommodations (Thanks Joe "Puma" Froehock for the recommendation of Mac's Adventures!).  Mac's Adventures comes with a neat-o phone ap. Yes, that orange blob is me, side-questing. Conversations were struck up. Vistas were admired. Inspiration for book two was discovered. Complaints and old-man noises were made. I checked my heart-rate kind of a lot. Shelter was taken during the inevitable rain (ask me about my Tyvek rain skirt!).  Sandwiches involving watercress were eaten al fresco with sheep as audience. KT tape became a trusted pal. And it was over all too soon. Knock wood my physical plant and my pocketbook will allow a repeat. Maybe the Cumbria Way walk. Or a bit of the 670-mile-long South West Coast Pathway? Jeepers. Wait, the Pilgrim way to Lindesfarne—ooooh.  This hike was sandwiched between a few days in London and Newcastle. Not enough armchair adventure? Find me @amysmithlinton on Instagram for more about the trip.
 There are too few hours in the day, even as the days grow longer in leaps and bounds. When we arrived at the Would-Be Farm in early April--in time to spare for my sister's birthday and the total eclipse-- the sun was up from 6:30am to 7:34pm. On the day we left, the sun peeped up at 5:40 and lingered until 8:19. At midsummer, according to the 'webs, it'll be 5:30-8:45. At that latitude, twilight and pre-dawn last for ages. Every year is different, of course ("It's a planet, Jim, not a calendar."). This year Spring sprang extra early. The daffodils that I would hope to see the first week of May were blooming their faces off the second week of April.  Early spring meant that only a few plants that I treasured were nibbled into oblivion over the winter. It also, critically, meant an early fishing "bite," as they say.  I was grateful that Jeff and his fishing captain, Dan ("Captain Dan! Captain Dan!") stuck to the inland lakes and the little bitty tin boat, because early thaw or no, that water is co-co-cold.  Each year, I worry about pollinators showing up for the many feral apple trees, and for the handful of sturdy fruit that have survived our custodianship (looking at you, pear trees!). ...and was reassured again by the pastoral hmmmmmmm of a battalion of bees working the trees. It's one of the unexpected sensory pleasures, to stand among fruit trees in early spring, listening to the sound of insects at work, ensuring the annual miracle of fruit growing on trees. The bees are noisy, but there are other, quieter pollinators to observe: butterflies and moths, damselflies and wasps. Hummingbirds, orioles. We run an all-you-can-sip buffet out there.  In the past decade, I've grown accustomed to the sloth pace of the season: first bluebells and rock iris, a few days later, maybe a touch of snow, and then Dutchman's britches and early saxifrage, a few more days for the first hint of wake-robins and daffodils.  Buds will start to swell, and the hint of green will return to the putty-colored fields. Bluebirds and bright goldfinches will look like confetti scattered in the wind. These and less crayon-ish birds will be making a racket earlier and earlier in the morning.  Then maybe spring peepers will start up, along with the excited hooting of barred owls and the good-lord-that's-annoying-after-the-first-three-times sound of the whip-o-will. This spring, everything seemed telescoped into a couple of weeks. By the time we migrated south for our annual pilgrimage to the Florida Keys (fishing! friends! regatta!), new leaves the color of radiator fluid stippled the woods. Like an inverted dance of the seven veils: the naked rock bones and tree trunks covered by swirling layers of buds, blossom, tiny leaves, bigger leaves, a variegated canopy, dressing rather than undressing. Though, naturally, we hope not to begin (or end) with someone's head on a platter.
We are just the caretakers of the Would-Be Farm. Oh, we pay taxes and insure against disaster, but the land is its own, really. As the springtime photos reveal. Even the game cameras have some autonomy. For instance, the crossroads camera chose to take video this winter. Ooh, look, bobcat! A few new players appear on camera this year. Like Pekania pennanti, the second-largest member of the weasel family. Commonly known as a fisher-cat, this somewhat alarming creature goes about three feet long with retractable claws and sharp teeth. We are grateful to know they tend to be shy by nature.  Likely the same fisher on a different camera. The fisher, as I learned fifteen seconds ago, is the rare predator that feasts upon the porcupine. "Nature red in tooth and claw," as Tennyson wrote (I grant you, of the 133 cantos of In Memoriam, this single bit is all I retain). Our largest predator is Ursus americanus. The male Black bear has a range of something like 25-50 square miles, so it's not a surprise to see these big guys popping up on camera from time to time. Wish the camera had chosen to continue rolling film a bit longer. Around the corner, on a still camera, more than one bear showed up in the frame... The stars of the show for me this year are the pair of foxes that are frisking about all over the Farm. I suspect the shortage of coyotes this year (possibly the result of the natural 7-year cycle combined with the neighbors' willingness to speed that cycle along) has encouraged the foxes to be out and about.  I have high hopes for fox kits this spring. Love is in the air for others as well. There's more, but I have wood to cut and chapters to re-write (squee! the new book!).
Until next time... Why yes, I was briefly addicted to Days of Our Lives in the era of broadcast television. My grandmother and my sister used to gossip on the phone about the Hortons and Bradys of fictional soundstage Salem, and frankly, I wanted in. Plus the daytime drama fit perfectly in the timeslot between the noon and 2 pm shuttle runs when I was a cheerful first mate on Captain Alva's shellkeyshuttle.com in Pass-a-Grille.  I barely remember the storylines, engrossing as they seemed to be. One scene lingers, an uncomfortable bit with a stalker and a victim and the screen fading to black over an eerie recitation of Yeats' "When you are old and grey and full of sleep,/And nodding by the fire, take down this book,/ And slowly read..." When I consulted my sister, she remembers several literary moments during that era of the program. I imagine one of the show's writers gleefully setting gems she'd mined from her education into this lowbrow, La-Z-boy throne of American culture. Still, it's the tagline that really sings. I reference it frequently when looking at a calendar. We've already swooped past Midwinter Regatta season. A photo recap for your reading pleasure: Other sailing events have dropped over the horizon: we helped run an ACat regatta, Jeff sailed the Round the Point race, as well as squeezing in an IC37 regatta in Lauderdale and a full-moon race. The sands of time sure do hurry through that hourglass.  Which means, as tumbling grain follows tumbling grain, it's nearly time to check on the Would-Be Farm.
To each season its own joy. |
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