The New Barky

Without a lot of folderol or fancy-dance, allow me to present an update from the magnificent boatbuilding center of our universe: west central Florida.

When last we left our team of my favorite skipper and his boat-designing buddy OH Rodgers, they had finished much of the hull of the mold and were departing for diverse sailing venues.

Sailing done, they returned to the forge and got right to it. Using the same plywood + strakes technique, they created sides for the boat's mold. OH, with a bit of extra morning at his disposal, whipped up the mold for the centerboard trunk. 

The construction project looks like a sled, or a boat, but this is in fact a mold, so it becomes vital to make what looks like the interior of the hull (but which is in fact the outside of the boat-yet-to-be) SUPER smooth.
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Nobody wants that cupcake to get stuck in the baking tin. 

via GIPHY

So a day or two of putty, sanding, and waxing ensued. 

As well as yet another shopping spree. (yay local economy!)

This time, it was Fiberglass Coatings in St. Petersburg, Florida. Where 8-ounce e-glass, some sheets of plastic foam divinylcell, and epoxy resin —the tropical, slow-cure kind—followed Mr. Linton home. 

There was also a mail order to Miami for...tah dah! 50 yards of carbon fiber.

Not that we need the refresher, but when fabricating something like a boat, a pool, or the body of a Nascar vehicle, fiberglass has been the material of choice since the 1950s. And by "fiberglass" I mean actual glass fibers plus a polymer resin. The glass fibers are woven into a cloth (which was briefly in vogue as a home-decorating option. No wonder we have so many allergies.) The fabric is solidified by the resin, while the polymer is strengthened by the fiber. 

Fast forward to the early 1980's when carbon "whiskers" or fibers started to substitute for glass fibers. Carbon is lighter and more rigid, making it ideal for things like racing car parts and boat hulls, plus (bonus!), carbon fibers are not natively irritating like glass, which is why it's also great for human prosthetics and sporting goods.  

And of course it's dead sexy.

At this point the build really begins.  

Jeff first cut out and pieced together the foam core that would be sandwiched between layers of fabric. And numbered those pieces so that they could be reset within the mold. Then he pulled them out and stacked them to the side.

At long last: the outermost layer!  Jeff smoothed 8-ounce fiberglass cloth over the mold, making sure it was quite flat to the waxed wood. The fiberglass (white) is sturdier than the carbon (black) when it comes to abrasion and sharp impacts. You know, as one might encounter on an oyster bed in Florida Bay.

So on top of the fiberglass goes a layer of carbon fiber fabric. Both fabrics went on dry. 

That white stuff under foot is traditional fiberglass, while the black fabric is carbon.

The fabrics are woven loosely enough so that they can turn a bit of a corner without distorting. 

Like a good Little Black Dress, the tailoring should be exquisitely simple and fiendishly expensive.

With the two layers of fabric in place (and held there precariously with blue painters' tape), Jeff called in his brother.

Brother John is a skilled carpenter who has been busy rebuilding his house after the hurricanes, but he cheerfully gave up a day of progress to help get the foam core "buttered" and placed.

A generous dollop of resin was first squeegeed onto the fabrics, soaking, say, the floppy bottom slice of bread in a syrupy layer of condiment. 

Then the crunchy structural middle of the sandwich: the foam.  To make this part work, OH showed John how to mix the resin into a thicker putty, and John commenced applying it to the foam. 

The process is a bit like setting tile: you grab the tile, apply tile cement to the underside, and then flip it into place. Only this "tile" is the size of a big unfolded pizza box, the surface is drippy wet cloth, and the adhesive is resin that cures at an alarmingly rapid pace. 

​​Our heroes constructed a giant open-face sandwich quickly, setting core from bow to stern. Another layer of carbon fiber cloth finished the sandwich, with resin generously squeegeed on top.  

This was no panini, however lovingly grilled by fine Italian craftspeople. Instead, our tasty treat finished its day with the 7-Eleven treatment: ​getting hermetically sealed in plastic.  
 
Air pockets are the enemy in most resin situations. And an efficient way to make sure the goopy stuff is driven deep into the layers is to vacuum bag it.  

Imagine someone sitting on a Wonderbread-and-peanut-butter sandwich inside an unlocked Ziplock bag.

Only with a vacuum rather than somebody's butt.  OH recruited a pair of shop vacs to get the job done, along with a big roll of Visqueen (think industrial cling film). Note that bit of line curled in the stern of the boat: it's deliberately placed as a route for air to escape. 

The gang allowed a day or two for the resin to kick in vacuum conditions. ​

Supervision and quality control around the boat works provided by Pearl the wonder cat.

OH laid up (layed up?) the centerboard trunk, which looks like a bit more fiddly a job in terms of tailoring. But he's got the practice and probably didn't want to watch the guest-builders struggle. 

Fast forward a few days and the very good news is that the hull was successfully decanted from the mold after nerve-wrackingly careful application of wedges.  Oh the sound of that egg-cracking...

We hope the mold also survived the surgery—rumor has it that this boat will not be an only child.

​Next time: molds for the deck, the sole, and the three ballast tanks.
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