Is there anything better than the scent of wood, a long, paper-thin shaving from a freshly sharpened plane, a sharp chisel effortlessly carving away in a fine piece of oak, or a drawknife that, after being honed razor-sharp, removes wood and magically finds the desired form?
Can the longing for fine craftsmanship be joined with the overwhelming urge to paddle a kayak?
The desire to build a kayak
Ever since I started kayaking, I’ve been thinking about building my own kayak. Looking around, I soon came across Björn Thomasson’s website with all his kayak designs and clear instructions on building kayak from wooden strips and fiberglass, and with plenty of pictures showing beautiful craftsmanship. I also found many videos and instructions on building skin-on-frame kayaks on the internet. It was simply a matter of getting started… and, of course, having access to tools, a workshop, and the materials.
Perhaps a bit of personal instruction could be beneficial?
Building or repairing a kayak?
When you paddle a lot, stuff sometimes breaks, and repairs become necessary. I must admit that repairing doesn’t bring me the same joy as creating something new – it mostly just makes me tired. Several factors come into play here.
Firstly, it’s an interruption that prevents me from using the kayak, whether it’s practicing Greenland rolls, IPP4 (BCU4) training, or joining a trip with friends from the club.
Secondly, it isn’t lovely wood shavings and good tools in my hands; instead, it’s fiberglass, epoxy, rubber gloves, and similar paraphernalia that doesn’t provide the same tactile and aesthetic experience.
Lastly, and most importantly, it’s not work that creates something new; it’s not a piece of work that is creatively satisfying, at least not to me. Of course, these objections are based on my personal experiences, perhaps I’ve spent too much time and energy in the past repairing and maintaining old bicycles and wooden houses. I know many people who love repairing and restoring and do fantastic work.
When it’s necessary
Last year, I discovered cracks in the gelcoat on the bottom of my rolling kayak. I made a repair and also discovered some developing cracks in the fiberglass itself. The Naja, my kayak, is very lightweight, and the cracks were just underneath where I sit, where the stress is greatest. I added some fiberglass on that area at the inside of the kayak to make it stronger, thinking that everything was well taken care of.
I was quite annoyed when I discovered cracks in the gelcoat repair this spring.
At first, I thought I hadn’t done it properly, and the gelcoat had separated from the fiberglass layer. But as I began removing the gelcoat, I realized that it was actually the fiberglass itself that had detached from the core material in a larger area. The core material in sandwich construction of the kayak is cork, and the outer layer of fiberglass on top of the cork core turned out to be surprisingly thin. It became an extensive repair where I added a large piece of stronger fiberglass onto the cork and finally used colored epoxy to cover it instead of gelcoat. It may not look pretty, but it seems to be strong without significantly increasing the weight of the kayak.
The tea bowl
I’m educated as a ceramic artist from the School of Arts and Crafts in Kolding. As a ceramic artist, one develops a different relationship with things that break – as Nis Petersen writes in “The Street of the Sandal Makers”: “The most beautiful jar was the one that broke.” Therefore, as a ceramic artist, I’m more inclined to accept the loss of things I cherish. However, I do have a tea bowl that I made many years ago. It has been broken countless times, and each time I painstakingly glued it and sealed the cracks with black lacquer. In the end, I couldn’t stop it from leaking anymore, and now it languishes on my desk filled with unnecessary trinkets.
A kayak inherently holds more value than a tea bowl (except for the most expensive and unique bowls), and I find it easier to convince myself of the necessity of repairs.
The Christmas gift
Back to building a kayak. I received an amazing Christmas gift from my sister and brother-in-law: a kayak building course at Kajakkspesialisten in Vestfossen, Norway. It was a course where I learned to build a skin-on-frame kayak over the course of a week. A kayak constructed in the same way as they were originally designed.
It is a kayak built to fit me and what I want to use it for. And I want to use it for rolling. Along with the The Danish Championships in Greenland Rolls, that was my summer kayak project.
My desire to build a kayak and learn how to do it, stems from different reasons. There’s the act of creating something with my hands, there’s the work with wood and good tools, there’s the construction itself made of wood and canvas to fit the paddler and purpose, and there’s also the aspect of recreating something of ancient origin – the kayak as it was made long ago.
The earliest kayak construction
How long ago is a good question. One early archaeological evidence dates back to around 500 CE, and the earliest known illustration is a map of Greenland from 1605 that depicts two kayaks. The map is a copy of another map made in 1570 (Scavenius Jensen, 1975). In Greenland, remains of ribs dating back approximately 4000 years have been found, most likely from a kayak (Arctic Institute, 2017). Apart from that, it’s uncertain when the Inuit began using kayaks and when and where the proto-kayak originated.
Perhaps the kayak was even something that accompanied the migration that populated North America. John Turk, an explorer, scientist, and author, believes that part of the migration not only occurred via the ice and land bridge during the last Ice Age but also by sea, all the way from Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Japan. The indigenous people there, the Jomon, had ocean-going boats, and to emphasize his theory, John Turk embarked on an expedition where he and others paddled kayaks from Hokkaido along the Kamchatka Peninsula to the Aleutians. He presents his theory and describes the journey and hardships in two books, primarily in “In the Wake of the Jomon.”
The diversity of kayak design
In the Copenhagen Kayak Club, we now have more than 60 sea kayaks, both fiberglass and plastic, that members can use freely. There are many different brands and models, and this fleet of kayaks provides a good impression of the diversity in kayak design. However, it’s only a limited selection of what is actually available on the market. In stores, there are many well-designed sea kayaks to choose from, created with the intention of bringing joy to those who use them. A significant amount is also made solely for profit, where different elements needed for a kayak, have simply have been put together without considering whether they actually work as intended.
I have always been attracted to kayaks where the Arctic heritage is obvious in the design. One of my kayaks is an Anas Acuta, a design that has been around for more than 50 years and is closely based on measurements taken from a kayak from East Greenland. A really good kayak in my opinion, that is on par with the best modern kayaks.
The other kayak I use is a Naja from Rebel. It’s not a directly derived design, but there’s no doubt about where it has its roots.
Aesthetics
I have no problem with contemporary kayak design; I’m not a luddite and don’t believe we should all be running around in sealskins or a grass skirt. Modern design techniques and hydrological understanding, along with materials like fiberglass, carbon fiber, kevlar, thermoplastic, and so on, have allowed talented designers to create fantastic kayaks.
However, the harsh conditions of the Arctic have given rise to a vessel made from available materials that functionally holds its own against the newest designs. Additionally, the construction of wood and canvas automatically adds an aesthetic expression to the kayak’s lines that appeals to me. I simply find Greenlandic type kayaks incredibly beautiful.
A multi-dimensional kayaking life
The combination of craftsmanship, cultural history, and aesthetics brings two ends together—the ancient origin and the contemporary. It creates cohesion and adds an extra dimension to my kayaking life. I have no intention of living like a neolithic inuit, but I also don’t intend to forget where my modern life has its roots.
Kayaking and kayak culture, both now and in the distant past, bring great joy.
