THE RENOVATION OF

"TIMSAH"

by

TERRY BUDDELL

HOW IT BEGAN

My earliest memories of Chertsey boatyard, now that I recall, were of mud, freezing fog and ankle deep snow bordered by the stark, leafless framework of the dead Elm trees that whistled eerily in the bitter wind that swept across the meads. It was a sound that I would get used to over the next two and a half years as I battled with self will, lack of finances and the ever present doubt that I had really bitten off more than I could chew.

However, every story has a beginning and this one began shortly after I arrived back in England after a two year stay in Australia which had finally ended with a terminally homesick wife, demanding a return to Mother and Blighty.

I found myself, one freezing day in March, wandering through the boatyard at Chertsey, next to the River Thames in Surrey. As always, I was looking for a bargain, a neglected, beat up boat that could use a lick of paint, a quick scrub, then a quick profit following a local ad in the paper. The grimy, junkpile of a boatyard looked promising. In awful confusion, boats large and small, lay around. As usual, there were the ghastly floating blocks of flats, plastic washing up bowls with long dead outboards, punctured Zodiacs, the usual rubbish that litters most boating places. There was not a single decent boat in sight.

Picking my way to the end of the yard, I was about to retreat to the relative warmth of the car, when I spotted her. The usual similes applied. A basket case, a wreck, disaster area, a bonfire and so on. They were all true, but in spite of her gaping wounds (cabin side gone, fifteen feet of missing planks, frames and all) there were the remnants of what had once been a pretty boat. Shaking my head, I returned to the car and left the tatty little yard, fed up at the waste of time.

SAVED FROM THE ASHES

Over the next few days, something stranger than fiction happened. As if in a dream, I found myself returning again and again, to stand in the snow and wind looking at this proud old shipwreck from every angle. I fought a long battle there in the snow against myself, but I suppose I’d fallen in love with her, against every rule in the book of the hard nosed boat dealer. She was a thirty six foot, double diagonal ex-Navy pinnace, built in 1942, made from mahogany planks, fastened with copper roves with a teak transom and keel. They used to hang six of them off the side of a destroyer for general duties, such as landing commandos, ferrying Officers and this one, I discovered, had served in Egypt during the last War. They were of open construction, but when they were sold off after the War, some were converted as private yachts. I believe, although I dont know for sure, they were petrol engined, with a small auxiliary as a ‘creeper.’ All this I found out later, much later.

The crunch came, when one day, staring at the filth encrusted engine which I could touch through the hole in the hull, a quiet refined voice broke through my thoughts. "Beyond redemption, old lad, beyond redemption." Turning, I beheld a wrinkled old face from which stared two bright blue eyes that belonged to a man of eighty six, Major Brian Carson, the owner of the boatyard. "I’ve seen ‘em all, over the years, but this one’s had it - got a blasted good engine in it, though! BMC diesel, rebuilt four years ago!" "Add ten!" I thought, but not wishing to appear totally ignorant, I said, "The keel looks straight to me, from here." "Should be, made of teak, did things properly in the old days." Seizing the straw, I said, "What’ll happen to her now?" "Been meaning to break her up for a few years now but I’m getting a bit old for that so I’ll probably burn ‘er - The engine is probably worth six hundred and fifty quid at least!" That did it! "How much for the lot then?" I ventured, as he probably knew I would. "Like I said, old lad, she’s not worth a carrot - Six hundred and fifty - what the engine’s worth!" In a dream, I heard myself say, "I’ll take her!" His blue eyes said it all. Another bloody fool! He was right of course, but then again he’d seen ‘em all over the years, they’d all given him a good living, for sure!

SECOND THOUGHTS

After the hard reality of parting with my cash, I consoled myself with the thought that I could that I could always flog the engine if things got too gritty. I can remember standing in the wheelhouse cabin, hands on the brass bound wheel with the Winter wind howling through the non existent cabin side, gazing far out beyond the snow laden decks, But I wasn’t there- I was bucketing through the Agean Sea, en-route to Greece. However, I was soon back to Earth with a thump. Upon closer inspection, my resolution quailed as the real truth hit home. I made a list. Cabin side missing. Fifteen foot hole in the hull. Fifteen oak frames missing. All the double diagonal planks missing or rotting around the hole. Rear cabin panels rotted. Wires of every size and colour were hanging loose or missing. Floor panels warped. My worst fears were realised, she’d been under, not completely, but up to the floors, at least. It went on and on. What I didn’t know was that the snow hadn’t melted yet and when it did, it leaked from every seam in the deck, allowing water to pour through. That, thank goodness, was yet to come, It was just as well I didn’t know that yet. I went home that night, thoroughly depressed. What the hell had I done? Thrown six hundred and fifty quid down the drain, Matey’s, that’s what I’d done. I didn’t dare tell the wife.

CLEAN UP

Like a dopey moth to a flame, I was back. I’d thought hard. The first job was to throw all the blasted mess outside and at least get it clean. And there was some mess! The accumulated junk of at least twenty years had to go. The second thing was to somehow seal it off against that rotten wind. The tarpaulin was the first thing to go up. The resulting relief was great. Then I set to. Out went a huge peeling cupboard which hung off the wall in the rear cabin. Out went the carpets, stinking and rotten. Out went the cracked plates and rusty cutlery. If it was loose and moved, out it went. Out went a mould encrusted cracked cup - too late, I realised it was mine. Sheepishly, I retrieved it. Little was I to realise that the pile of rubbish would grow to over one ton in weight by the time I had finished, requiring a huge skip. Blissfully, I soldiered on. Filthy mattresses, rotting blankets, the relics of a ghostly past. By the time it was dark, at about three thirty in the afternoon, I had run an electric lead in through a decent size hole in the transom and set up a cosy little tea hole, and, luxury of luxuries, a blower heater, right at the rear of the cabin, out of the wind. This was to be General H.Q. where the battle plan would unfold. Many a happy and unhappy hour I would spend here, but I needed somewhere to retreat to when the chaos got too much. Besides, a chap has to have somewhere to do a bit of reading! On I went, by now I had some space around me.

That’s better! Grimly, I worked my way forward. Shower and toilet, what a mess. I actually shut the door on that for a couple of months until Spring arrived. Within a couple of weeks, a total transformation had taken place. I’d decided to be merciless. If it looked or smelt dodgy, out it went. In most places, I ripped it out back to the frames and hull. The complete bodged up galley went also, in the company of at least twenty pots of old solid paints. Finally, I could see the wood through the trees. I tallied it up and almost wished I hadn’t. At least twenty internal frames had to be repaired, fifteen new frames had to be replaced All the hull planks had to be re-fastened using copper roves, rewired throughout, new decks, new transom and so on. I remember saying out loud, "Well, what the hell are you doing for the next ten years anyway?"

THE DREADED BILGES

Aah, the bilges - How I remember the greasy, oily, vile stinking bilges! They nearly broke my spirit, I can tell you! I decided to work from the stern and work forward. Up came the floorboards. Most of them were rotten but I kept them for patterns. At first, the bilges weren’t too bad, but as I progressed, they became almost unbearable. Nearing the engine, I fought every instinct to throw in the towel. Covered in filth, I ladled out an unbelievable mixture of river mud, diesel, rotten leaves, sodden paper cups, mould and mush complete with dozens of lovely little shards of broken glass. Ancient pennies, tools and cutlery were brought forth into the daylight. It was like an archaeological dig into some distant marine past. I think the worst bit was scraping through the semi-dried goo of an upset paint pot, about a gallon at least. As they dried, I degreased each little section and then painted them with red "Danboline" bilge paint. After an age, they were done. I always remember some crusty old boatie saying, "If you want to see how well a boat’s been looked after, just look in ‘er bilges." It’s true. Later, I remember proudly lifting a floorboard and airily saying, "Most people have to pump their bilges clean, me, I just hoover them!" But it was my reward for the nightmare I went through that Winter!" I reckon we had the cleanest bilges on the Thames!

THE FLOORBOARDS

Initially, I thought that I would replace the floors with ply, then carpet them. As time went by I changed my mind in favour of "proper timber". The local yard had some really nice American Cedar ( blonde, not red) so I went for that. Stained and varnished, it was a sight for sore eyes! A decision I never regretted. When the floors were down, It was just amazing how quickly the work got done. In and out of each cabin in a flash, without a problem. You can really get on once that’s done.

THE FIRST SPRING CLEAN UP

During the end of the first Winter, I couldn’t work outside due to the rain, so I spent much of the time sanding and painting the internal walls. A visibly satisfying job and astonishing to see just what a difference a coat of paint can do! Pretty soon, the rear main cabin had been totally renovated and sparkled throughout. The first real sign that I was progressing, was when I fitted the first of the ten new gleaming portholes into the cabin walls. You just could not believe it was the same boat! She’d turned into a proper little ship! Also, a small pot bellied stove had been put on board and bolted down onto a copper covered base. Stainless chimney went up through the cabin roof, insulated by a special sealer. That stove turned that boat into the warmest, driest little snug I’ve ever been in. Damp was banned from then on. I’d recommend a multi fuel stove to anyone who has ever been damp and cold on board, It’s a must!

THE SERIOUS STUFF

What about the damn great hole in the cabin and half the missing hull, you say? Oh, yes It’s easy to forget that, but years later, the photos in front of me, I can recall it all too well! I knew the Summer would flash past, so I had to get my finger out, so to speak. Priorities were, to weatherproof this boat before the fog and the rains rolled back. The decks leaked like a sieve and the missing cabin side was a laugh. The tarpaulins did a rough job, but I had to face it. Where, oh where, to start? In spite of the missing frames, the boat had been properly supported so she hadn’t sagged, not an inch. Therefore, the hull could wait a bit. The real nuisance was the leaking decks and cabin roof. When it rained it was no difference to being outside. I decided the roof and side decks were next before all of my hard won work was ruined by the rain.

NAVY-STYLE

So how was I to seal the roof? In the wheelhouse, the roof had sagged a little due

to a very ill fitting hatch which had been added as an afterthought. It was beyond all help so I decided to fasten it shut forever. There was a Navy chap in the yard, building a boat and one day, deep in conversation, he suggested canvassing the roof, Navy style. I turned up my nose a bit, saying I didn’t think it would last, but he put me straight by saying the Navy didn’t use methods that didn’t work, they’d had a couple of hundred years in which to practise. "Keep it painted and it’ll last for thirty years, it’s as tough as all hell!" "OK", I said, "Can you show me? So he did. First of all, I cleaned up the roof as well as I could. Filled and sanded the cracks, then primed and painted it with gloss enamel. I bought twelve feet of decking canvas and laid it over the roof. I wrapped one edge of the canvas around a long batten and tacked it with nails to hold it temporarily. With another batten, the other side of the canvas was pulled taut over the roof then tacked every three inches with brass ringed nails. How many arms have you got, I hear? Well, the Navy chap did help me a bit! When the canvas was tacked into place all round the interesting bit came next. I got a three inch brush and a can of water. Then, I got a three inch brush and a can of paint. Normal gloss enamel, no fancy boat paint. With the first brush dipped in water, I painted a two foot square on the canvas. Next came the other brush, dipped in the paint and the wet two foot square was painted over, working it in. You’d never believe in a million years that the paint would stay on , let alone dry, but it did. And when it dried, it pulled the canvas, tighter than a drumskin, all over the roof. Then, the more coats of paint, the better. IT WORKED and IT KEPT ON WORKING. Never a drop of water ever came through that roof again! Impressed, I was! I can remember the luxury of standing in the cabin, under the only dry place in the boat. Needless to say, the side decks got the same treatment, rapid! Soon, the rear two thirds of the boat was dry for the first time in about eight years. I nearly wrote off to the Pope to get him to declare it a miracle! In my enthusiasm, I almost did the same on the front decks, but as it happened, I’m glad that I didn’t, as you will see later.

THE CABINSIDE

Over the next few weeks, I copied the port cabin side and sliding door. No dramas here, all went well and that too made a huge difference when the weather was finally outside the boat at last. This was made from one inch thick ply, screwed well in and sealed with paint and putty. What’s this I hear? Paint and putty? It may be old fashioned, but it does work. The Navy used it for about a million years and it lasts that long too, if its protected from the weather with paint. Window putty, mixed with gloss enamel until it forms a goo. A great sealer and filler, cheap and easy to use. Clean up with turps. Timsah was made of the stuff!

THE BIG BLACK HOLE

Well, the time had come. What did this huge hole in the side of my boat amount to? Amazingly, the former owner had decided that the best way to remove two hundred feet of rotten planks and fifteen frames was with a chainsaw. Yes, I’ll say it again, a chainsaw. He’d done a nice square job too! It seems astounding but due to the self supporting nature of the double diagonal planks and the incredible oak frames, she hadn’t sagged, not an inch. Testimony to the great boatbuilding techniques of the good old Royal Navy. Once again I reasoned, If its been done before, you can do it again. There was, after all, the other side to copy. So that’s what I did! I started by beefing up the sheer strake and the inner shelf inwale that ran the whole length of the starboard side. This was done by adding a long length of mahogany in between them, bolting it together with stainless bolts and sealing it up with ye good old paint and putty. I then had the problem of transferring the shape of each frame, each of which was a different shape from the other and fitting them into place, in order that the planks would lay fairly over them. This was the deep space of boatbuilding, something I’d never tackled before. I wrestled with the usual problems of dividers, plotting compasses etc. But the hull was too big, too rounded. In the end, idly playing around, I spotted a big cardboard box. I cut it roughly to shape at the spot where the rearmost frame began, then trimmed it. Perfect! Time and time again I checked it, it fitted a treat. (I just had to remember to subtract the hull width from the radius of it’s curve) I must admit I was too ashamed to admit to anyone that I’d used a cardboard box to get the shape of the first rib, so I decided to keep quiet about until I’d laminated up the first one. If it didn’t work then I’d feel a fool!

LAMINATING THE RIBS

To make the fifteen ribs, I decided to laminate them. I bought a sheet of eight by four ply to use as a base. I drew out my cardboard box shape, minus the hull thickness and drew it out. So far, so good. Then, I cut small blocks of wood, three inches long and screwed them to the rib shape with long wood screws. Then, clamps were bought and the strips of mahogany were purchased from the woodyard. These were a quarter of an inch thick by two inches, five to a rib, making one and a quarter inches deep. I used Cascamite waterproof glue for glueing. These days I’d probably use Araldite 255 epoxy, but times change! I clamped up the first one and left it overnight to dry. Next day, I showed everyone in the yard, my first ever laminate! After sanding, I offered it up to the hull and Blow me down, It nearly fitted perfectly! It had sprung open a little but I allowed for that in the next few ribs by tightening the radius of the curve. My first rib, fourteen to go! The cardboard box method had a lot going for it, It worked. It took a couple of weeks to get all the ribs made and fitted, checking the fairness of the hull curve with a long batten. Any that were proud, were sanded, any that were shy were packed with thin strips.

THE PLANKING

By now, the once derelict wreck of Timsah held no fears for me. One morning, I found myself amongst the assorted gear needed for steaming the first mahogany planks required for the hull. They were six feet by nine inches by three eighths thick and after drying into position would be roved into place using copper roves. Now, if anyone has steamed up a plank in a nice draught-free shed, you’ll know that it’s hard enough, but outside in the frozen breezes of a fine English Summer it’s a bit like pushing a bit of rope up a hill. A problem. Within minutes, plywood boards were erected and I remember crouching like a desert Bedouin in a camp of wavering ply, trying to get six cups of water to get a head of steam up. Yet, In time, It worked. Cold breezes cooled the planks down in seconds but soon the first layers were up. When they were dry, they were painted with bitumen then a layer of canvas placed on top, in between the two layers of planks. As it was Summer, the yard was alive with many and varied types of "expert" boaties who had endless reams of advice but no time to help me in my unequal battle against steam, wind and wood. But in spite of them all, I must not forget the other kind and helpful souls who gave generously and freely of their time and help. Finally, I came to an end of the planking and swore, as long as I lived, I’d never do anything so stupid again! I even had time to fill and re-caulk the hull using the time honoured tools, a caulking iron, a hammer and lots of caulking cotton. The painting of the hull was remarkably quick using rollers and paint purchased from a Navy surplus store. The tins were dented but the paint was brilliant!

THE TERRORS OF THE TRANSOM

I always knew the transom would be a bit of a problem. The main reason was that I hadn’t realised the rudder would be so damned heavy. It nearly smashed every bone in my body when it leapt off the back of the boat when I knocked out the last gun-metal bolt. WRONG! It completely demolished the heavy wooden table I was standing on and flung me to the ground like a rag doll. I couldn’t believe it had missed me - I just kept staring at the table. Eventually it took four men to lift it back up while the bolts went back- You sure live and learn. The actual transom was straightforward. A double layer of two inch thick African Obeche was screwed, glued and bolted together, tapered and manhandled back into place. Once in position, I used a hundred screws (Gun metal) to hold it in place then bolted back the stern knee. Sounds so easy, doesn’t it?

RESCUED FROM THE BREWERY

The decks were the last major work to be done. Looking back, they probably should have been one of the first but it didn’t work out like that at all. As mentioned before, I’d nearly canvassed them but I kept thinking, a boat like this should have proper wooden decks. The mere thought of it kept me frozen in inaction. One fine day though, a local scrap dealer who drove a hand painted red Ford transit van, came whistling down the boatyard. "Ullo Mush, want sum wood?" says he. "What sort?" says I. "Boat wood, mate, boat wood! "Hard or softwood" says I. "Feels ‘kin ‘ard to me, I got a lot of it cheap. If you wants sum, foller me" So I followed him and when we got to his yard, about two miles away, I discovered my decks. To be honest, they didn’t look like them then. They were two lengths of Oregon, thirty feet long, a foot wide, six inches deep. Straight as a die. "How much for the two?" says I. "Thirty quid, delivered." Never had I parted with thirty quid so rapidly. And that’s where my lovely new decks came from. At first, he didn’t want to tell me where he’d gotten them from but when he got to know me a bit better, I found out they’d been nicked from the demolition site of the old Staines Brewery. Turned out they were over two hundred years old . Think how much alcohol they had absorbed! When they had been sawed, laid and sanded they were finished off with an amazing Swedish product called "Deks Ole," dear as poison, but never needs replacing. You just paint more on top.

ALL OVER, BAR THE LAUNCHING

As it turned out, Timsah didn’t get launched until the following Summer. There were endless jobs, the two most important being the re-wiring and getting the engine running. As previously mentioned, the wiring was in such as mess, it all had to go. Ancient dynamos, bakelite switches, I drew a plan best as I could and ripped it out. Luckily, my poor old Dad, electrickery being his forte, got the job. Within three or four days that was another tick on the long list. The major worry to me had been the condition of the 3.8 diesel, but in the end, my fears were groundless. I took the injectors and pump away for servicing, cleaned it, bought the service manual, changed the oil, bled the air out and within three or four turns, away she went with a mighty roar. She ticked over like a London bus, that was all there was to it, what a result. However, the day soon came for launching. The old wartime crane lurched to the end of the yard after the worst craters were filled in with gravel. Then the awful moment came as the monster creaked and groaned my ‘Precious’ high into the air. I felt sick with fear, alternately laughing and madly snapping photos (I was determined to photograph the final crash for proof of negligence - It had crossed my mind the local paper might give me a hundred quid for the story) Then came a terrible hour when the mudguards were removed so that it could squeeze in between two sheds. All the time, over two years work swung horrendously overhead in a ten foot arc, in the rising wind. Suddenly, with a final lurch, the jib swung out over the water, and the deed was done. "I’ll keep her in the slings for a couple of hours in case she fills up and sinks," yelled the crane driver. But I hardly heard him. In a dream, I finally stepped on board. It was eerie. She was moving. She had finally come alive. She had been reborn. In a trance, I stared at the bilges. NOT a DROP, not a fluid ounce - I was dumbstruck with pure joy - She was floating!

THE LAST WORD

After I’d sobered up (There had been a hell of a party with sixteen adults crammed on board) I looked at what had been done. Silly enough, my greatest satisfaction had been to say to the old Major in a very posh accent, "Not quite beyond redemption, old lad!" I’d been saving that one up. It had been hard, terrible at times and I must admit I’d got fed up with it many, many times. It had put my quavering marriage well and truly on the rocks I’m sure, but I cannot even begin to tell you what sort of a personal achievement it had been for me. I had gone into the deep space of boatbuilding where many professionals had told me they’d never dream of venturing, but that wasn’t all. It was such a wonderful feeling when people would come up to the boat, touch the gleaming brass and congratulate me on owning such a classic boat. I’d learned a few hard lessons out of it too, as well as many practical ones. You never can take things for granted. My plans of sailing to the Greek Islands went west with my marriage. I lived on board for six months afterwards and (It seems funny now) the furthest I ever got in the boat was to Twickenham lock, about fifteen miles ! I ended up selling the boat and made a few bob out of it too. I’d paid six hundred and fifty quid for it, spent four thousand quid on it and finally sold it for a staggering twenty seven and a half thousand quid. I should have been happy I suppose, but there isn’t any amount of cash can buy the satisfaction of saving that little bit of past history from the bonfire. Because folks, that’s where it was going! I’m back in Aussie now, and I’m building a new boat from scratch, a thirty eight footer, strip planked .You’ve guessed it, it’s almost identical to the shape and design of Timsah. I’ve never built a new boat before but if I hadn’t gone through what I did with Timsah, there is no way I’d of ever had the confidence of tackling the new one. Somehow, although I didn’t know it at the time, the whole shape of my life was turned around on that freezing Winter’s day, in the corner of that grimy old boatyard, by the side of the River Thames.