Hatches and Other Deck Joinery

We once built a big clipper-bowed cutter, designed by Sam Crocker, and handsome beyond words to describe. It was a painful job from start to finish. The owner had haunted the great yacht yards on City Island, and had arrived at some standards of excellence (mainly in matters of fine teak-and-mahogany bright­work on deck) that were beyond our experience and, I regret to say, talents. They were espe­cially beyond the contract price. The really important thing, he felt, was this: You tie up alongside, somewhere, and people walk along the wharf and look down on your deck. That's the view that counts. It establishes you as the owner of a real yacht, or it points up the melan­choly fact that you patronized a backwoods boatyard somewhere east of Long Island. There are, admittedly, farmers in those dark regions who can build a strong hull, but...  So, to provide us with a sample that we could strive to equal, he made up (in his own shop) a complete set of companionway rails and sliding hatch cover, splined, glued, sanded, and finished with 10 coats of varnish. Unfortunately, the damned thing didn't fit by a mile, and we spent days beveling, scribing, narrow­ing, and straightening before we could get it fastened in place. By that time it had a some­what battered look, but the owner was proud of it. We went on to fit his colossal railcaps (milled from straight stock, to be steamed, edge-bent, and scarfed together) and his classic skylight and a great hatch in the foredeck-and a housetop laid in gleaming natural wood. I'll bet it shrank to a sprinkler system that would put out a general-alarm blaze. And, you know, the man was right about the importance of this deck furniture, though not entirely for the reasons he lived by. A wooden hull is a simple thing. Keep it wet, and it takes care of itself. A companionway hatch cover lives a more difficult life. It must open and close almost at the flick of a finger, thou­sands of times a season. It must cheerfully sup­port the weight of stamping feet. It must repel water that hits it violently from all sides and above. It must do all these things (and look good besides) in spite of sun and salt. Other deck openings-hatches in the fore- and after­decks, water-trap ventilators, skylights-must meet and overcome some of the same problems. And when I add toerails, deadlights, and mast jackets to the list, I almost wish I'd stuck with dugout canoes. However, here we are, Sam Manning and I, having lured you thus far through the sweet and simple parts of boat­building, and honor demands that we try to finish the job.  Companionway rails  Let's consider the companionway opening and its cover. This is a tricky bit of furniture, with details that can vary in minor ways, and is frequently left to the ingenuity of the builder. I can understand why, as I attempt to describe my own way of doing this job. Here's where Sam takes over (see Figures 16-1 and 16-2). I'll lead you from one drawing to the next, with briefest comment on each.  The first move, of course, is to shape and fasten the rails, a bit more than twice the fore and-aft length of the opening in the end of the housetop which forms the companionway (Figure 16-1a). The rails must, obviously, lie exactly parallel and perfectly straight, stand plumb on their inner faces, and fit the 'thwart­ships crown of the house. They will be bridged at the forward end of the opening by a dam that stands flush with the tops of the rails and is