The Ballast Keel

One of the most fascinating and heartwarming things about the boatbuilding business is the universally friendly helpfulness of the many visitors we have. They are not, for the most part, people with, as you might say, an axe to grind-or a plane to be adjusted, or even a check to press into our embarrassed hand as down payment on a new design. Not at all. They come because they like us, and they like the smells around the shop that speak of cedar shavings, wood preservatives, and certain little creatures who have discovered good digging under the boiler. These visitors are not ignorant. They are keen students of yacht design and boatbuild­ing, ever willing to help with a bit of friendly advice, or a quick demonstration of how Manny (whose shop they visited on last week's day off) fits a beam in less than half the time we're likely to need for the same job. And when they say, "Do you really think this stuff is fit for planking''-or, ''My gahd, don't tell me you're still using iron keels and galvanized bolts!" - we feel properly grateful and almost at a loss for words. Almost, but not quite. Therefore, having arrived at the subject of ballast keels, and in full awareness of my vow to avoid contention concerning matters of design, I'd like to attempt to justify that hunk of weight, to describe what it's made of and why it's shaped the way it is. Outside iron There are still some who, steeped in the lore of Friendship sloops, sandbaggers, Brixham trawlers, and seasickness cures, maintain that all ballast should be inside, anyway. I have given up fighting the battle of sail-carrying power ("After all-admit it-if you want to go to windward, you turn on the engine"), and have even stopped pointing out that lead inside is fully as expensive as lead outside, and terri­bly dangerous if the boat rolls completely over. I even dare suggest that some of those encap­sulated-birdshot ballast systems in the plastic boats will bear watching, too. All I do now is give the inside-ballast man a flatiron and sug­gest he hit the bench with it, twice-once with his hand on top of the iron, and once with his hand underneath. If you have never run a boat aground and feel completely confident that you never will, then this demonstration does not apply; but if you are half as timid and bumbling as I am, you'll be happy in the thought that the weight is already at the bot­tom of the pile. So we'll put the ballast outside and keep the bilge airy. But why iron? You can melt lead yourself, in an old iron bathtub over burning automobile tires, and ladle it into a wooden mold. If a foundry casts a lead keel for you, in a sand mold, you need only provide the wooden pattern and more money. The weight can be lower, less bulky, more easily located at the correct fore-and-aft position. It won't rust. The bronze bolts through the lead shoe are more reliable than the steel bolts you'd use through iron (and just to be cautious, I'll include stain­less steel in my doubts). And, as someone always points out, you can take lead ballast off anytime, sell it for scrap, and get your money back. In the face of all this undisputed evidence in favor of lead, what can we say in favor of iron? Well, first, it's less expensive, if compared to the foundry's price for a lead keel, or if you add your ow