Ceilings

You have, I'm sure, lost that innocence which would direct your eyes Heavenward (toward the underside of the overhead, that is) at the mention of the word "ceiling." You know as well as I do that we're talking about the lining of the hull, the planking on the inside of the frames that stiffens, protects, covers up some rough work-and complicates my life with questions and uncertainties.  My trouble is, I have suddenly realized that the inside planking occurs in far greater variety and purpose than the outside skin, which is a very simple thing indeed. Consider, now:  Lo, the poor Indian split thin cedar slats to spread weight over the bottom of his birch. We lined our lapstrake rowboats up to the risers with light stuff, held with tiny screws, to pro­tect against casually tossed grapnels and clam hods (and we tried with incomplete success to intercept small eels and crabs that headed for the gaps and ripened unseen).  At the other extreme, big cargo vessels were lined with timber at least as thick and a:s strong as the outside planking, through-fastened to it with alternate trunnels, caulked hard to" stop slip and contain bulk cargo or stone-and-gravel ballast. The new schooner might even be lucky enough to get a first cargo of Turks Island salt, pickling her hold against rot for years to come. (I realize that this belief has been jeered at and given scant approval by most of our modern wood teck-nicians, and I suppose we should grieve at the folly of those pathetic millions of seamen who, since the dawn of shipbuilding, have believed that salt is good for wood, even as it saves the nets and the beef and the bait.) Pickled wood is good.  Let's agree that our present concern is with wooden boats larger than those open skiffs and somewhat smaller than a coasting schooner in fact, our own ideal 'round-the-world ketch, or cutter, or yawl, or cat, or whatever it happens to be this week. This unique and flawless double-ender ( or counter-stern schooner, as the case may be) sits there, in our mind's eye (or even in the flesh), planked and decked, and crying to be made complete as sanctuary and preserver 'midst the alien oceans' vastnesses. In short, 'bout time to do the joinerwork, or we'll never get the cussed thing fit to move aboard of. So let's cut the guff, and make some awful decisions, to wit:  Should we ceil her entire, sheer clamps to floor timbers, end to end, above and below a bilge clamp? Or should we fit now our might­ily structured bulkheads right out to the skin, fastened strongly to frames and planking (with, of course, light and lovely ceiling between, to protect unwary buttocks from splinters)? Should this ceiling be laid with gaps between strips for ventilation? Of the same thickness throughout? Sprung and/or spiled to shape? Go for aesthet­ics, or strength, or both?  Or even skip the whole damned business, as Mr. Herreshoff would have us do: no ceiling, no bilge clamp, no grand chimneys between frames, where incautious wristwatches slide down to lodge on butt blocks, and cockroaches can lurk by day. Frankly, I don't go for this idea. I want ceiling, and I want it for many more reasons than its obvious function of hid­ing my rough work from the pitying eyes of those fussy, fancy builders.  So here we go.  I like to start out with a broad band of heavy ceiling (same thickness as the planking) from end to