Breaking the News

          I wonder what the best way is to break the news to your boat that you've decided to sell her, to give her a new home. Maybe it's similar to having to give away a pet when you go off to college or when some other cog shifts in the machine of life. I've no experience in that department, but maybe it would go something like this:


Dear White Raven,

          I want you to know you are one great vessel. At thirty-four years old you're still going strong, and by gosh, your gel coat doesn't look a day over ten years old! You've taught me so much over the last few years. You've kept me dry when the winds blew their hardest, rocked me to sleep when we were out on the hook, and brought me places that can only be reached by water. There is no telling how much you have changed my life, but soon I will be leaving and I can't take you with me.

          Now that I am finishing up with school, I'll have to move, and I won't be able bring you along for the adventure. I also don't want you to have to waste your young spirit waiting for me on your trailer. Have no fear; that will not be your fate. I've found a nice home for you with a fine caretaker. His name is Jim and he sounds like a very nice and experienced sailor. I promise he'll have you out and about over on the other side of the state. That's right - new hunting grounds for the choicest winds, fresh water to rub your hull in, and different muds to run your keel into. I promise not to tell him how good we are at sitting in mud along the river. And don't worry, you won't have to wait too much longer; we'll go out for one last jaunt when you meet him this coming Sunday.

          I know that all the maintenance on your engine makes sense now. I can't have you going off without giving the old carb a good once over. Lucky for you, he'll probably show you a few new tricks that a lubber such as myself has yet to learn. You'll do fine out there in the Tri-Cities, and as long as you treat Jim as well as you have me, I promise he'll take right good care of you. This will be a hard goodbye, but it will be for the best. I want you to know I'll never forget you.

Your captain,

Jon

The Legend Continues: Robin Fung (Part 2)

          The hunt is never ending as I search for and log Drumbeat's long history. Luckily, there is a small group of sailors that have been inspired by her as much as I have. One of those individuals is Cynthia, Drumbeat's second owner. She only was able to hold onto Drumbeat for a few years, but the relationship built in that time frame has lasted. In 1973, she was able to visit the builder who had the commission to build Drumbeat along with a series of other vessels. Here is a glimpse of that trip.

Outside the boat shed in Ping Chau

          Her story and trip inspired me to delve deeper into the life of Robin Fung, owner of R. Fung Company, the builder of Drumbeat. Sadly, Robin is not around to answer my questions and tell me stories of his amazing team of craftsmen, but I've been able to piece together bits and pieces from many sources (including Drumbeat's log book) and will present my findings here as accurately as I can. I want to clarify that though some of this information is unrefuted fact, some may be conjecture, but I have done my best with my sources at hand.

Robin Fung

          To start at the beginning, Robin Fung was born in Hong Kong in 1929 into a well-off entrepreneurial family. The younger of two sons, he could have taken over the family business, but instead persuaded his dreams to be a pilot. He moved to Miami and graduated aviation school in 1950. While he was in the United States he developed a love for sailing, which was attributed to the family that he rented from during his schooling. Unbeknownst to them, they would inspire a legend in the crafting of these vessels.

          Mr. Fung returned to Hong Kong soon after graduation and obtained employment with the Foshing Airline company out of Taiwan. His family and the owner of Foshing were good friends, and he was able to work for Foshing for a few years. Sadly, this was not to last for long with tensions between China and Taiwan still steaming. With urging from his family, Robin was let go and went searching for other employment opportunities. He found his calling though, and started R. Fung Co. Ltd.

          In his time there was an army of shipwrights in the area to feed the booming post-war leisure industry. Alongside the great names of the era, such as Cheoy Lee, Wing on Shing, and other lesser yacht builders, Robin set up shop. The craftsmanship coming out of his workshop was incredible, being performed completely by hand and to the highest standard. As a testament to this, Drumbeat has no broken frame or working planks, and even original decks that don't leak after 46 years of service. Fung was known for building William Garden designs: Foam, Wanderbird, and Porpoise, to name a few. He built mostly on speculation, though he did build some vessels to order (such as Drumbeat). In 1970, a fire ravaged his boat works along with a few others, destroying two nearly complete vessels that were not insured. It has been speculated that the fire was set by the Cheoy Lee company to remove their competition from the market.

          Fung was relocated to Ping Chau by the government and he sold everything he had to rebuild the vessels that were lost in the fire. It was the most intense trauma his family had to endure, but he held his professional ethics at a very high standard. Ping Chau was only accessible by ferry, being such a small island off the coast of Hong Kong. This caused great challenges for the business, as his employees could only work half days so that they could use the ferry system. Eventually, the cost of doing business on Ping Chau became too high. Robin attempted to reclaim the land where his original business had been located, but the government would not allow him to return and he was forced to stop building ships. His company remained in existence though, following other entrepreneurial pursuits. Fung's strong work ethic remained and he went to the office every day until his death in 1992.

The work crew gambling during lunch

A William Garden designed Porpoise under construction 

A deck view of the Porpoise

Vessel and construction crew

Cynthia  and  Ah Shing, Robin Fung's assistant

          So to that end, I want to thank Robin Fung for his contribution to the wooden boat community. He built some of the best Garden designs around. William Garden praised his work above all others in quality, as have the previous owners of Drumbeat. Though he may no longer be with us, his legacy will remain for many years to come through the stories his family tells and through his craftsmanship found in every vessel he constructed. Cheers!


          If you have fond memories of your R. Fung boat or know more about his life and would like to share, please feel free to comment below! I'd love to know more!!

Full Moon Race

          This was the race of the season, the pinnacle of sailing on the Snake, the day that separates the sailors from the other folks who like to sail... Well, you get the picture. The Full Moon race is a 40-mile overnight sail from Chief Timothy to Wawawai Landing and back. The winner takes home the coveted wall plaque, an artful nautically-inspired toilet seat (unused) displaying a painted styrofoam "full moon." When the seat is lifted, revealed are the names and boats of all past winners - quite the trophy to display over your mantel. This would be the pinnacle of my sailing career here in Washington and one heck of a day (literally) on the river.

          The race was set to start at 7pm, the boats poised on the start line, tacking back and forth to attain the best position off the line. The competition was fierce; Christine in her Sparrow 16, Jeff in his San Juan 21, and Mike and I in his Macgregor 26. The air horn blew for the warning, then the five minute toot. We re-positioned, luffed sails, and waited for the one minute horn. With that blast, we sheeted in and headed for the line on a starboard tack, positioned nicely in the thick of the current (what little there was). The start horn wailed and we crossed the line a few seconds after, as fast as the breeze would carry our two ton bum.

All three boats toying at the start line

          The wind held nicely for the first leg down the channel, trading tack for tack with Jeff. Occasionally we'd slip one by him and pull ahead, to fall back again as he found a sweeter pocket along the cliff wall or in the center channel. We toyed with each other back and forth for the first mile or two, but the breeze is a cruel mistress and left us luffing, begging for more. This was the defining point in the race for us, as we saw the San Juan 21 pulling away. We would cross paths again, but not for another 6 or 7 hours.

Trying to out tack Jeff's San Juan 21

          The night rolled in and the river miles crawled by. The darkness took the river for an hour or so before the moon showed its face above the hills. Jeff’s stern light was a blip in the distance, and though it seemed to play back and forth as if in some freshening wind, the breeze never reached us. The cool stagnant air was a relief after a sweltering day which lingered around 100 degrees. The silence was miraculous, such as that found while deep within a forest, miles from civilization. The quiet was accompanied by intermittent splashes as the trout leaped for buggy dinners out in the black nothingness between the boat and the outlines of the hills. The bats were at it too, stirring the air around the boat; whether it was to help us along or dine by our stern line, I’ll never know. Eventually I succumbed to the night; a nap was in order.

Sunset over the river

          It felt like only a few moments when the main sheet swiped me, stirring me from my dreamless slumber. We’d found a light breeze from astern and Mike had shifted the sail accordingly while I was out. We were now running with our whisker pole, sails wing-on-wing, adding about half a knot to what the light current had been providing. There was no longer a white light in the distance; we had lost too much ground. It was now my turn to keep watch, so I grabbed my fleece and Mike dozed off. I tried to be as quiet as I could while I mingled with my mind and tended the tiller. I am not going to say that steering is boring, but it is monotonous, especially with the canyon air playing games. Though we were only nearly ghosting along, I still had to keep a hand on the tiller and adjust slightly every minute or so to keep us in the middle of the river. Eventually Mike woke and we were back to taking turns at the tiller.

The moon over the river during the night

          The night went on much like that until around 4:00 AM when instead of chasing a white stern light, a small red blur could be seen ahead. Minutes later it shifted to green and then back to red. Jeff was tacking towards us; he had made the turn and found some wind. Before long we were within shouting distance. As we passed, I was surprised not to hear any witty remarks; the long night had taken its due from both outspoken captains. At our passing, we were about three quarters of a mile from our turn around. After a slow night, we were only about one and a half miles behind. Not a bad job for the overweight two ton Macgregor. Even so, we wouldn't make it to the turnaround until about 5:10 AM.

Sun rise beating up river

          Beating back up river revitalized the excitement of the chase. Now at least 1.5 miles behind (and most likely more), we were in need of a solid breeze, and our wishes were granted. As the sun started to brighten the sky from its hiding place behind the hills, the wind picked up. Soon we were back to cruising! We quickly picked up our pace, gaining about 5 miles in just over an hour. We shot past Blyton Landing and made it the next 10 miles to Nisqually John before the breeze moderated. The next few miles were grueling, though there was never a period of prolonged calm. After what seemed like an eternity, we had passed the narrowest part of the channel and were poised for the last mile of the race.

Gaining some speed as the wind picks up

Getting our heel on

          The last section, from green marker 17 to the power lines, was the roughest. The beach to port extended far out into the waterway, often drawing less than a fathom, half a cable length (300ft) from shore. To starboard, we saw sheer cliffs with sporadic shallows where part of a cliff wall had collapsed at some point in the past. And in-between we sat, barely enough wind to fight the current. After gaining about 100ft over two hours, we decided upon heading toward the low current shallow and attempting to skirt the edge in the minute amount of wind that could be seen rippling the surface. This would be our downfall: we gained another 50ft before dragging bottom and getting caught in the muck. And sadly, the suction was too strong to pull the dagger board up, so we opted for some iron wind to pull us free. That last half mile took us less than 10 minutes to conquer, and we passed under the wire at 11:54 AM, 16 hours 54 minutes after we had started. Luckily, our disqualification had already occurred at 10 AM, but 16 hours in, we were stubborn enough to keep trying. From there, it took another hour and a half motoring to make it back to the Marina, which gave Mike plenty of time to clean the boat.

          I can’t say I didn’t have fun, but that was one heck of a trip. Grueling at times, but the solitude and sailing made it all worth it (provided you didn’t ask me until after I got a full night's rest). It’s sad to think that I might be sailboat-less out here before too much longer, especially after such an emotionally stirring trip. White Raven has been on the market for two weeks at this point and there has been plenty of interest. I may soon have to become a hobo sailor, bumming rides on San Juan 21s or the like, especially with the Tribune Cup coming up next month.