There is a poem by Browning whose lines are haunting: “Never the time and the place and the loved one all together!” At last it seemed that these three magic elements might possibly be combined. We had the time—a two-year contract, with an option to extend it for a third year. This was certainly the place—the magnificent Inland Sea, unrivaled for beauty, with plenty of opportunity for sailing—while just beyond lay the vast and challenging waters of the Pacific. Moreover, there were skilled Japanese shipwrights here, with centuries of tradition in the building of wooden craft.
As for the loved one—she existed as yet only in the notes, sketches, and pictures I had stored over the years, but which I hoped might be assembled into the plans for the ideal boat.
Finally, for the first time in our lives, we had a chance to accumulate some capital. At last, and for once—the time, the place, and the loved one seemed to have met.
The type of craft that evolved in my mind was a heavily built ketch, stressing the factors of safety and simplicity. I knew about the pros and cons of light-versus-heavy displacement cruising boats, and had compared modern and old-time designs, rigs and methods of construction. One fact was all-important: styles in boats, like everything else, may change, but the sea doesn’t. Boats built along traditional lines have made long voyages in safety and relative comfort in years past, and they can do so today, even though they may be scorned as “old-fashioned.”
With this idea in mind, I made a few contacts with stateside designers and ordered a number of stock plans. I came across some very fine designs, but none completely suited me. One very real problem was the particular circumstances under which this boat would have to be built. I would have to use materials and equipment now available in Japan. The boat would have to be built of Japanese woods. Would a foreign designer know which to recommend? Also, there was the matter of the local boatbuilders, who didn’t take too kindly to plans and blueprints, to say nothing of the English language. Would an absentee designer be able to anticipate and provide for all the problems that were bound to arise?
Reluctantly I had to face the facts: if I wanted a boat built in Japan, by local shipwrights, I would have to design it myself and supervise every detail of its construction. If I didn’t think I could do it, it would be better not to start.
I settled myself to the task. For the next year all my time and energy outside the laboratory were devoted to the labor of designing the boat. It was entirely a “library research” type of job, based on my studies, collected materials, and the books I had brought to Japan with me.
I drew up the plans for a double-ender, along the lines of the early Colin Archer designs. It was to be 50 feet over-all, with a 14-foot beam and a draft of 7½ feet, displacing about 30 tons.
The ketch was to have a straight keel, high bulwarks, gaff main, topmast, inside ballast (6½ out of a total of 9 tons), and a flush deck forward of a small after cabin. Her accommodations would attempt to combine the best features of an open design, so necessary in the tropics, with the essential privacy for each member of the crew, which could make all the difference on a long voyage.
With the plans well along, we hit a real snag. For months all efforts to find a satisfactory boatbuilder, at a price we could afford, drew only blanks.