Electronics, GPS and VHF, Part 1: Traditional Navigation

Traditional navigation aboard the Spirit of South Carolina off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina

Take a look at any sailing forum and you'll likely find more than one person who thinks that traditional navigational skills and traditional, printed-paper, nautical charts are obsolete, relics of the days of yore, moribund holdovers destined for the history books and trash bins in the new and improved world of GPS. There is a sense by some, or I should say many, that, with an array of redundant electronic gadgetry at their disposal, they should have no fear of not knowing exactly where they are, and where they are going. Leaving aside the fact that electronic devices, even when plentiful and redundant, can and do fail catastrophically for any number of reasons, there is a danger that comes from the feeling of certainty that GPS engenders. It is this feeling of certainty, perhaps more than anything else, that makes complete reliance on GPS foolhardy. This feeling of certainty has, on more than one occasion, led to disastrous results, as sailors, with relaxed vigilance, have plowed directly into rocks, shallow water, aids to navigation, and also other vessels. This is not to say, however, that GPS does not have its place on a cruising sailboat in today's world. Under certain conditions, where visibility is poor, the GPS is an invaluable tool. Likewise, when at anchor, a GPS can sound the alarm, when the hook is not holding well and the boat is beginning to drift toward a lee shore. Yes, the GPS does have its benefits, but it should never, in my experience, be a substitute for a keen-witted situational awareness that is founded upon active use of paper charts, navigational instruments, log books, and, of course, a good compass. In this first part of a multi-part article on the installation of a GPS and VHF in Oystercatcher, my Ericson 25, I stray briefly into the autobiographical, but only for the purpose of emphasizing how important it is, from my perspective, that a cruising sailboat, even a pocket cruiser such as this one, be fitted not only with modern day electronics, but also with those things that will support the sailor's traditional navigational skills.

My experience with the compass began at an early age. I must have been about 11 years old, when I got my first one, an inexpensive, plastic, Silva brand compass. I was a Boy Scout, and this was a piece of equipment that we were expected to carry with us on all campouts. Decades later I would still carry this compass with me, whenever I ventured away from the comforts of civilization.

I earned the Orienteering merit badge early in my Scouting days and considered it one of the most useful courses of study that I encountered.

As scouts, we regularly consulted USGS (US Geologic Survey) topographical maps when outdoors.  I became accustomed to interpreting contour lines and terrain features, and I also became adept at plotting distances using scales.

All of this experience later served me well when I, as a young man, was in the armed forces. I passed through a difficult period of training in the art of land navigation. Why did the military group with which I was associated consider this art of land navigation so important, despite the fact that GPS was available? Because electronic devices fail, and when they do, there is no substitute for extensive working knowledge in the traditional skills. During this time, the lensatic compass, such as you see pictured below, was my friend, night and day. This compass, together with a map, protractor, an accurate pace count, and a lot of practice at making proper conversions (grid north to compass north, and vice versa), was the key to knowing where I was and where I was going.

The maps we used, published by the Defense Mapping Agency, unlike most maps in the United States, were based on the metric system. Every small square on the map represented a square kilometer. Distances were thus measured not in miles, but in kilometers, or "klicks," the slang term that everyone used. To keep track of your klicks, you had to know well your own 100 meter pace count, and you had to remember how many increments of 100 meters you had traveled.

Adjoining DMA maps taped together, laminated, and folded, ready for use in the field

It could all get very confusing without wearing what were known as "Ranger beads." The lower half of the string contained 9 black beads. Each represented 100 meters. Every 100 meters, you would pull down one of the beads. Thus, by the time you had pulled down the ninth bead, you would have travelled 900 meters. 100 meters later, you would have travelled 1000 meters, or one klick. At this point, you would pull down one of the beads at the top (representing one klick), and then you'd reset the 9 beads at the bottom for the next round of nine, 100 meter increments.

Years later, after I had gotten married and had children, I decided to expose my family to the great outdoors. We journeyed much farther than I had ever journeyed as a scout. Nevertheless, some of those same basic navigational skills from my early years assisted me as we travelled countless roads across America. As a scout and as a soldier, I had carried everything I needed on my back. As a family man, I carried everything I needed for my family in our Toyota Sequoia SUV. It was, in a sense, our cruising sailboat, one that carried food and other supplies for trips of a month or more in length.

We made six different trips from our home in Charleston, South Carolina on the Atlantic coast to destinations as far as California on the Pacific Coast. Often we used the Interstate highway system.

Frequently, however, we travelled two-lane roads, often for great distances, simply because we wanted to experience that part of America that goes unseen by those who travel speedily along the Interstate.


View from a two-lane road in Nebraska

So did we carry a GPS on those many journeys across the United States? Yes. Did we ever use it? Rarely. In fact, only twice, both times to find local restaurants that we knew only by name, and both of those times the GPS led us astray, the details of which I will not here convey. What did I rely upon instead? A Rand McNally road atlas - one that cost me less than $10 at Walmart. Every year, for each of the six years that we made these trips, I would buy a new one. I would also, in advance of our trips, print out any maps that were specific to any state or federal lands through which we would travel, or on which we would camp. It was nice to know that I had all of these printed resources at my disposal. Every night by the campfire, while we were at anchor, so to speak, I would plot our course for the next day.

It was during this time that the opportunity arose for me to sail on the tall ship Westward from Charleston to Miami.

On this offshore passage of five days, I worked as a member of a watch group, standing watch in four hour increments, around the clock.

During that transit from Charleston to Miami, not only was I taught traditional sailing skills, but also traditional navigational skills with paper charts, dividers, parallel rules, etc.

When standing at the helm, I, like the other watch group members, would use the ship's compass to steer the ordered course. This ordered course had been determined by the watch officer (or mate) at the navigation station. This nav station was essentially a table at the bottom of the companionway in the aft cabin. At this table, there were paper charts and various instruments. Here, the watch officer would instruct us on the essentials of plotting courses and converting these courses from true to magnetic to compass, taking into account variation and deviation.

The binnacle and compass before the helm of Westward

This experience aboard the tall ship Westward was a formative one for me. Not only did it eventually lead me to purchase my own sailboat (see, "Why I Bought the Ericson 25, Part I), but also it led me to develop my long-time interest in navigation in new ways.

Aloft in the rigging of Westward while underway in South Florida

Soon thereafter, the opportunity arose for me to sail on another tall ship - the Spirit of South Carolina.

Spirit of South Carolina

I would make many transits aboard this vessel, and on each of these I would continue to nurture my interest in traditional navigational skills.

The binnacle and compass aboard the Spirit of South Carolina

I purchased various charts, and used them to practice course plotting and conversions.

Charleston Harbor and its Approaches

I also purchased several books on the subject of maritime navigation. Of all them, the best by far was Frank Larkin, Basic Coastal Navigation. In plain language and simple diagrams, Frank Larkin described many of the essential skills I had learned aboard Westward and the Spirit of South Carolina. It was (and it continues to be) a handy reference book.

I also purchased a hand-bearing compass, specifically the Plastimo Iris 50. I had seen watch officers on the tall ships using these compasses to calculate running fixes by identifying certain buoys or coastal landmarks, such as radio towers or lighthouses.

The Plastimo, Iris 50 hand-bearing compass

On the Spirit of South Carolina, with my own hand-bearing compass, I often practiced these skills. Below, we see a nautical chart weighted down with lead-filled bags. The binoculars stand by, ready for use in spotting buoys or landmarks. Likewise, the triangles await their appointed task in course plotting.

The most challenging experience in traditional navigation that I had aboard the Spirit of South Carolina took place on one of the transits that I did from Washington, D.C. to Charleston. The challenge before me was to work with the captain to track the course of the vessel without making reference to the GPS or any other electronic instrument. This task was relatively straightforward in the early stages of the transit, when we were making our way down the Potomac river. It became a good bit more challenging, however, after we entered the Chesapeake Bay, as rivers, landmarks, buoys, and lighthouses became harder to see on account of the size of this large body of water. The real challenge arose, however, after we sailed out of the Chesapeake Bay and into the Atlantic Ocean. The landmarks and the buoys were not only far-spaced but also far-removed from us.

To aid me in this task, I had purchased, in advance of this transit, a Maptech brand chart, specifically, chart number 99, Cape May, New Jersey to Savannah, Georgia. Likewise, I had asked the captain, in advance, if I could use the ship's Maptech Chartkit, Norfolk, Virginia to Florida. These two products by Maptech are very helpful, non-governmental printings of NOAA charts. I wanted to have these charts at my disposal, so that I would not interfere with the work of the captain and watch officers at the nav station in the aft cabin. To keep clear of them and their work, I would spread out the Maptech charts on the table in the main salon/galley. There I would do my plotting. In the picture below you see the hand-bearing compass, dividers, parallel rules, and my own personal log book. At the end of the transit, as we drew near to Charleston, the captain asked me where exactly I thought the ship was located in terms of its latitude and longitude. I gave him my answer, based upon my log book calculations. It wasn't a bull's eye, but being just a few nautical miles off the mark wasn't too bad

Eventually, I would also make transits on the tall ship Roseway, the most challenging of which was a ten-day passage from St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Island to Charleston.

Roseway with her tanbark sails

Just as on the Westward and the Spirit of South Carolina, the ship's compass on the Roseway was the instrument by which every crewmember on helmsman duty, myself included, steered the course.

Nevertheless, the Roseway, just like the Westward and the Spirit of South Carolina, also had a GPS/Chartplotter. In the picture below, we see this electronic device housed in a protective structure on the starboard side of the companionway. Despite the fact that all three of these tall ships had GPS/Chartplotters, on none of them did the captain or watch officers rely upon these devices for the plotting their courses. Instead, they used them primarily to obtain fixes. They then plotted these electronic fixes as LAT/LONG (Latitude/Longitude) points on the paper charts. I should also mention that another important service that the GPS/Chartplotters provided concerned the fixes that could be made for those who might fall overboard. Although there were no MOB (Man Overboard) events on any of the transits on which I participated, I can say that there were numerous drills where the GPS/Chartplotters would be used to mark the spot where the "man," i.e., the jettisoned dummy (usually a flotation device of some sort), hit the water.

On this transit aboard Roseway from St. Croix to Charleston there were two separate paper charts. On one there were electronic fixes; on the other there were fixes determined by dead reckoning and by use of the sextant.

After we had gotten past Puerto Rico, the plan was to sail directly to Charleston. On the chart below, you see the projected course that indicates this straight-line approach. Due to weather and other factors, we had to alter this projected course many times. Ultimately, we had to detour through Hole in the Wall in the Bahamas and take the Gulf Stream northward to Charleston. So, how did the traditional skills stack up against the GPS in this transit? The sextant provided accurate fixes which closely corresponded to the electronic ones. Dead reckoning, on the other hand, was, of course, a much more difficult means of providing accurate information. During this transit, I read Dava Sobel, Longitude. This book, together with the real world experience that this transit provided, underscored the inadequacies of dead reckoning in open ocean sailing and the importance of having a good sextant, an accurate time piece, and a nautical almanac in hand when sailing the high seas.

The comforting glow of the compass aboard Roseway shortly before dawn

If you've read my article, "Why I Bought the Ericson 25, Part II," then you'll know that I purchased this boat for the purpose of coastal cruising, not open ocean sailing such as I describe immediately above with regard to Roseway. Would I, however, under the proper conditions and with plenty of forethought, take this boat to some parts of the Caribbean, namely the northern parts, i.e., the Bahamas and the Turks and Caicos Islands? Yes.

While I'm on the subject, I can't help but digress to share with you this story. As I said, the Roseway had to alter course in the transit from St. Croix to Charleston. This took us through Hole in the Wall, i.e., the hole in the wall, so to speak, of islands that line the eastern edge of the Bahamian Archipelago. This deep water hole or inlet is between Abaco Island and Eleuthera. Many vessels use this large inlet as a means of getting to and from southern Florida. At any rate, in the middle of the night, we passed through the hole and started making our way northwest toward Grand Bahama and the Gulf Stream. The red line below approximates our track.

I was asleep when the Roseway passed through the hole. When my watch group and I were awakened for duty at 0400, we were briefed by the outgoing watch that they had been tracking a small vessel on the radar for some time. The vessel was thought to have been a fishing boat, one that, based upon its track, was outbound either from Miami or Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. My watch group continued to track this slow-moving vessel, which for a long time was too far away to be seen with binoculars. The yellow line below approximates the track of this vessel.

Eventually dawn broke, and eventually this vessel became visible to us on the horizon. For a long time, we continued to think that it was a fishing boat, but, as time wore on, we came to realize it was not a fishing boat, but a sailboat, as evidenced by its mast and sails. Our purpose in tracking this vessel, of course, was to avert a collision. In due course, this small vessel recognized us and took action, so that it would keep us to port and subsequently cross us astern. As this small vessel drew near, I strained my eyes through the binoculars in an attempt to identify the make. This was difficult on account of the pitching a rolling, not only of the Roseway, but also of this vessel.

Finally, when the boat was at its closest, abeam of us, I looked very closely, one more time. Much to my surprise, I saw the telltale signs of an Ericson yacht - the sharp bow, the distinctive shear stripes, and, of course, the portlights angled fore and aft. Much more to my surprise, this boat looked just like every other Ericson 25 that I had ever seen. Finding this coincidence difficult to believe, I handed the binoculars to a fellow crew member. This guy, a life-long sailor and now middle-aged, had, in his early years, worked at a boat dealer in the Carolinas. This dealer specialized in Ericsons, and its was this young man's job to perform all of the commissioning services on each of the Ericsons that were sold by this dealer. So here this guy was now, standing on the deck of the Roseway with me, looking through the binoculars at the same boat I was just looking at. His conclusion? It was the same as mine - an Ericson 25. Seem too strange to be true, doesn't it? But it was. If you are that Ericson 25 owner - the one with the boat with the sky blue hull - and you are reading this . . . I was one of those guys standing on the deck of the Roseway that day. Where were you bound? All we could figure was that you were going to Sandy Point on the southwest end of Abaco Island, or perhaps somewhere on the eastern end of Grand Bahama.

Before I began my digression on the sighting of this Ericson 25 in the Bahamas, I mentioned my article, "Why I Bought the Ericson 25, Part II." If you've read that article, you might recall that I believe the term "blue water cruising" is something of a misnomer. Why? Because you can sail in blue water without sailing far out into the open ocean, hundred of miles from land. There are plenty of coastal cruising scenarios where you can experience blue water - once you get past the sediment found in the near coastal waters. Likewise, you can experience blue water in the Caribbean as you pass from one island to the next.

So where do I stand in the long-running debate between those who favor GPS and those who favor paper charts? Obviously, I do not side with those who favor a wholesale rejection of paper charts and traditional navigation. It should be clear, however, from some of the positive statements I have made with regard to GPS, that I believe the prudent mariner will possess a GPS and make use of it when necessary, but he will not be dependent upon it. Instead, he will be dependent upon paper charts and traditional skills.

In response to those who would ask what I would do in the event that those highly-prized paper charts should be lost or ruined, or that all-important compass should fail or provide inaccurate information (as it sometimes can it the presence of unwelcome ferrous metals), I would say that there is no substitute for a well-founded knowledge of celestial mechanics and celestial phenomena. There is, of course, much more that I could say about this celestial subject, and by this I don't necessarily mean the use of the sextant; I mean a true, handbook-free, working knowledge of the major stars and constellations, and also their movements (along with the movements of the sun, moon, and planets) throughout the year. 

Cassiopeia, one of the all-important circumpolar constellations

This subject of practical maritime astronomy is worthy of a separate posting, but for those who may be curious, I will simply point out here that, in my opinion, the best book on the subject is The Stars, by H.A. Rey. This is the same H.A. Rey who penned the Curious George series of children's books. His drawings of the constellations and his explanation of celestial mechanics make this subject far easier to grasp than any other book I've ever read. H.A. Rey does not address celestial navigation, i.e., the use of the sextant, but he does provide you with a means of developing a real, practical knowledge of the sky, the same practical knowledge that mariners long ago, before the advent of the compass, the nautical chart, and the sextant, surely possessed.

So, where am I going with all of this? I will tell you. In the refitting of my Ericson 25 for coastal cruising, some of which would eventually involve blue water coastal cruising (as I have defined it), I opted to install a GPS - one that I would integrate with a new VHF with DSC (Digital Signal Calling) capability. I also opted to install, however, a new compass - one that I would rely upon just as heavily as those on the tall ships upon which I had sailed.

Likewise, in the refitting of this boat, I made sure to construct a sturdy table - one that would provide me with ample room for the plotting of courses on one of my Maptech Chartkits. This I have already addressed to some degree in my earlier article, "Main Salon Table, Custom, Mahogany."

Custom mahogany main salon table with fiddles dry-fitted for sizing purposes

I could go on, but suffice it to say that, from my standpoint and my own personal experience, traditional navigation is an art that should not be neglected by the coastal mariner. For this reason, I found it appropriate to pen this posting as a preface of sorts to my subsequent postings on the installation of a GPS and a VHF in the refitting of Oystercatcher, my Ericson 25.

Main Salon Table, Custom Mahogany, Stowable

A custom, mahogany stowable main salon table, one of the most valuable additions to Oystercatcher

Let's face it, a good table is an essential part of a cruising sailboat, especially a pocket cruiser like the Ericson 25. You need a good table for at least three good reasons. First and foremost, in the absence of a dedicated navigation station common on larger boats, you need a space where you can spread out your chart in one way or another and do your course plotting. I'm not even going to engage those who would argue that paper charts are obsolete in the age of GPS. Secondly, you need a good table for small maintenance and repair projects that might require a flat work surface. Last, but not least, you need a good table for the sake of good living. Eating a good meal, playing a game of cards, or just recording a few musings on the day's events in a journal or logbook - these are just a few of the things you can do with a good, sturdy table in the main salon of your small cruising sailboat.

Unfortunately, the optional table that came from the factory with some of the Ericson 25s, satisfies none of the above demands. The Ericson 25 is a quality boat, but this table is an out-of-place appendage that is neither functional nor aesthetically pleasing. Let's address the issue of functionality first. In order for a table to be functional, especially on a sailboat, it must be sturdy. This one is not. There are several reasons. First, it is mounted to the bulkhead with a loosely fitting bracket-receptacle assembly. The table has the male brackets. The bulkhead has the female receptacles. This hardware is loosely fitting, because it enables the sailor to quickly set-up the table and break-down the table without fooling with any other bulkhead mounting hardware. Another reason why this table is unstable, is because of its tiny legs. They are spring-loaded and collapsible. Sure, this makes setting up the table and breaking down the table relatively easy, but this ease of operation comes at a price. The third and final reason why this table is flimsy and unstable is because of the piano hinges which join the three sections of the table together. It is necessary for the table to be separated into three sections, since it is designed to be folded and stowed against the bulkhead. Since, however, there are no fiddles on this table to hold the three sections stable when they are deployed, the surface of the table wobbles back and forth depending upon how you and where you might apply pressure with your hands or elbows. And did I mention all the clattering that the table makes as it moves around? In terms of aesthetics, that formica might have been trendy back in the 1970s, but what were they thinking? I mean the rest of the main salon has mahogany all over the place. Why add formica? Maybe they thought it looked good with the plaid upholstery.

At some point someone at Ericson must have decided that mahogany was preferable to formica, because there are at least two examples I have seen of tables of the same design made out of wood. In the picture below you can see the stainless steel mounting brackets. Perko still manufactures these things. They cost about $50 a pair retail.

If you've perused the galleries of main salon tables on this website, you'll remember that some Ericson 25 owners have designed their own bulkhead-mounted drop-down tables. Of the various ones that I observed, I thought this one was the most functional and attractive.

Here's the same bulkhead-mounted table in its deployed condition. I came close to building a drop-down table similar to this one. The main thing that held me back from going forward with this style were the restrictions I was facing in terms of size. It might not look like it, but this table is probably 8-10 inches shorter in length than the one I ended up building. When you mount a drop-down table with hinges to a bulkhead, you are limited by the height of the cabin and the height of your knees when seated on the settee. When I made the measurements, I discovered that any bulkhead mounted table on an Ericson 25 would be shorter in length than a stowable table similar in design to the formica original. Perhaps this is one reason why Ericson made the formica table stowable rather than bulkhead mounted.

If you've spent a little time in the main salon table galleries on this website, then you've also noticed that there are at least two Ericson 25 owners who have constructed permanently-mounted drop-leaf tables in the center of their main salons. I was especially attracted to this style, because it allowed room for the bulkhead to be used for other purposes, and it allowed room for the berth extension to be deployed.

I also liked the fact that the leaves apparently could easily be raised or dropped on short notice, and that the table was probably more stable than any of the others. The only draw-back I could see was that the table was permanently mounted in the middle of the main salon and therefore could, at times, be an obstruction, both real and apparent. Nevertheless, I remained attracted to this style of table, and when all was said and done I was left with a decision between making one of two styles of table: either a sturdy version of the formica original, or a permanently mounted one such as this one. Unable to make up my mind, I decided to consult my other half - the Admiral. I brought her into the boat and explained the pros and cons of each. She unequivocally voiced her opinion in favor of the stowable sturdy version of the formica original. Her thinking was that she wanted the main salon to be as open as possible when we wanted it to be. I listened to her reasoning. How could I not? And with that I began figuring out how to make that stowable version of the formica original as sturdy and dependable as possible.

It all started with this planer, or I should say with a trip to Southern Lumber for a piece of rough-sawn sapele mahogany. If you have read Part II of my article, Companionway Hatch Construction, you'll know what I mean when I speak of this type of mahogany.

Most of the rough-sawn exotic woods at Southern Lumber are at least 12 inches wide and 10 to 16 feet long. My job was to turn this raw material into a main salon table.

Rough-sawn wood is measured in quarters and usually is sold in sizes no smaller than 4/4. This wood was 4/4, in other words 1 inch. I wanted to make the table out of 3/4 mahogany, so I needed to plan it down by 1/4. This required me to make quite a few passes through the planer, but then again, this rough-sawn wood needed to have a fair amount of material removed from it in the first place.

Next, I cut the two pieces that would eventually yield the two large sections for the mahogany table.

Then I ran these pieces through the table saw to square up the sides. When all was said and done, I had finished pieces of wood that were 11-1/2 inches wide. Ideally, these boards would have ribbon-stripes running parallel the entire length of the board. To get those consistent stripes you need to buy quarter-sawn mahogany, which is considerably more expensive. I was satisfied with flat-sawn mahogany, which sometimes has lots of ribbon stripes, and sometimes has a mixture of ribbon stripes and swirls.

I then went back over to the table saw to cut the boards to their precise length.

I cut the shorter of the two first. This one was 3 feet in length.

Then I moved on to the larger one.

It was 3 ft, 6 inches in length.

Finally, I needed to cut another piece that would form the middle section of the three-section stowable table. There was not enough material available from the rough-sawn board I had planed down to make the two board for the large sections of the table. Therefore, I had to grab a piece of 3/4 inch mahogany than I had as a left-over from another project.

After I ripped it to 6 inches on the table saw, I took it over to the miter saw to cut it to length.

This one I cut to 3 feet, just like the shorter of the two large boards I had just cut.

After I completed cutting all three of the boards, I laid them out on the floor for a preliminary dry-fit. Ideally, the center board would have the same grain pattern as the other two, but at least the overall pattern was symmetrical.

I used an epoxy mix-and-pour cup to scribe an arc on three corners of the table.

I wanted to see just how much space there would be for a nautical chart. This table would easily be able to handle a chart that had been folded in half.

In fact, it could handle almost an entire chart. That was good.

I'm also fond of Maptech brand Chart Kits, since they contain many charts in a single, spiral-bound volume. I was very pleased that this table would easily accommodate the Chart Kit with plenty of room left over for dividers, triangles, etc.

After this, I got to work rounding off the sharp edges of the table.

To make everything that much smoother and more inviting, I put a round-over bit in the router and made a run around the edges.

Next, it was time to get to work with the sander. The surface of the mahogany was still plenty rough, even though I had run it through the planer many times.

At this point, I didn't want to take it down any farther than what the 40 grit paper and the 80 grit paper would take off. I still had more work to do before finish sanding with finer grit paper.

One thing I needed to do was to cut some fiddles for the table.

I needed these fiddles to be removable, so I cut them not with a rabbet (for joining them to the edge of the table), but with a flat bottom so that they could sit on top of the table.

Another task I needed to tackle was the construction of the legs. This part of the project took quite a bit of thinking. The legs on the original, formica table were, as I said, spring-loaded. You could snap them in and out of place with a spring-loaded lever. I could not reuse the spring-loaded mechanism, because it was integral to the table leg and its hardware. The main problem before me was figuring out how to make the legs both stable and unmovable, yet stowable.

In the close-up below, you can see a mock-up leg that I constructed parallel to the original leg.

I decided that one way to make the legs sturdy was to make them out of sturdy material. I had a left-over piece of 8/4 mahogany from the construction of the new companionway hatch. I decided to use this 2 inch thick material to construct the legs.

First, I cut it to length, with a little room to spare.

Then I ripped off three, 2 inch pieces. These would become the 2 inch x 2 inch legs. Note that this piece of mahogany is close to being quarter-sawn. Thus, there are nice ribbon stripes running throughout this piece of wood.

Once I had ripped the three legs, I took them outside to soften up the edges with the round-over bit on the router.

I needed to keep the tops of the legs square, so that I could join the hinges and table as snugly as possible.

I used the large, 1/2 inch round-over bit for this job rather than the 3/8 bit that I normally use.

I thought they looked pretty good after I got finished with them on the router.

Next, I turned my attention to the construction of the leg mounting blocks.

At this point, before I could make any more progress, I needed to remove the piano hinges from the original table and transfer them to the new table.

There were a lot of screws in that sucker.

Before I installed the piano hinges, I dry-fit everything, just to see how it would look.

The dry-fit revealed that the hinges were a tad too long for the new table. The reason? I had rounded over the edges of the mahogany. The original table did not have similar edges. Therefore, the hinges were about a half inch too long.

The hack saw took care of that problem.

Then I did another dry fit. This time it looked good.

So, in went the screws. The center-hole punch was a big help in keeping everything lined up and orderly as I drilled the pilot holes and then screwed the screws.

When I finished, I tested it out and was pleased with the results.

It took a lot of thinking to figure out where to place the legs so that there would be enough room for the table to fold inward for storage purposes.

I eventually settled on where I should place the mounting blocks and I got to work installing them.

Ignore the hinges in the orange package. I never used those. I instead used the other hinges you see pictured above and below. These are heavy duty, 316 stainless steel hinges by Sea Choice. They weren't cheap, but I figured that this table needed the good stuff.

My thinking was that the wooden mounting block would serve as a stabilizer for the leg once it was fully opened. It turned out that it was not as stable as I had hoped it would be, so I had to figure out some additional stabilization methods, which I will describe below.

I also installed receiving blocks that served as receivers or pads for the leg when it was in the stowed position.

This sequencing for the legs closely resembles that on the original formica table. The Ericson people had thought through this one well. You must allow room for people's legs when they are sitting at the table, so you don't want the table legs to be too close to the center. You also must take into consideration the space that you need to slide your body around the table when making your way to the head. If the leg is in the wrong place, your path will be impeded.

My solution for increasing the stabilization of the legs in the deployed condition was to have stainless steel brackets beside the legs. These brackets would be used to align brass screws that would be secured temporarily in each leg when the legs were deployed.

I had to drill out a hole in each bracket to accommodate the brass screw.

I installed wood-inserts of brass in each leg. That way, the brass screws would have a good threaded seat in which they could be situated.

I actually installed two inserts in each leg, but as it turned out, one was sufficient to provide stabilization.

Next, I picked up some Attwood brand stainless steel eyes from Lowe's and some blue shock-cord from West Marine and came back home and began installing the simple, leg-retainer system that I had devised.

Then it was time to carry the whole thing out to the boat and give it a try. It stowed well in the place where the original formica table was intended to be stowed.

There was a problem, however, when I deployed the table. The sole of the main salon was not perfectly flat. Therefore, the table did not sit perfectly flat, because the legs were all cut to the same length.

I should point out that at this point I was using a stack of wood against the bulkhead to support the back of the table. I had not yet installed the mounting block in the bulkhead. Why, you might ask? All of this was a work in progress. I had to figure out one thing before I could figure out another. I had deliberately cut the legs of the table about two inches longer than the legs of the original formica table. I wanted to sit at the table and decide for myself just how high it should be. It was definitely too high for me, even when I set a settee cushion in place to mimic real conditions.

At this point I also had still not figured out where exactly I wanted to place the fiddles. I wanted to make sure they would not encroach on the Chart Kit.

I measured carefully each leg, and I figured out how much I needed to take off of each one.

When I set the table back up inside the boat, it was nice and level in all directions.

The shock cord retainer system worked well and kept things nice and neat.

Next, I began work on the bulkhead mounting block.

My plan was to secure the table to the block with two, stainless steel hex bolts. This meant I needed to drill two holes through the the block and through the table top at the same time so that they would line up inside the boat.

When I was finished, I took everything out to the boat and began by installing the bulkhead block on the bulkhead. When I tightened the hex nuts down on the 1/4 inch bolts, the table became incredibly firm and stable in its deployed condition. In fact, it was so firm and stable, that it was almost unnecessary to install the three brass screws in the brackets at the top of each leg. The firmness and stability was primarily the result of the 1/4 inch bolts, and secondarily, I believe, the result of the sturdy 2 inch x 2 inch legs themselves.

Now a critic might complain that it's far too much trouble to have to tighten down and remove two hex nuts every time you want to use the table or put it away. My response to that is this: "Yes, it does take several minutes worth of work, but if I get a nice, sturdy table for many hours afterwards, is it really that much trouble?"

I toyed with the fiddles for a while, trying to decide whether to make all of them removable, or just the ones that ran port to starboard across the hinged joints. As is often the case when I'm in a state of indecision, I decided to consult the Admiral. She climbed inside the boat and sat down at the table and within about ten seconds said that she wanted all of the fiddles to be removable. She likes her laptop, and she said that if she happened to take it along and happened to be in the mood to make use of it, she would not like it if the fiddles were to prevent her from resting her arms on the edge of the table. She made an excellent point. Also at issue for me was the use of the charts. I listened to my other half, and I'm glad I did. I believe that fixed fiddles running fore to aft would be very uncomfortable and unwanted at times.

Once I had decided that I would make the fiddles removable, I had to decide where I would place them. This would then determine the length that I would cut them for their final fitting. I wanted there to be a reveal, as is typical in most trim work. In the picture below I am establishing the reveal.

At this point, all I had to do in terms of the fiddles was insert the pins and drill the holes in the table into which the pins would fit.

There was still the task of staining and varnishing the table, but I must say that having reached this stage of the project, I was quite pleased. This table was so sturdy and so useful that I left it in place as I continued to work on other projects associated with the refitting of this Ericson 25.