Wind Powered Sawmill

One of our daughters and son-in-law moved overseas eight years ago. We tried for years to go see them. As teachers, they have regular breaks to travel. Our simple idea was to meet them somewhere, anywhere. But a worldwide pandemic got in the way, among other things. Plans were made, and cancelled, and made again and cancelled again. It happens. Finally, eight years later, everything fell into place.

They now live in the desert of Saudi Arabia, so they wanted to go somewhere wet and green for spring break. Where else but The Netherlands?

Water everywhere

We spent a week in a small cottage in the country, a bit north of Amsterdam. Water everywhere. And windmills. The nearest town of Zaandijk has a train station, bakery, brewery, and couple of cafes, and was just a short bike ride away. A ride along dikes and levees past a dozen working windmills.

Cafe in Zaandijk

One evening we took the train back from Amsterdam. We walked from the station to the cottage, stopping for dinner in a small cafe. After dinner, we walked the rest of the way back in the moonlight. It was amazing, the windmills whooshing overhead like giant birds flapping in a starry sky. Flocks of geese and ducks in the canals and the polders cackled, adding to the surreal effect.

One morning while the others eased slowly out of bed, I rode by as the windmill crews were just opening up. Several of the mills earn their keep doing the same work they’ve done for hundreds of years. One is a working sawmill. At that early hour there were no crowds to contend with – I was the only visitor. Most of the crews are older men who work the mill, and a few young apprentices have joined them. One of the old Dutch guys saw how interested I was and gave me a personal tour, explaining in detail how it all works (in fluent English), and the history of that particular mill.

“The Young Sheep”
Young Apprentices

This mill, Het Jong Schaap (“The Young Sheep”), had been in continuous operation for over 400 years, right up until WWII and the Nazi Occupation. Things became so desperate during the war that townspeople needed to dismantle the mill for firewood. But before they did, they documented in detail every piece they removed. Years after the war those plans were found. Funds were raised and the mill rebuilt exactly as it was, along with many others along the Zaans River.

Work Shoes

Inside the mill, I was immediately struck by the sound – it’s like being inside an enormous breathing animal. The pace of respiration rises and falls with natural rhythm of the wind. From slow and steady, like the beast is sleeping, to rapid and muscular.

The canvas on the vanes are trimmed like sails to match the strength of the wind, and the whole head is turned with a crank to follow the wind direction as well, just like a sailing ship. In fact, as he was explaining how the gears work, he suddenly stopped short and made a quick adjustment to take advantage of a gust, which he heard instinctively – just like we do in our small wooden boats. “Just the same, it’s the same principle,” he said.

After the sound, there’s smell of fresh sawdust, and everywhere the rich golden glow of sunlight on wood. No reek of petroleum or exhaust, no screech and whine of industrial motors. Just heaving and sighing.

The whole apparatus is built like a big clock inside, and every step of the process is automated and facilitated by the power of the wind harnessed by the vanes. A windlass winds a hawser that hauls logs from the river up the ramp and into the mill, then lifts them onto a carriage where the log is dogged in place. Then another gear, ticking like a slow second hand watch gear, moves the log and carriage steadily into the blades as they pump up and down, the blades driven by a crank shaft turned in the attic by the wind.

The blades are spaced with wooden blocks measured down to the millimeter. Using a combination of blades and spacers, they can cut thin planks and thick timbers from the same log in a single pass. With good wind, they can cut three logs at once, running all three saws side by side.

Spacer blocks, sorted to millimeter precision.

My guide, knowing I was a sailor, told me they recently had a commission to make a new mast for a large sailing ship. Cut eight sided and tapered. They used a single log 40 feet long, floated down rivers and canals from the Black Forest in Germany. There are small doors at the back of the mill just for this purpose – opened to let oversized pieces extend out through the walls.

Some video of the mill, with that amazing sound:

Two if by Sea

Sailing along the bluff below Rosegill Plantation. Frame from a video clip by Doug.

I pull slowly through town to the harbor. It’s almost noon, but the air is cool as I get out and start rigging. Urbanna is like Scottsville on the Rappahannock instead of the James. Nearly the same size and population, with the same small town vibe. Locals all know each other, and know who is “from away”. If you’re from away, you’re a “Come Here”. I am asked several times “Where y’all from?” – in a cheerful friendly way, truly interested to hear your stories. Inevitably this leads into long conversations, teasing out, without being too direct: “Who are your people?”, “What brought you here?”

You don’t get that as much in a big city.

There’s also the brother/sisterhood of boating that creates a quick affinity – “Lovely boat, did you built it?” – which, in the case of these small Melonseeds, leads into shared stories of small boats fondly remembered from growing up on the water.

Doug is delayed in traffic out on the interstate, which is fine because I’m always slow getting ready. I walk to the office to pay the ramp fee. In the small office the harbor master is on the radio with someone he seems to know. I make a hand motion like sliding down an incline, “You’re fine. Go ahead, I’ll come find you.” I nod and leave $20 on the desk.

He wanders out with a receipt and a boat hook as I putter with sails and line, and this exchange turns into a pleasant 20 minute conversation. He’s tall, lanky, and tan, with longish grey wind tossled hair. Wants to know all about the Melonseeds. Tells me about his cruiser up at the end of the dock. Turns out he knows Scottsville well. His niece is opening the Montessori School there, which was big news in our small town. So we cover all the bases noted above, including how this part of the Rappahannock is like coming home for me. He fills me in on some of the local news, of the latest efforts by developers to turn the town into another Virginia Beach. At the moment it’s the historic property across the harbor, Rosegill, that’s in their sites. I know some of the history of the place, both colonial and contemporary. It has changed hands and plans several times just in my lifetime. The new owners are developers with big plans that don’t have much to do with history.

Rosegill main house, via VRBO
Cruising the harbor

Doug arrives, and in a few minutes we’re launched. It’s been a long time since we sailed in the Melonseeds; much longer for Doug since he got the Marsh Cat. And we’ve both had lots of job and house stuff to keep us away too long. So we noodle around the town harbor in Urbanna Creek a bit to be sure everything is shipshape, then head out the channel to the open River.

It’s a beautiful day, with clear skies and the first hint of fall. A cool breeze is coming out of the north at a steady 12-15mph. Perfect. The wind is against the tide, though. At this turn of the Rappahannock, there’s about 10 miles of fetch. No whitecaps, but a little lumpy in the open river. The current will reverse mid-afternoon, so we tack back and cruise along the shore. A long rock jetty protects the mouth of the harbor and today it makes a breakwater perpendicular to the wind. This leaves a half mile of flat water with good wind along shore, so we spend a couple of hours skimming back and forth, near shore and farther out, pass each other sometimes or head off in opposite directions.

Grand old boathouse of Rosegill still stands in the harbor.

This bank east of the harbor is lined by a high sandy bluff that runs for more than a mile, the whole stretch is part of the aforementioned Rosegill Plantation. Originally a grant of over 3000 acres from the King of England, it dates to 1649. A modest spread that was the summer home of the new English owner. That makes it older than Williamsburg, and only a few years later than the first settlement at Jamestown.

Of course, it was older than that. It had been home of the the Nimcock tribe. I understand their name is an Algonquin word that means, “Indians who live in towns”. They had whole villages with homes and common houses surrounded by protective palisades. They, of course, were not consulted when a King across the ocean declared it all now belonged to the latest Come Heres. The whole tribe was moved upriver.

A port was built at Urbanna Creek to ship tobacco back to Europe, duty free, the first profitable crop out of the colonies. Colonial plantations, like all those that came later, created little solar systems of economic activity, like a form of gravity that attracts more people. Before long, an older version of The Company Town emerged on the banks of the harbor. Some buildings still uphill from the harbor date to before the Revolutionary War. Beyond those, in concentric orbits, are homes and churches and other buildings constructed in each new era – before the Civil War, before World Wars I & II and beyond, up to the present day.

Rosegill remained a working plantation for most of that – through Indian Wars, Revolutionary Wars, Civil Wars, World Wars – remaining in the same family for five generations, well over two centuries. The fifth generation son and heir was an ardent Tory, vocally loyal to the King throughout the war for Independence. This did not sit well with his neighbors. He was subsequently banished to western Virginia, and the house was promptly pillaged by his Tory privateer buddies. Seems he didn’t suffer too badly, though – he only had to go as far as another family estate, his father’s 10,000 acre shooting preserve in the mountains of what is now West Virginia. He returned later, joined the new government in Williamsburg, and retained the estate until his death in the 1800s.

The property has exchanged hands many times since then. There’s an extensive collection of old photos here:

Source: Rosegill http://www.rosegill.com/Overview/Overview.html#anchor427568

After an hour or two cruising along the brow of the bluff, the tidal current reverses and the sea settles down. We round the jetty and head northwest, reaching upriver.

A mile ahead I steer for a white sand beach in the lee of the bar at the mouth of Robinson Creek. A good place to get out and stretch. I coast to a stop among myrtle and mallow and Doug soon follows. But what looked like just sand turns out to be largely a narrow bar of old oyster shells, with a quiet tidal pond on the other side. The shells are bleached white, with all the sharp edges worn off. Likely this bar was an old midden of some kind.

This section of the Rappahannock was once lined with oyster shucking houses, on both sides of the river for miles. Another commodity that brought boom times after tobacco, Chesapeake Oysters were famous all up and down the East Coast. Those shucking and canning operations produced mountains of shell, enough to pave roads and, when there was nowhere else to put them, build land where there was none. This whole spit could have started as the place where shells were dumped back into the river. Or, before that, Native Americans also made oyster shell middens of their own. I’m speculating, but these creeks were ideal for oysters, and the deep water protected harbors ideal for shipping.

Thinking about oysters makes us hungry, and the sun is getting low. We push off for an easy broad reach all the way back. There’s just enough wind to wind into the harbor. People in sailboats, pontoon boats, and cruisers pass slowly, smile and wave. People on the beach at Bailey Point smile and wave. Very pleasant business, and a gentle glide up to the ramp in town.

As I pull slowly through town on narrow streets through neighborhoods, people I spoke with earlier in the day, out washing up their boats in the yard or tending a garden, recognize me and a wave, one shouts “Come back soon!”

We land again on Robinson Creek further up this time, pulling the boats behind us, to a working seafood wharf that’s also a rustic restaurant on stilts out over the water. Same place where Vera and John brought us on our quest for Soft Crabs back in May.

I have not eaten since breakfast. With a couple of cold beers, we each polish off a dozen local oysters, a half pound of spiced shrimp, and a Soft Crab sandwich with a side of slaw. Easily.

A fine end to a really fine day, one much needed. I think we will be back soon.

Urbanna (something-something) Rum Appreciation, Rowing and Small Boat Meetup

View from our campsite. Jim Luton’s Sharpie Skiff, now owned and sailed by his friend Kerry Fisher.

Vera England can tell you the entire official name. She told me four times and I still can’t repeat the whole thing. But whatever you call it, it’s a terrific time at an undisclosed location somewhere on the Piankatank River in Gloucester County, Virginia. Beautiful boats, good people, and great food.

I missed the annual Chesapeake Float on the Eastern Shore again this year. Also on the Old Bay Club overnight event. Both took place earlier this week, but I just wasn’t ready yet. Smart call, as both groups had a challenging gusty wind in the small craft warning range.

After five years on hiatus, it took me most of a day just to pack and load; a task that gets easier each time. We were happy just to hit the road early Friday and arrive mid-day. Very happy.

Like the Chesapeake Float, this event has been held almost without fail for over 30 years. In this case, Vera and John have organized it with friends and family for over 40. Last time I was here the camping area was full and the beach and docks were packed with boats. But time creeps onward. Some folks have aged out or moved away; those who were kids only a few years ago now have busy families of their own. I warned T there could be a big crowd, but we were the only people on site until Friday evening. We had our choice of campsites, and pitched the new tent in a gusty wind. Was like trying to wrestle and stake down a hot air balloon.

With whitecaps on the Piankatank, there was no point launching the Melonseed, so we had a relaxing afternoon strolling the waterfront and exploring the farm.

The Old Bay Club two day event flowed into this one, and boats sailed up in scattered pairs through the day. We caught lines and helped with docking and hauling out, catching up with old friends. Some chose to spend another night out on the water in various coves and creeks, so arrivals stretched through morning of the next day. All came in telling their own version of adventures, encounters with wind and watermen over the past 48 hours, tired but exhilarated. And happy to be back on solid ground.

While the first sailors got settled and walked off their sea legs, T and I splurged on a seafood dinner at a favorite restaurant nearby. The wind had settled some, enough that a table by the water was welcome.

After dinner, our small group at the landing got a tour of the old Steamboat Office. This site was one of hundreds of steamboat landings that lined the Bay for over a century. Our Old Bay Club is named for the Chesapeake crab seasoning, which is named for the Old Bay Steamship Line, which served the region where it became famous.

Inside the foyer of the Steamboat Era Museum in Irvington, VA, 200 small white lights illuminate a map of the Chesapeake Bay. Together, they trace a…

Source: Steamboats engineered change along the Chesapeake
The old steamboat office and general store.

The last steamboat stopped at these docks in the 1930s. This old building, in the same family since before the Civil War, served as both steamboat office and general store. The owner, our host for the weekend, showed us around the mostly intact interior, and shared some of the history.

Thoroughly educated and well traveled, he spent a lifetime as an avid hunter. The shelves are lined with trophies and classic sporting gear, animal hides for rugs, a collection of vintage fishing lures, old photos, and antique farming implements. It’s an impressive display.

With only four of us camping that night, we turned in early and slept well, despite wind thrashing the tent until almost dawn.

Sailing to Freedom

Escaping from Norfolk in Capt. Lee’s Skiff – The Underground Railroad by William Still

Hey, that’s my boat!

I’ve been reading a lot lately, which feels good. I’ll share here the ones that really rang a few bells in the old brain pan.

I found this one through a backdoor. When looking for the source of an image, I came across this exhibit of the New Bedford Whaling Museum.

That lead me to a book by the same name.

https://bookshop.org/p/books/sailing-to-freedom-maritime-dimensions-of-the-underground-railroad-timothy-d-walker/15616791?ean=9781625345929

It’s a fascinating piece of history. The stories correspond to a few elucidated in greater detail by David Celceski, a historian who grew up in coastal NC in his book,

The Waterman’s Song: Slavery and Freedom in Maritime North Carolina

It’s a detailed compilation of how centuries of black enslaved and freemen of the Outer Banks and coastal NC learned the dangerous trade of navigating those waters from early settlement, so their white owners wouldn’t have to take the risks. But this skill gave them a valuable advantage when it came to vying for freedom, or assisting others in escapes, as the Civil War approached. (Thanks for the recommendation from Steve Earley.) In some cases, they joined the Northern Navy and assisted in raids and blockades of Southern ports, because they knew the dangerous shoals so well.

The photo above, though, was included in the Sailing to Freedom book. It looks very similar to the larger version of my Melonseed skiffs, which is what caught my eye. What a fascinating backstory to the engraving.

A group of slaves escaped in this boat by sailing from Norfolk all the way to Philadelphia. That’s hard enough to do now, with modern weather forecasts and GPS, when you’re assured of getting help if you need it.

I can’t imagine doing that in the mid 1800s, when contact with anyone at all could mean capture and/or death.

The Water is Wide : Winter Harbor 2022

We saw where the sand ended up; we want to see where it came from – the North end.

The dock is wet and slippery. Tonight is the fullest of Full Moons, the night of an eclipse, so tides are especially high. Water lapped the bottoms of the kayaks on top of the pier where I tied them down to pylons.

By early afternoon, we can walk the deck without wading, but the wet parts are slick as greasy ice.

Following oxbow creeks, it’s about two miles to the north inlet. At least it was last year, where inlet was.

It’s an easy paddle on a calm day, riding the outgoing tide. We pass a couple of new duck blinds, the remains of an old one – storm battered, bent down on one knee – another repaired and ready for the coming season.

One by one, the creeks converge on the way to the bay, growing wider and deeper, the current stronger. We round a curve and I have a hard time making sense of what I see. Where before was island and sand and marsh grass, I see an unbroken horizon of blue water.

We paddle beyond the break to what’s left of the sandbar, beach the boats to look around.

Amazing. Last time I paddled to this spot, there was ¾ mile of more creek before reaching the inlet. The island was narrow in places, mostly sand, but very much land. Most of that is gone. This last bend in the creek exits right into the bay.

The former island tip remains apart, a small islet of sand and grass surrounded by water. Clearly won’t be there much longer. The new wider north inlet now extends more than a mile to the mainland. Much of the sand here is washing out in shoals, or sifting into the marsh. Root stubble pokes up through waves of the Bay now, what had been all marsh behind the barrier island, for now still gripping marsh mud.

You can see the dramatic change in recent satellite images. Here is the whole island shot ten years ago, with the north and south inlets still deep and navigable by large boats.

2012

And these are the south and north inlets last year, before the winter storms.

South Inlet – 2021
North Inlet – 2021. We could walk across that section to the northern tip and keep our feet dry.

And here is the island now, showing both inlets. I’ve edited this to show the current conditions on the satellite image from last year. There’s a new break in the last bend of the creek. The bar just beyond is now water. And the south inlet is a wide sand beach.

You can see the change best if the two images are overlaid and animated. If the animation below is not playing automatically, click on the image to open it.

Animated GIF of ten years of changes. (click to open if not playing)

I knew this was coming, and said so to T. But did not expect it my lifetime; certainly not in the span of a year.

Not sure what we’ll see if we come back next year. A lot less, if the trend continues, and no doubt it will.

First Test with a Kodak No. 1 Autograph Folding Pocket Camera

Another old camera in the heirloom collection that I had not tried before. This one has a fascinating history I’ll definitely share in a longer post soon. But for now, here are the first results from this century old piece of camera design hardware. Light leaks, misfires, double exposures, lens flares . . . it has it all.

Light leaks in the bellows

I tried to patch the gaps in the bellows, and shot a roll of test film. It’s clear from the film I did not get them all, but the images are strangely appealing – especially for all the flaws.

I have more work to do on this one. And more research on the provenance.

More to come . . .