Now that the planks have been stripped, I have to scratch my way to a super-smooth surface. Given the sweeping curves, I would not be getting much use of the orbital sander... no, no, it was time to summon the "inner sandman".
As I was expecting, the sanding process opened up some seams which had not been fused perfectly. Other imperfections and some downright mistakes also screamed for attention.
To make a longish story somewhat shorter, the sanding process took much more time than advertised in the manual... but I already knew that - and it did not matter to me. You have to submerge yourself into that certain zone where time ceases to exist. The Zen of Sanding, they call it.
On one hand I wished that I had had the experience I now have when I first started the project, but that is of course utterly silly.
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| Preparation for the fix |
The problem on the left did not look all that bad initially - but I determined that I would not be happy. So I actually had to dig myself into a deeper hole in order to superimpose a stable fix.
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| A band aid for the boo-boo |
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| After sanding flush |
When you build a boat like this; it is almost as though you must build another strip-planked boat if only to make use of your hard-earned skill.
Now, if your name is Nick Schade, you don't have those sort of problems. But how many kayaks did he built before he reached that point of utter perfection - that is: from the viewpoint of mere mortals.
How close to perfect is enough? Is it smooth enough? Where is the small scratch I just noticed from a different angle. Would it become more apparent once encapsulated under the fiberglass?
No doubt, a good bit of time in the building phase was occupied by contemplating - okay: agonizing - how far I would need to go in order to be personally okay with the eventual outcome.
How many more spots needed to be fixed, improved, ameliorated?
Then I sanded (some more), saw and sighed: Enough now!
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