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eering through the door at the
Skipping Fish Boat School for
the frst time was like looking at
every summer camp I never got to
attend. Inside, I could see a won-
derland of what I'll call kayakery: at least 20
kayaks, in various stages of creation, looked
like the skeletons of great sea creatures.
I had been having a bad time of it lately; it
seemed like every project I began eventually
became dusty and shelf-ridden. As I stared
into the building on East Washington Street
in Butchertown, bridge construction banging
in my ears, I said out loud, in the voice of
my childhood, "I wonder if you could build
a boat?" Ten the voice of my adulthood
quickly added, "I wonder if you could fnish
it."
I had not often thought of building a boat.
But there were those times when, usually af-
ter reading Hemingway, the idea of making a
sea vessel with my own hands came to mind.
In my fantasy, I was hearty and bearded
and thick. Now in my ffth decade, I pretty
much ft the part. As I knocked, I considered
crossing out my name on my business card
and writing "Ishmael." Nobody came to the
door, but I could tell that someone was in
there, so I called the number on the signage.
I explained to the woman who answered that
I was outside and that I was interested in
changing my life — um, strike that — build-
ing a boat — um, sorry, writing a story.
After much dog barking, the door opened
and I found myself in front of the dusti-
est boatbuilding goddess I had ever met:
Kimberley Knepshield Hillerich. A lot of
name for a woman so petite. Hillerich, who
is "ageless" and whose background is stone
sculpting (she studied at the Art Institute of
Chicago and carved the 19-ton Kentucky
limestone baseball glove at the Slugger
Museum), founded the boat school in 2008.
Hillerich, who stands about fve feet tall, had
the tanned look of someone who has spent
some time on the water. Her hands looked
strong, well-veined, and her shoulders had
muscles so ferce that I could not help but
envy them. Her red-blond hair and round,
wire-rim glasses reminded me of every tom-
boy I had a crush on in elementary school. In
her studio — a sort of combination of Camp
Runamuck and Ikea — skylights lit each
kayak like a Rembrandt.
Hillerich and I did a subtle dance about
the room, making small talk, my eyes taking
it all in.
"I don't think I could build a boat," I told
her.
"Of course you can build a boat," she
countered. "Anybody can build a boat."
Day One
I will need to carve 60 hours out of my
schedule to build my skin-on-frame kayak,
similar to the kind used for centuries by
Greenland's Inuit people. (You can build
your own kayak for about $1,300, which
covers instruction and materials. About
70 students have so far.) Hillerich and her
partner, Mitch Larsen, a carpenter who
constructed his frst sailboat when he was just
16, help me pick out a long piece of white
pine for the boat's gunwale, or top edge of
the sides. Larsen is sinewy, soft-spoken and
gentle, and a master builder of everything
from guitars to staircases. He is the person
who teaches a person like me how not to cut
of my fngers with a bandsaw. We're looking
for a piece of wood with few knots, giving
it fexibility without weakness. Te wood,
cut down the middle, will form my boat's
two sides. Te goal is for the basic outline to
resemble the form of a fsh.
Te wood bends in my hand, and I
realize I'm making something that will give
me bragging rights all the days of my life
and, according to the Inuits, even after. I'm
already thinking about playing "Have you
ever…?" because I have a feeling that "I built
a boat" might just trump everybody else in
the room.
Day Four
Hillerich tells me over and over that kayaks
are alive, that they can bend and breathe and
withstand the sea. If Larsen is the one who
shows you the "hows" of building, Hiller-
ich is the one who teaches the "wise." For
the Inuits, Hillerich says, these boats were
a necessity, and their belief that your qajaq
becomes an extension of you is a responsibil-
ity I am not so sure I am ready for. I have a
difcult time committing to a garment that
has to be dry-cleaned, let alone a boat that is
going to come with me into the afterlife.
At this point, rope and an ancient winch-
ing tool called a windlass hold my in-prog-
ress boat together. What keeps each boat
afoat is a state of balance and symmetry,
P