"A Canoe To Match These Pictures.." "Yes I can do That!"
- Alick Burt
- Oct 10
- 3 min read
A Rainy Morning and a Phone Call
The rain was a steady companion the day I sat down to write this — the kind of weather that makes the workshop feel intimate and the wood smell sweeter. That morning’s post came from Jonathan, a call that had started a year earlier, and with it came the friendly, familiar rhythm of a commission: pictures, a visit, a quiet plan to think things over. I like to let people sleep on decisions. It gives them and me time to imagine the boat on the water.
The Photo That Wouldn’t Let Go
Jonathan sent photos of a canoe he loved: a glassed hull with bold black paint and clear-finished accent strips. I was intrigued and a little puzzled — how had they achieved such a crisp paint-to-clear transition on a glassed hull? I phoned my West System rep, I did a bit of digging and I even wrote a cheeky email to the maker. People in the canoe world are generous, and Jeff from Ventura Boat Works kindly confirmed the trick: a two-pack marine paint for the black. With that solved I sent Jonathan an estimate and we agreed the plan — a 15‑foot Dabchick with accent strips and a compass rose at its heart.
Shaping the Boat, Piece by Piece
I started where you always do: at the stems. I laminated them, shaped them with a spokeshave and then moved on to the fiddly business of accent strips.
Those little strips are deceptive — you prepare lots of tiny parts, glue them up, mould the bead and cove, then clamp like madness. The straighter strips behaved themselves, but the lower band around the belly needed a different approach to avoid sprung joints, so I moulded the edge pieces first and made the strip up at the point of fitting.
Planking felt like stitching a skin around the frame. I worked to a few inches below the gunwale, fitted the strips, added planks to take the compass rose and then began the slow, satisfying task of drawing, sawing and fitting that inlay. The rose was assembled as one piece and test-fitted on the hull until it slid home with only a smidgin of clearance for glue — that tiny allowance felt like gold.
The Seats Took Their Time
Jonathan wanted Windsor-style carved seats — beautiful, yes, but heavy and painfully slow to make. I’m honest about weight and trade-offs with every customer, but he loved the look, so we did them properly. The seats were glued up, then carved by hand with chisels and cabinet scrapers, shaped bit by bit until they settled into the hollows you want to sink into on a long paddle. I added bearers, blended them into the carving and cursed at times when things were stubborn, then smiled when they finally felt right.
While the hull cured I also glued up two matching paddle blanks so everything would sit together as a set.
Glassing, Paint and the Last Fine Work
Glassing the inside always gives me butterflies. Lay the cloth, wet it, squeegee, repeat — if you’re careful it looks like liquid silk when it catches the light. For the black I used Epifanes two‑pack paint, three coats with careful de‑nibbing between them. I didn’t mask under the gunwales; I prefer to paint to the edge and clean up the small overrun afterwards. Once the masking came off I tidied the seams and brought varnish and paint to the same level with the most delicate sanding and de‑nibbing where they meet.
The last details — stem bands bent, drilled and fitted, seat hangers adjusted to Jonathan’s preference, brass maker’s plate screwed in — are the bits that make me sit back and take a long look. There’s always a moment when the canoe crosses from “work in progress” to “it’ll be paddled.”
Why I Love Making Commissioned Canoes
There’s something quietly intimate about building to someone’s brief. You trade ideas, you solve problems together, and you end up with an object that carries those conversations onto the water. A commissioned canoe gives you:
a boat tuned to how and where you paddle;
details that are personal to you;
the kind of workmanship that repairs easily and lasts.
If you’d like to talk about a canoe idea — whether it’s a compass rose, a particular seat shape, or a finish you can’t find anywhere else — drop me a line. We can get together with coffee, a tape measure and a notebook, and we’ll imagine the boat you want to own and make it a reality.
Regards
Alick
