A few years ago, a close friend of mine set out to build a wooden sailing boat. For three years, he worked alone in a small garage, crafting each part of the hull by hand. During that time, few believed the project would ever be completed. But everything changed in October 2007, when the frame was finally assembled — not in some romantic shipyard, but in a cold, unremarkable hangar at our local marina.
That was the moment I was hooked — by the sheer beauty of the boat’s skeletal form. From then on, I spent hours crawling between the frames alongside the builder, and later, a growing number of visitors. The once-ugly hangar slowly transformed into something else: a place of quiet reverence, almost like a chapel. People came to admire not just the boat, but the man who chose larch and iroko over plastic — who chose craftsmanship over convenience. It became a concert hall of sorts, radiating the background echoes of tools, whispers, conversations, jokes, and the thoughts of the boat builder and those who passed through. The earlier skepticism ebbed away completely.
After a year and a half, the hull was turned upright and moved outdoors for completion. Though this moment had been long anticipated, the magic was suddenly gone. For me, the boat was already finished. The symphony was over. The haunting bass line of the hangar faded away, together with the melody of the frames and keel. The boat would make her own music in the future.
Published as an artist book: Birth of a Ship
