Cedar Strake Apprenticeshop

By Joshua Robinson

The first thing that James noticed when he walked up the five steps and entered the large post-and-beam workshop was the smell. The mixture of pine and cedar and mahogany overwhelmed his olfactory senses in a welcoming way. The resins of other exotic woods had long made home in the pores of the shop, but James’ nose was not yet attuned to those foreign woods from around the world, some of which were almost now extinct. He had first entered the shop a few weeks previous during the interview process, but the smell was new again and reeked of a fresh start on the first day of this new endeavor.

What brought James here was boredom. Boredom of law school. Growing up rather poor and with a slight stutter, he was downcast in both regards his entire youth. He hadn’t yet overcome the former, but he long ago became a voracious reader and earned an English degree before his employment with the Judicial Branch in Connecticut and enrolling in law school in the evenings and overcoming the latter. He learned that if he used long, five-dollar words, that he could slow his speech down and make people think that he was thinking, no one ever realizing he was compensating for his stutter. Never the smartest person in the room, he somehow earned the highest grade in one of his law classes, which surprised both him an his professor, as grading in law school is done anonymously, each student provided a random number as opposed to providing their name for the final exam.

When the two-week break came after spring semester, James flew to Ireland. Months before, he had heard that Leonard Cohen was coming out of retirement from his years-long stint in a Buddhist monastery in California and was setting out for a European tour, as his manager had stolen most of his money while Cohen was living in splendid isolation. James was a huge fan of Cohen’s dark, cigarette voice and loved his poetic lyrics. A life of little means, James had the backpacker’s and hitchhiker’s credo instilled in him long ago. He had also recently obtained his first credit card. That helped. He booked a plane ticket and an initial hostel and he landed in Galway, on the west coast, just north of the sheer 300-foot cliffs near Doolin. He had five days to get to Dublin. If time got tight, he would reluctantly hop on a train and so worry was the last thing on his mind. Physically confident, snarky, sarcastic and honest, James didn’t have a hard time getting rides and having laughs with complete strangers. Twice he was offered a couch, staying up late with the two different hosts and sharing stories and drinking until the early morning hours . . . the Irish way.

James made it to the concert and sold his spare ticket to a complete stranger at cost and sitting next to her during the show. Mojitos being geographically out of place, the booth was for some reason selling them and he came back to his seat with two and him and Shioban traded drinks the rest of he show. When he flew back to the U.S. the next day he carried a new reflection. Laughing and smiling for a week straight in Ireland, his blood was full of endorphins. Although he had enrolled in summer law classes, on the flight home he decided he needed a break for the summer. On a sunny Tuesday he drove to the law school’s office and politely withdrew from his summer classes. While walking to his car he felt so elated and so free, so unencumbered. He put his hand on the handle of his Saab and lifted it and opened the car’s door. Something came over him and he felt he made a mistake and so he walk back into the school and into the office he just occupied minutes before.

“Have you had a change of heart so soon,” the secretary said with a smile and laughter.

“Yeah. Actually I did,” I said. “I want to withdraw completely. No summer classes and I am not returning in the fall or ever again.”

“Are you joking or are you serious?”

“I have never felt so confident in my entire life. I am totally serious. Please withdraw me from everything.”

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James was not new to making rash decisions, but he did not feel that quitting law school was one of them. Although he usually had at least a semblance of a back-up plan, in this case he did not. He just intuitively knew to get off the sinking ship of law school. He spent the next few weeks taking mushrooms on occasion and spending time with his dog in the woods and walking isolated paths and stream beds that he knew. He would lie on the earthen ground and listen to the soft stream flowing over rocks and boulders while his boxer put his head on James’ chest, both taking an afternoon nap while parts of the sun penetrated the leaves above. He would get on his road bike and bicycle 20 -50 miles in the rolling hills and farmland of the Tobacco Valley of Connecticut in deep contemplation, sometimes stopping at a random roadside farm-stand to grab a fresh-picked peach or whatever else happened to be in season.

He didn’t know what he wanted to do next, but he knew what he didn’t want to do and that was to miserably wither his life away in a necktie just for the mental challenge. He narrowed down his skill set, hobbies and things he loved. He loved the water since his earliest memories as a child and was SCUBA certified since he was 14. Check. Introverted, yet social, he loved his mind and to constantly learn new things, which was sometimes a curse, but mostly beneficial. Check. And he wanted to work with his hands as a skilled-craftsman. Check.

After a few weeks of tossing around different trades and ideas he finally settled on wood. It was forgiving, or so he thought, and not as rigid as metal. Wood is everywhere and there are all different types, each having it’s own suitable characteristics for different applications. After a little contemplation he leveled it down to apprenticeships that dealt with custom cabinetry, wooden furniture and traditional wooden boats. As neither of the first two made his checklist of involving water, he excitedly found his next calling.

Although trees are abundant throughout a majority of the United States, for obvious reasons most wooden boat schools are on the seacoast and north of Virginia on the east, and north of the central coast of California on the west. This is primarily due to the different species of Cedar available, Cedar being naturally favorable to the water. There are also several around the Great Lakes region, the lakes being almost oceans unto themselves. The two main hubs, however, are the Pacific Northwest and the state of Maine. Well traveled, and being from New England, it did not take James long to further narrow his choice to Maine. James also enjoyed great food. He had a detailed and sensitive palate, but it was not picky. If fact, the only things he did not enjoy were ricotta cheese and quinoa. If one had never been, most would not think of Maine as an epicurean dream, but it was. Fresh, organic farms everywhere, maple syrup, wild blueberries, and some of the world’s best seafood.

James’ initial school searches had him dismayed: the cost of tuition was nearly as much as in-state law school. Loans were available, but they were private and came with usury-like interest rates. Not giving up, James finally found a not-for-profit school in Mid-coast Maine. After delving into the website a little more, James smiled inwardly and outwardly. The Cedar Strake Apprenticeshop sounded like a bunch of misfits. It was like the “Sandlot” of wooden boat schools. The pictures resembled the same. The instructors looked tidy in their blue jeans and worn, button-down shirts, and some students were wearing Carhartt ensembles, but more than have of the students in their graduate group photos from the years previous were decked out in worn out, hole-ridden clothing, which was right up James’ alley.

Anther thing that drew James in was the focus on traditional methods and the experiential nature of the school. Founded by a salty and weathered sailor in the early 70’s, he originally started the school by himself and did not even charge tuition, allowing the students to barter for chopping firewood, constructing out-buildings, or anything else that needed to be done. Inflation got the better of this holistic ideal, however, and he eventually had to begin charging a nominal tuition, but after decades, the school continually ran as a non-profit.

Cedar Strake only accepted roughly four new apprentices every six months. This was not due to any pompousness or elitism of any sort and had solely to do with logistical spacing. Even a small skiff takes a lot of room to build. After a telephone interview, a brief essay, and written recommendations, James was invited to the school for a week-long trial to see if he was a good fit, the semesters always beginning in June and January. A true republic of sorts, the apprentices were the ones who voted a future apprentice in or out, not the instructors. James, however, did not know this at the time and did not find this out until he was back in Connecticut and received a phone call from the office. He was accepted.

A decade later, while sailing 600 miles off of the Carolina coast with only the dim compass light and that of the stars, the three other crew members sound asleep below deck and the salty air and water caressing the carvel planks of the boat, Bermuda just out of sight off of the port stern and the Virgin Islands ten days into the future, James was a free as he would ever be, but never free from the that beautiful smell of his first day at the Cedar Strake Apprenticeshop.