It is a quiet, cold evening in December 1918. Spread-eagled on the extreme end of our dock, I am fascinated by watching the lake start to freeze. First the surface stops moving, becomes smooth and still - then, suddenly, it wrinkles up into sheets of frozen surface-film, with long crystals spreading out all over. In a few minutes, the frozen film is actually thick enough to lift - very carefully - but of course it is delicate and fragile.

Suddenly my mother's voice calls down from the house, and I have to abandon my scientific research into how ice really forms - but I had seen enough so I have never forgotten it. The entire experience of growing up by the side of a beautiful lake which provided swimming, fishing, sailing, skating and eventually iceboating colored my life from then on - I was eight when we moved there, and twenty-seven when we were forced to abandon the place by the implacable march of the Great Depression.

Of all the activities that Lake Mahopac offered, those I loved the most were those of Winter. Both my parents were excellent skaters - I recall at the age of five I was equipped with a proper pair of single-runner skates firmly attached to shoes, taken to a rink in New York, given a little push and told to "Skate!"

Of course it took a few minutes to get the hang of it - but by mid-afternoon I was waddling around the rink on my own - no holding of parental hands. The folks knew, of course, that double-runner skates are an abomination, and that holding someone's hand is really no help either until after one reaches puberty! Then the motivation is quite another story.

So here is a ten-year-old, excited about winter and all it has I to offer up there in the country, and also an avid reader. I found a book by Ralph Henry Barbour entitled Iceboat Number One in the school library. Clearly this was my undoing - or doing, which ever way you look at it. The story was a typical boy's book - the hero built his own boat, and finally beat the rich boy who had a fancy professionally-built boat, but didn't know how to sail it very well. It didn't take me long to identify with the local hero - but how to begin? 

Right here is where my father's support became what made it all happen. First he bought us a litte book - as it turned out, one of the best books on the subject that existed at that time - about 1920. The title was simply “Ice Boating”, but the contents included articles by most of the leading sportsmen of the time, including the famous Archibald Rogers, owner of “Jack Frost”, last winner of the Ice Yacht Challenge Pennant of America. Mr. Rogers' reminiscences of sailing and racing on the Hudson opened our eyes to a really terrific sport - plagued by the vagaries of weather, as always, but truly terrific when it could be done.

Our immediate problem, now that our appetite was whetted, was what sort of boat could we build, with our limited resources and complete lack of facilities to enable us to even dream of a craft like “Jack Frost”, or even a miniature of her. We did have the rig of my father's sailing canoe - strictly Old Town, vintage 1913. We decided to put together something to carry that rig, and see what we could do.

This had to be built of material at hand - planks, framing lumber remaining from the building of our house a year or two earlier. What emerged was a triangular platform with 2x8 planks on edge surrounding it - to keep us from falling out The mast was stepped in a wooden block, and stayed with odd pieces of wire - probably wire clothes line. Three little turnbuckles served to keep this in some sort of order, and the sail hung well enough exactly as it had on the canoe.

Of course, here we were ready to set forth, but on what? What do we do for runners? We had learned enough from our little book to understand that runners had to be sharpened to a V-edge, must have some slight rocker rather than be dead straight on the bottom, and so forth. It was clearly time for Dad to step in again. After all, he was an engineer, he understood the problem, and as it turned out, he knew where to go for help - Naylor's Foundry, in Peekskill. He made some sketches and after a few days, the word came that our runners were ready. They were cut from 313" steel plate, sharpened to a V on the bottom, and hung between pairs of angle irons on a single bolt, so they could rock. The rudder-post and tiller were a little more complex, but they worked OK, which was the main purpose.

It was easy enough to mount these steel parts on our little platform - we were ready to launch! Imagine the excitement by all hands - Mother included (after all, she had learned to skate on the Hudson River and had often hooked a ride behind the local iceboats). To our delight, the little rig sailed fine. As it turned out, the real beneficiaries of this craft were my folks, who sailed it by daylight and by moonlight, while I was away at school playing hockey and getting myself ready for college.

During my college years - 1925-1931 - a fellow-sailor from the Lake who had some remains of a big Hudson River iceboat that had been allowed to lie outdoors in the summer time (the "kiss of death" for any wooden boat not properly covered) - decided to use the rig of his one-design sailboat and build a simple 24-foot boat to carry it. He was lucky to have those fine Hudson River runners - with the good spars and sails he also had, from the summer-sailing class on the Lake, the rest was easy enough. His boat sailed very well - so well that I resolved to go and do likewise - since I too had a sailing rig from the summer boat.

The obvious gap in my equipment was runners, rudder-post and tiller. I resolved to go to New Jersey - Red Bank and Long Branch - where there were lots of iceboats. I finally salvaged a set of runners from a marsh where they had been thrown when the shed where the boat was stored had burned down. This meant the owner no longer had a boat, and had about given up on iceboating. He sold me the lot for a ten-dollar bill. I had my work cut out for me - the shoes were terribly rusty and pitted, and even the oak tops had started to rot. But persistence and plenty of sweat resulted in a fine set of runners, when they were finally finished. The iron was excellent, which I surely did not realize when I found them. Admittedly, I was lucky (and persistent).

This boat sailed very well - in fact, with her good runners and sails, she had a head start on most of the others that were around at that time.

By now, I was an avid iceboater, and the Depression provided me with opportunities for working on boats and sailing them which would never have existed in more prosperous times. At that time (1935-6-7) I was running a small resort hotel, and in the winter, there wasn't much going on during the week. So I tinkered with boats and sailed them whenever possible.
​
In the January 1935 issue of “The Sportsman” magazine, there appeared an article about the great mid-western breakthrough in iceboat design - the advent of the front-steering boat, in Wisconsin. These first bow-steerers were large, like their stern-steering predecessors in the more successful racing classes. But a series of very serious capsizes nearly caused the whole idea of bow-steering to be abandoned while yet really untried. The problem was not with bow-steering per se, but with lack of understanding of the proper size, weight and design of a successful boat that steered from the bow. 

The way to go turned out to be small, rather than large. A man named Walter Beauvais built what he called the “Beau-Skeeter”, only about twelve feet long with an eight-foot cross-plank. Because it was small and light, it could be sailed on the ragged edge of a capsize without fear or danger - if it went over, the pilot fell only a few feet, and by "starting" the sheet, he often kept it right-side-up anyway. The fact that the driver always went up when a bow-steerer "hiked", carried with it the message of possible trouble, and resulted in many improvements in the “Beau-Skeeter” design.

The Palmer Boat Company of Fontana, Wisconsin on Lake Geneva, brought out some very fast single-and-two-seater skeeters that opened my eyes rudely the first time I encountered them on Greenwood Lake. I had won a race the day before with the boat that carried my Lake Mahopac one-design sloop rig, and I thought she was at the least, a pretty good iceboat for the time. We set up a little scrub race between my boat and two of these Palmer skeeters, and they sailed three laps to my two. That was convincing enough -clearly the bow-steerer was the faster type, regardless of size or sail area.

This had continued to be true - the only interest that today exists among the older stern-steerers is confined to racing within their own classes in the Eastern Ice Yachting Association, and competing for certain trophies that are restricted to the classic type. They are entirely different in action and in speed, but they require enough skill to present a challenge -as long as you don't have to be the fastest boat out there.

In the meantime, over the past half-century, the so-called “Skeeter”, which started at 12 ft. long x 8 ft wide, has grown to 24 to 26 ft long and 16 to 18 ft wide, still carrying (theoretically) the original 75 square feet of sail. By taking full advantage of a loophole in the sail-area rule which permits a 12-inch "roach" or projection outside of the straight chord of the sail's leech, with 24 to 26-foot masts, giving a long leech, the actual sail area now being carried is closer to 90 sq. ft. Speeds have jumped into the unbelievable regions - there is even a story from Wisconsin (the hotbed of the big Skeeters) of a boat reputed to have been "clocked" by a State Policeman's radar at over 150 miles per hour.

There are many reasons why this is possible - suffice it to say here that the big, long, "lean and mean" skeeter is the fastest thing on the ice today.
​
Back in the 1936-1937 days, I got involved in building the very best boat I could, following the overall setup of the big Palmer boat that looked to be unreachable. Surely as to finish and fittings she was far out of my reach - but it turned out some of the basic design decisions I had made were correct, and I beat her on every occasion we raced. That is another story - suffice it to say that my 1937 boat, named “Charette II” reposes today in the New York State Museum in Albany, contemplating her medals and past trophies. It has been a nice wind-up to a lengthy career. Ray Ruge. 

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The rotor ship Buckau was originally built as an auxiliary sailing schooner in 1920, she was converted in 1925 as the first rotor ship using Flettner Rotors. These modern sails are now being used as wind assist systems on dozens of ships, and are projected in some cases as the principal propulsion of a number of vessels currently in the design stage.

Flettner Rotors work on the principle of the Magnus Effect, which is what causes baseballs to curve when thrown. Flettner Rotors also provide much more thrust from the same surface area when compared to traditional sails.

The tests with Buckau were successful, and the idea caught on to a degree. While Backau was only 600 tons, thus a small ship, others were later launched after her tests, including the 3,000 ton Barbara. Anton Flettner wrote a book about his inventions which is now available on Google Books, and in it details that he had taken a sailing excursion as a young man to Australia, which inspired his maritime endeavors.

There were a number of smaller experiments with Flettner Rotors in the early 20th century, but the collapse of shipping rates in the 1920s did not provide an incentive for building more ships. It wasn't until the Oil Crisis of the 1970s that more research was poured into the idea, and until the early 21st century not many Flettner Rotors were installed or used. However, they are now considered one of the best options for wind-assist retrofits on all kinds of modern vessels.

​Buckau proved that rotors are a viable form of propulsion nearly a century ago, and now they are being put to regular use in the pursuit of decarbonizing shipping. These types of pioneering efforts are not frequent, but they are capable of changing what the future of sail will, quite literally, look like.

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. This article was originally published ​ February 18, 1973.

One day back in February of ‘36 I took a drive to Bear Mountain where the steamboats “Onteora” and “Clermont” were layed up for the winter.  I planned to pay a visit to my friend John Tewbeck, who was the mate on the “Clermont” and acting as shipkeeper for the two steamboats.  He had been second Mate with my brother, Algot, when Algot had been first Mate of the “Onteora” back in 1921.
           
It was an overcast day and looked as if a snow storm might be in the making.  Sure enough, after I arrived aboard the “Clermont” about 2 p.m., it started to snow.  John had to go on an errand to Highland Falls and suggested I wait until he returned.  After he left, I took a walk around the two steamboats, all dark and still in their winter hibernation.
           
As I stood in the silent, cold pilot house of the “Onteora” I couldn’t help but think how it must have been there in the day when the “Onty” was new, back at the turn of the century, and running for the old Catskill Evening Line to Catskill, Hudson, Coxsackie and other up river landings. 

I could almost see the ghosts of Captain Ben Hoff and the Pilots and quartermaster during the early morning hours discussing the political events of the day, as pilot house crews are wont to do.  Perhaps talking about Teddy Roosevelt’s campaigns against Judge Alton B. Parker in 1904 and in 1912 against Wilson and Taft. 

Boyhood Memories
Then my thoughts wandered to the early 1920’s when the “Onteora” had been converted to an excursion steamer and was running between New York and Bear Mountain.  How as a little boy I would visit my brother and be sitting enthralled in that same pilot house.  On one such visit, I remembered looking out the port windows and seeing the steamer “Poughkeepsie” of the Central Hudson Line running up river at about the same speed as the “Onteora,” getting a little too close.  And Captain Hoff saying “Come on, Amos (meaning Captain Amos Cooper of the “Poughkeepsie”), get over there.”
           
Now, however, all was still and quiet in the pilot house and the only sound was a train on the New York Central going up the east side of the river at the foot of Anthony’s Nose.  How the steam would “siss” across the cold, icy river.
           
I then leisurely walked back on the “Clermont” and went through her cold, silent engine room.  The bright work and moving parts of her engine were all covered with black grease as protection against the onslaught of winter’s rust.  Up in her pilot house, it sure was cold with the snow falling outside.  The brass was all tarnished and dark.  By that time, dusk was falling and the now was coming down heavier.  I couldn’t even make out the Bear Mountain bridge or the aero beacon on top of the Nose. 
           
John Tewbeck came back and said, “Well, Bill I guess you will have to stay here tonight as the roads are very slippery.” So I stayed aboard the “Clermont” all night.  On the second deck, in one of her former staterooms on the port side, John had two cots and a small stove.
 
Rattling Windows
During the night, how the wind rattled her windows and how the “Clermont” creaked and groaned as she tugged on her mooring lines.
           
It was very snug and comfortable that winter’s night in the “Clermont’s” cabin with the reassuring dull red glow from the coal fire in the small stove.  How nice and warm it was to lay in bed and dimly see the lights up in Bear Mountain Park and the snow plows going along the highways very slow with their red lights blinking their warning signals.
           
About 3 a.m. I woke up and dressed.  John, somewhat taken aback, said, “Where are you going at this hour?” I answered, “I’m going to take a walk around the boat to see how it is this hour of the morning in a snowstorm.”
           
After giving me his flashlight, which I took, John said, “I guess there is only one Benson like you in this world.” I replied.  “Well, I will never again have this opportunity to stay all night and walk around a passenger boat tied up at Bear Mountain, so I thought I’d take advantage of it.” John retorted, “Well, Bill, enjoy yourself, while I sleep in this warm bed.”
 
Cold on Deck
I went out on deck.  It was bitter cold, but the snow had lightened up considerable.  I could now clearly see the Bear Mountain highway bridge and the aero light atop the Nose.  How different the river looked all full of ice and snow.
           
I went up to the dark, still pilot house of the “Clermont.” There was something about it that drew me there.  Although it was very cold, I couldn’t help but think of how it must have been in that pilot house in seasons past when the steamboat was alive. 
           
Things were all hustle and bustle with passengers out on the decks, and perhaps the “Clermont” might be going into Stockport on a warm summer's morning with all the pilot house windows and doors open to catch the warm breezes. 
           
Finally, the cold brought my thoughts back to the present and that warm bed and coal stove on the second deck.  John was fast asleep and in a few moments so was I.  About 7 a.m. I awoke to the aroma of freshly brewing coffee and frying ham and eggs.  It was indeed pleasant to eat breakfast by the warm fire and look out on the snow covered park with the sun shining brightly.
 
Recalling That Night
About 10 a.m. I left for home.  After that I went to visit John a number of times, but never again did I stay overnight.  In 1946 he died of a heart attack and the “Clermont” herself was broken up in 1949.  A number of times in years later when going by Bear Mountain on cold and stormy nights, I would think about that night in February 1936 and recall my pleasant winter visit to the layed up steamboats.
           
​I remember an editorial that once appeared in the old New York Herald Tribune when the Day Liner “Washington Irving” was finally sold for scrapping.  The writer observed that of all inanimate objects, ships and steamboats seemed to be endowed with a life of their own and have friends.  I know the truth of the writer’s words, for this was my feeling for the “Clermont” and “Onteora.”

​On the bitter cold winter night of December 16, 1835 a fire caused by a burst gas pipe ignited by a coal stove broke out in lower Manhattan and burned for hours. The gale-force winds spread the flames rapidly across 17 city blocks. The frozen East River and Hudson River hampered the fire-fighting efforts. 

More than 600 wood frame buildings were destroyed. The Hudson River Brick Industry flourished during the rebuilding process as more durable brick replaced the former wooden buildings. Watch at www.hrmm.org/lecture-series for upcoming Follow the River Lectures in 2023 to learn more about the Great Fire and the Brick Industry. Come visit the brick exhibit at the Hudson River Maritime Museum.

​Listen as The History Guy gives more details.

The 1970s Oil Crisis saw a major revival in interest around Sail Freight, which coincided with the bicentennial of the American War of Independence, itself a trigger for renewed interest in traditional crafts and tall ships. As part of this whole scene, Folk Music also experienced a rise in popularity, and in this particular song, you have these threads all combined.

While the lyrics are certainly dated, they do encapsulate the spirit of their times, and a seed off which we build today. Folk tunes are always changing, and the lyrics could be modified just slightly to be far more inclusive and encouraging in a modern context. I propose the following as a candidate, for those interested in recording an updated version: "Sailing ships and sailors 'gain will sail the open waters... so all you brave windjammers climb your way into the rigging..." The verses will all need a bit of work as well, but that's not a terribly hard task either.

We construct our world through the stories we tell, and as I once heard it said, all stories aspire to be songs. We could use more of these types of stories and songs in the face of the challenges we face today.

LYRICS:
You can see the squares of canvas dancing over the horizon
You can hear the chanty wailing to the heaving of the men
You can feel the seas up to your knees and you know the sea is risin'
And you know the clipper’s day has come again
To the men on high the bos'n's cry commands a killing strain
’Til every mother's son begins to pray
With a hearty shout she comes about and she heads into the rain
And the ship has never seen a better day

Sailing ships and sailing men will sail the open water
Where the only thing that matters is the wind inside the main
So all you loving mothers keep your eyes upon your daughters
For the sails will mend their tatters and the masts will rise again

Wooden beams and human dreams are all that make her go;
And the magic of the wind upon her sails
We'd rather fight the weather than the fishes down below;
God help us if the rigging ever fails
As the timber creaks the captain speaks above the vessel's groans
'Til every soul on board can hear the call
It's nothing but the singing of the ship inside her bones
And this is when she likes it best of all

Sailing ships and sailing men will sail the open water
Where the only thing that matters is the wind inside the main
So all you loving mothers keep your eyes upon your daughters
For the sails will mend their tatters and the masts will rise again

Where the current goes the clipper's nose is plowing fields of green
Where fortune takes the crews we wish them well
Where men could be when lost at sea is somewhere in between
The regions of a heaven and a hell
Well they're sailing eastern harbors and the California shore;
If you set your mind to see them then you can
As you count each mast go sailing past you, prouder than before
Then you’ll know the clipper’s day has come again

Sailing ships and sailing men will sail the open water
Where the only thing that matters is the wind inside the main
So all you loving mothers keep your eyes upon your daughters
For the sails will mend their tatters and the masts will rise again

Sailing ships and sailing men will sail the open water
Where the only thing that matters is the wind inside the main
So all you loving mothers keep your eyes upon your daughters
For the sails will mend their tatters and the masts will rise again
So all you loving mothers keep your eyes upon your daughters
For the sails will mend their tatters and the masts will rise again.

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                                                       Poughkeepsie
The tale of the steamboat “Poughkeepsie” is the story of a vessel that is still in service- although today the name “Westchester” has replaced “Poughkeepsie" and she is no longer a familiar figure on the Hudson river.

The steel hull of the “Poughkeepsie” was built by the Tampa Foundry and Machine Company at Tampa, Florida, in 1916. Her hull was 206 feet 8 inches long, with an overall length of 215 feet; breadth of beam 47 feet; depth of hold 14 feet 2 inches; gross tonnage 1,366; net tonnage 948. She carried a triple expansion engine with cylinder diameters of 18 1/2, 28, and 46 inches, with a stroke of 30 inches.
           
The “Poughkeepsie” was built for the Central Hudson Steamboat Company of Newburgh, and was the largest steel steamboat built south of Virginia yards up to that time. She was launched on September 25, 1916, and was delivered to the Central Hudson Company at New York in April 1917. The hull of the “Poughkeepsie” was of extra heavy steel construction with reinforced frame below the water line for the purpose of battling river ice during the winter months. The first deck was used exclusively for freight, the second deck containing staterooms which would accommodate 32 passengers, aft of the pilot house. The new steamboat represented an investment of a quarter of a million dollars at the time she joined the fleet consisting of the “Benjamin B. Odell,” “Homer Ramsdell,” and “Newburgh.”
           
The first route of the “Poughkeepsie,” under the banner of the Central Hudson Steamboat Company, was between Rondout and New York, running in line with the “Benjamin B. Odell.” She was under the command of Captain Amos Cooper, with William Ross, pilot, and Howard Caniff, chief engineer. During the period in her career she became very popular with the traveling public, especially as an excursion vessel during the summer months.
           
In May 1929 the Hudson River Night Line and the Hudson River Dayline jointly purchased the Central Hudson Company’s steamboats, and then the “Poughkeepsie” and the “Benjamin B. Odell” were placed on the night line between New York and Albany. These two steamboats made their last trip on the night line late in November 1936, and were then withdrawn from service.
​

Measurements were taken of the “Poughkeepsie" for the purpose of conversion into an excursion vessel, and on January 13, 1937 she was transferred to the Meseck Steamboat Company who immediately solicited bids for her conversion. On February 4, John A. Meseck, president of the new owners of the “Poughkeepsie,” announced that the Tietjan and Lang yards had been awarded the contract for the re-construction at a cost of $169,780.
           
The name “Westchester” replaced “Poughkeepsie”, and the re-vamped vessel made a trial trip on May 15, 1937 with a thousand guests aboard. On Memorial Day, 1937, the “Westchester” entered regular service between Jersey City, New York, and Rye Beach.
           
Today the “Westchester” is considered to be the finest equipped excursion vessel in New York harbor, with a licensed carrying-capacity of 2,000. She still carries the deep, booming whistle which echoed from the Highlands of the Hudson when she sailed on the river under the name “Poughkeepsie,” but she rarely plows the waters of the Hudson. Occasionally she appears on a moonlight excursion on the Hudson river, but her regular service keeps her in and around New York harbor, and the steamboat “Poughkeepsie” no longer exists in the pages of Hudson river history.