OCTOBER 19, 2024 – Yesterday I celebrated the complete take-out of lake cabin Dock No. 1. Today I failed in my attempt to de-install Dock No. 2. But it was not a total loss. First, I didn’t break any limbs—or worse—nor did I lose or damage any tools, accessories or the dock itself. Second, I satisfied my yen for DYI engineering challenges. Though in the end my venture failed, I walked away with a self-awarded “A-” in final analysis and design, a “B+” in (semi-)applied physics, despite the “INCOMPLETE” in actual results.
My wife doesn’t understand the gratification I derive from figuring out cabin project problems. “Why would you spend all this time [on your quirky methods for dock removal] when you could just hire someone?” What she doesn’t appreciate is that for me, a DYI approach to something like dock design, installation and removal is a giant puzzle for which there has to be a solution short of spending $500 for a crew of 20-something guys equipped with giant power tools to drag a $10,000 dock into the lake in the spring and another $500 for man-handling it back out in the fall. I love analyzing “cabin puzzles,” then designing and ultimately implementing solutions. She doesn’t get this, but for me, hiring out the solutions would be the same thing has her paying someone to complete her latest Wordle challenge. Well, okay . . . fine. Not exactly the same thing, but akin to it.
I take after my dad in this regard. He too drew great pleasure from developing solutions for problems that arose with cabin projects. If Mother was the theoretical mathematician, Dad was the practical problem-solver. On an abstract level she appreciated his accomplishments, but she mostly viewed cabin problems as problems, never as puzzles, and therefore, she saw solutions as commodities or costly burdens, not as mountaintop experiences.
For many years I watched Dad closely as he analyzed challenges and designed precise and highly creative solutions. He often experimented, and inevitably his test runs and prototypes would lead to inspired break-throughs. I find myself intentionally emulating his patient, deliberative analyses, which were sometimes accompanied by almost DaVinci-like drawings, reflecting his finely-honed drafting skills. Some of his old notebooks reveal an artistic bent equal to his engineering proclivity.
For Dad, cabin projects and the problem-solving they involved were a welcome diversion from all the challenges he faced in his job as court administrator, from managing a large staff to dealing with the public, fending off demanding attorneys, running interference against rogue judges, lobbying the state legislature for corrective bills and pleading with county commissioners for critical additional resources. From Mother’s perspective, however, all of Dad’s cabin projects simply amounted to “burdens of property ownership.”
So, back to today’s cabin project—removing not the quirky, one-of-a-kind dock system that I designed for the pontoon landing and removed from the lake yesterday—but the brand new, brand-name dock system that we purchased last spring for out in front of the Red Cabin. Except for cedar decking instead of aluminum, it’s the same brand and model that my sister and brother-in-law bought eight or nine years ago for the old cabin of Björnholm. Their access to the lake is much more challenging, and as is the case with most people around the lake, they hire out installation and removal.
Our dock access point and water depth is much more conducive to a DYI effort—or so I assumed. This morning I proceeded with the task, starting with deck removal. The ¾-inch cedar is much lighter than the inch-and-a-half treated pine decking of my “quirky” dock; carrying the 10 eight-plank sections onto land was a snap. Next came the five 10-foot-long aluminum frames. That’s where my plans sank like a stone pushed off the end of the dock.
I’d misgauged the assembly method that governed the frames. Rather than take the smartest route—checking online—I followed the second smartest approach and hiked way down to the dock area of Björnholm where the same brand of frames were stacked when the hired hands removed them from the lake over two weeks ago. There I inspected the flanges and receptacles that hold things together. This examination provided some but still insufficient insight for me to engineer our dock’s removal. Only then did I pursue the smartest route: investigating online.
Despite the continuing propagation of disinformation online, for at least the fifth time this month I had to concede that the internet is a beautiful thing. What my independent analysis hadn’t revealed was that to separate one dock section from another, the outer section must be lifted vertically before the flange along the one section will separate from its receptacle attached to the adjacent section. In theory this design makes perfect sense; in practice, in a one-person operation it requires considerable improvisation.
And this is the part I normally love. In the context at hand, however, I could readily see that certain missteps could have seriously detrimental—shall we say “injurious”—consequences. Each section of the frame—decking removed—weighs 65 pounds. Depending on the exact circumstances, this weight renders the section easily movable by one person (e.g. lifting one end and sliding it upside down over two 4 x 4 parallel beams laid on the still in-place sections of dock or onto land at the shore end of the dock) or . . . these 65 pounds of aluminum can do serious damage to a person’s body when the frame passes the tipping point and comes crashing down onto the adjoining section if said person is in the way.
Cognizant of this danger, I designed a way to mount a come-a-long on an eight-foot 4 x 4 post and winch the outer section to a vertical position, then past the tipping point. All worked as intended, including the sound of a hunter’s rifle shot produced by the top of the frame slamming down onto the next section. Fortunately, none of my bones or flesh was in the way. One section down, just four to go, except . . .
For the first section, I had two adjoining sections to work from (once I’d put back in place the decking I’d already removed). For the next section, however, to operate the winch safely and be beyond harm’s way, I’d have to stand in the water. Or more precisely, I’d need to stand on something (a cinderblock perhaps, which I’d have to drag down from shore) in the water. Moreover, I still faced three more sections, and these were arranged end-to-end. This meant that they’d have to be raised vertically not by the four-foot width of the frame but by the 10-foot length. Once the tipping point was reached, the 65-pound aluminum frame would be towering overhead and free-falling unless I had additional personnel on hand capable of holding guide ropes and controlling the descent of the frame.
Being acquainted with various serious misfortunes that have befallen people engaged in risky DYI operations, I was abundantly aware of the possible dangers inherent in my solo approach to the rest of the dock removal. Theoretically, I thought, I could rely on the light boat lift that’s still in the water; I could maneuver it around to each section of the dock and use the lift frame to tie one end of the guide ropes. As I thought further, however, I realized how much time it would take to complete the whole operation. Plus, I wasn’t satisfied that I could reduce the risks of injury or damage to reasonably acceptable levels.
At this juncture, I received an urgent internal message—whence I do not know—that sounded to the effect, “Sometimes the smartest thing is not to barrel ahead but to STOP while you are ahead to avoid falling behind or, dare it be said . . . to avoid falling, bearing in mind that the shoreline is is all about rocks.” In the immediate wake of this message was another in summation: “Just plain STOP! You’re not a quitter if you do. You’re a wise old man—the operative word being old, and you’re not as quick or strong as you used to be—and you’re only wise if you STOP NOW.”
And so I did. With the one section out, however, I wondered if I could expect a 20% discount off the “hired hands” rate. Dad too hated paying others to do what he wanted done in a particular way. His perfectionism meshed with his thriftiness: “We Småläningar[1] are so cheap,” he once joked, “we dilute our water.”
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
[1]People of the rocky forested lacustrine and agriculturally stubborn Swedish province of Småland, the place of origin of a plurality of Swedish immigrants in America, including my grandmother and my grandfather’s parents. They were thrifty but never “cheap” or stingy.
