Usually, this segment is dedicated to reproducing a couple of the more interesting threads found on various woodworking bulletin boards. The threads ask and answer questions, give opinions, and sometimes even devolve into friendly disagreements. Now and again, though, someone posts something more than just an invitation to chime in. So it was last week when a Canadian woodworker shared this captivating story of history, family, and woodworking redemption. We thought it was so interesting that we contacted him individually and got his permission to tell his story in full here in the Woodworker's Journal eZine. - Editor

"Sit back a spell, and let your mind wander back a ways; back to 1943 and 1944, in fact. Back to a time when Canada and her allies were at war, and those who remained on home soil did what they could to support the effort; to a time when ships were needed, but steel was scarce.

And so it was that a shipyard in Tampa, Florida called 'McCloskey and Company' became fast experts at producing supply vessels made of concrete. On average, these were 366 feet long and, for the most part, plied the waters of the south Pacific. When new, they looked like this:

Photo source, Richard Powers, www.concreteships.org, www.usmm.org

They carried sugar, and oil, and general stores for the troops of all allied nations. When struck, they shattered like crockery, but when floating, they served their purpose. Not many were built, and the tradition was short-lived.

When the war was done and the ships deemed surplus, they were scattered far and wide. But over time and via different routes, some of the ships slowly came together again to stand silently, arm in arm, for years to come. And they are still there, ballasted and providing protection for the old log pond off the mill in Powell River, British Columbia. Growing up, I knew them as the hulks, and I've watched them deteriorate for 35 years. And yet, they still hold their pride, and their stories. And they in turn have watched me and countless others catch their first big Chinook, and laughed silently as we missed many more.

Photo source: John Campbell

Photo source: John Campbell

Photo source: John Campbell

Some 30 odd years ago, the mill, then owned by Macmillan Bloedel, realized that many of the ships (there are 10 in all) were decommissioned and towed all over the world with measurable quantities of fuel oil still aboard. They performed a survey, calculated the volume of oil, and had it pumped off and subsequently sold. I don't remember the exact amount, but it was said to be enough to power the city of New York for two full days.

The man in charge of the survey was my dad, and in doing the survey, he also did some exploring. He ended up in the galleys of these once fine vessels. There, he saw an interesting thing. A cutting board was against the wall, held fast by a swinging clip. When the clip was moved, the board hinged down and covered the fryer; an efficient use of a very small space. It wasn't long before the cutting board was removed from its perch and lobbed over the side of the ship. On to the second vessel he went, where he did the same thing with a second board. That night, he came home with one intact board and one in pieces. Together, we rebuilt the broken one, inserting new dowels and sanding off the years of accumulated goo. One went to my mom, the other to my grandma, and both became the platform for many peanut butter sandwiches for years to come.

When grandma passed away, her board ended up in one basement and then another, and finally in mine, where it's been for several years: cracked, open-seamed, and relegated to yet another stage of unceremonious storage. Until Sunday. On Sunday, I dismantled it, removing the cross-grain braces that were screwed to the underside with monster fasteners, and managing to pound out the old maple dowels that originally held it all together. I split it apart into many pieces (numbered, of course) and set to re-jointing and re-gluing the thing back together. Yesterday, I took it out of the clamps and refreshed the surface, getting it ready once again for yet more years of peanut butter sandwiches. On the underside of the board, the sanding belt clogged quickly as it removed years of military remnants.

Photo source: Rob Stokes www.robswoodworking.com

And so, after 62 years of providing a foundation on which food was prepared for an incredible array of people, once again the board has a life. Look carefully: you can see the dowels that fill the old hinge holes. Listen carefully: you can hear cook preparing a meal for the sailors, the same men that gave you and I our freedom today.

And now you know why I never placed one of the cutting boards I made before Christmas on my own counter. That space was reserved." - Rob Stokes, Vancouver, Canada