ABSTRACT
Many years ago I used to live on a boat. I was married to a boat builder who restored old wooden boats. There was often no electricity in the places where Roger worked, so he had a wondrous bag of old-fashioned tools. Amongst them was a hand drill, complete with a set of augurs and other drill bits. Some of the augurs were huge like rolling pins, while some of the other drills were delicate as needles. The drill’s “mouth,” as it were, was designed to grip the end of each of the various “bits,” which Roger kept carefully wrapped in oiled leather. He and his drill were very comfortable together. It had a round wooden pad-I remember its crazed, worn surface, against which he would put pressure, to make the right-sized hole for the job in hand. He selected his bit carefully. He was so skilled that he hardly used any energy in drilling a hole. He knew just how hard to lean on the pad, holding the drill at the right angle, and turning the handle at exactly the right speed so that the resulting hole was perfect for its purpose. It was easy.
