The Pococks set up shop in an old, derelict shed floating on timbers fifty yards offshore in Coal Harbour and then finally resumed what would be their life’s work—crafting fine racing shells. They set to work tirelessly in their shop downstairs, stopping only at night, to sleep in an unheated room above the shop. Conditions were not ideal. Daylight showed through the roof, and wind and rain shuddered through wide gaps between the wallboards.
