Chartering is guaranteed to teach you something. Sometimes it’s a gentle lesson, such as discovering the pure joy of a quiet anchorage that wasn’t even on your itinerary. Sometimes it’s more like a slap from a wet halyard. Either way, every charter adds a few notches to your sailing know-how—and your humility.

Over the years, I’ve come to think of charter trips less as vacations and more as continuing education. Each time out, there’s a new wrinkle: a mystery beep from the nav station, a stubborn mooring ball, a provisioning mishap that results in 5 pounds of cheese slices and no coffee. And so I’ve started keeping an informal mental list—call it the “charter charter.” These aren’t hard rules, exactly, and they’re certainly not gospel, but they are things I’ve learned, usually by doing them the hard way.

Like provisioning. Charter boats are ­often floating paradises, but they are not bottomless pantries. Let your crew loose in a shoreside market without supervision, and you might end up with nothing but snacks, mixers and a healthy debate about whether Coffee mate counts as a dairy substitute. My advice? Appoint a provisioning captain, make a list and, above all, do not forget the coffee. Pro tip: Paper towels can double as coffee filters. You’re welcome. 

Packing falls into a similar category. Every charter begins with someone dragging an oversize rolling duffel onto the dock like they’re about to fly to the French Riviera. Don’t be that person. You’ll end up wearing the same pair of shorts, the same salt-crusted T-shirt and the one hat that doesn’t fly off in 20 knots of trade wind. The rest of it? Deadweight. But if you’re a coffee connoisseur, do pack your favorite beans. Just trust me.

Your crew—whether familial or familiar​—have their own internal ecosystem too. There’s always someone who insists on organizing the itinerary down to the minute, complete with tide tables, wind models and backup anchorages in three languages. Let them. Every crew needs a logistics geek. But every crew also needs a “just happy to be here” type, and someone who insists on helping out with the daily onboard chores. Like dishes. This person is a saint. Extra grog rations might be in order.

As for sailing itself, the gear might get fancier every year, but the sea doesn’t care how many USB outlets your boat has. Batteries still run down, anchorages still get rolly, watermakers may or may not decide to stop making water halfway through the voyage, and marine toilets still operate on black-magic principles. Explaining “pump, pause, pump” to a landlubbing friend is a rite of passage. So is the awkward moment when someone insists that they never get seasick—right before turning the color of Key lime pie.

Then there’s the matter of anchoring. Modern catamarans are wide, comfortable and basically floating condos—but they still swing on a single hook, and scope is not a vibe. Learn the anchoring system. Communicate. Don’t be the crew who drifts too close to the boat flying the dive flag. 

Charter boats these days come tricked out with more amenities than ever. I’ve chartered some that were better equipped than my last apartment. But that doesn’t mean the experience has lost its charm. In fact, the beauty of chartering is in the freedom. You’re not locked into a set itinerary. You don’t have to tick off every must-see beach bar. Some of the best moments come when you go off-script—when weather changes your plan, or when you decide to linger an extra day in that perfect little bay because the breeze feels just right.

And those moments stick with you. That’s what chartering does. It gives you stories. Like the time we set out for what we thought would be a mellow downwind sail and ended up motoring through a dead calm, dodging squalls and learning how to make cocktails with exactly three ­remaining ice cubes. 

The memories that matter aren’t always the picture-perfect ones. They’re the ones where you figured out something together, adjusted on the fly, and laughed about it at the dinner table. Smooth sailing is nice, but a little friction makes the lobster tails taste better and the stories funnier.

Whether you’re eyeing the Med, the Caribbean or the Pacific Northwest—or you’re not quite sure where to begin—if this is your year to finally book that long-awaited charter, get it done. Book the boat. Gather your crew. Toss your flip-flops into a duffel bag and go. The boat might be borrowed, but the dream is all yours.

May you see fair winds, light packing lists, and just the right amount of ice for your Painkillers.

The post The Charter Charter: Lessons from Sailing Adventures appeared first on Cruising World.

It was shaping up to be ­another postcard-perfect day at anchor in Thailand. My husband, Jamie, was working on deck aboard our Stevens 47, Totem, when he let out a shout that made everyone’s spine snap straight.

“Hey! Hey! Look out!”

A bareboat charter catamaran was bearing down on us—fast—and the people aboard were too busy laughing and posing for selfies to notice. The skipper finally looked up from his phone just in time to veer away, clearing our anchor chain by maybe 10 feet. 

“I saw ya, mate,” he called out. 

Sure you did.

For anyone who dreams of cruising, chartering can be a brilliant first step. But the gap between dream and disaster can be alarmingly narrow. Done right, bareboating is a confidence-building adventure. Done wrong, it can be a deal-breaker.

If you’re thinking of chartering as a stepping stone to life afloat, here’s how to get it right, from the skills you’ll need to the surprises you’ll want to avoid.

Build the Right Skills 

A successful charter doesn’t just depend on your spirit of adventure. It also relies on your ability to handle the fundamentals. 

Even seasoned sailors can get tripped up when stepping aboard a vessel that’s significantly different from what they’re used to handling. Twin engines, catamaran maneuvering, electric winches, a ­heavier displacement hull—all these variables affect everything from docking to anchoring to systems management.

“If you’ve been off the water for a while, or if your experience has all been in smaller or simpler boats, consider brushing up before your trip,” says Tracy Sarich, owner of Voyage Makers Coastal Adventures in British Columbia, Canada. “One of the most common issues we see is a gap in skills that becomes clear only once a client is already at the dock. That’s hard on everyone.”

To avoid that last-minute scramble, consider taking a refresher or liveaboard course with American Sailing or the Royal Yachting Association, or through the charter base. Many companies offer training designed to mirror real-world charter conditions, often using the same types of boats you’ll be renting. Not only does this kind of refresher course sharpen your skills, but it also builds confidence and reduces anxiety for you and your crew.

“Research your charter company’s requirements early,” Sarich says. “Then plan your prep accordingly. We tailor training to match both the boat and the cruising area, so charterers feel ready when it’s time to go.”

The more solid your foundation, the more fun you’ll have—and the more likely you’ll be planning the next adventure before this one’s even over.

Be Honest 

It’s important to recognize that while your sailing skills might be top-notch in your home waters and familiar conditions, those skills might not translate seamlessly to a new charter-base location. Charter bases often vet those skills carefully—especially in areas with more-complex navigation dynamics.

Charter guests can get frustrated when required to sail with a checkout skipper. “Do they think I’m not experienced?” “Did they not believe my sailing résumé?” In reality, it’s not about mistrust—it’s about setting you up for a safe and enjoyable trip.

“Charter companies want your experience to be a positive one,” says Capt. Margaret Pommert, a veteran sailing instructor who conducts checkout orientations for charters in Puget Sound. “They know their boats and waters better than anyone, and they’ve seen what can go wrong.”

A checkout skipper’s role is to familiarize guests with the vessel and local conditions, ensuring comfort with handling, docking and onboard systems. At the end of the process, the skipper must determine whether the guest can safely manage the boat—and their crew.

Even seasoned sailors can be caught off guard by unfamiliar waters. Deepwater Puget Sound sailors might run aground in Florida’s shallows. A salty Southern California sailor might struggle when the “wind machine” kicks in on a summer afternoon in San Francisco Bay.

Pommert remembers a Chesapeake Bay sailor—and hopeful family cruiser—who was planning a Puget Sound charter with his anxious wife and young children. He ­proudly explained that he had interpreted the local tide tables and intended to sail through Deception Pass on a max ebb current. Recognizing this as a recipe for disaster, Pommert gently explained the danger of his plan and introduced the concept of a tidal gate. Together, they reworked the itinerary.

A month later, the family bought a sailboat. Six months after that, his wife enrolled in one of Pommert’s courses.

A good checkout skipper is a mentor and partner. They help you build on your strengths, identify knowledge gaps, and ensure that your charter is a success. It’s a rare ­opportunity to grow; embrace it.

Know the Systems

Even experienced sailors can find themselves flustered on a charter boat. The systems might be unfamiliar, the layout unexpected and the interface—bonjour, French chart plotter—less than intuitive. What you think of as basic sailing knowledge might not prepare you for the living ­systems that make a boat feel like a functioning home, even for a week.

On a charter, you might be managing a watermaker, monitoring battery-charge levels, or operating a macerator pump for the heads. These are things you might never touch on a daysailer or even your own coastal cruiser. Mismanaging these systems can lead to discomfort, stress and safety issues.

“In-mast furling systems, for example, are very common on charter sailboats,” says Tracy Sarich of The Voyage Makers. “Clients who say they know how to use them—because they’ve watched a YouTube video—are often the ones calling on day one when something goes wrong. These issues could be avoided if they gave themselves a little more time for discussion at the dock.”

Before you board, ask for a list of the boat’s equipment. Familiarize yourself with anything unfamiliar. Charter ­companies might be able to provide videos or manuals. If not, a little digging online—­especially on YouTube—can go a long way. Make a checklist of key systems that you want to understand: How do you monitor tank levels? Where are the breaker panels? How does the autopilot engage? And, yes, how do you flush the toilet?

Even details such as PFD comfort, dinghy operation and stove ignition can feel like small wins if you take the time to get familiar up front. The orientation provided by the charter base is valuable, but it’s not always enough, especially if you arrive rushed or distracted. A little homework before you go can make your entire week more enjoyable. 

Research and ­Prepare

Sailing in a new place can be thrilling—but also deceptive. It’s easy to assume that your sailing skills will transfer ­seamlessly. In reality, every destination has its quirks, risks and local ­knowledge. Maybe it’s the swift tidal currents and narrow passes of the San Juans, or the sharp katabatic winds that come screaming down Greek hillsides in the Med. Even the most seasoned sailors can be caught off guard when they underestimate the local conditions.

Nothing beats advanced planning and asking questions of your charter company ahead of time so that you can discuss your plan with a local expert upon arrival.

“Most accidents occur on charter boats because clients have overestimated their ability to read the conditions in a new area,” Sarich says.

She appreciates when guests take time before their trip—and during that first day of orientation with The Voyage Makers—to plan and prepare, making their vacation more relaxing. It can also save money, especially when security ­deposits are at stake.

Lara Ortiz runs Ocean Adventure Cat charters with her husband, Jason Decker, and has seen both sides of the coin when it comes to research.

“We met some nonmariners on a dive trip in Borneo who were super-interested in sharing a bareboat with us one day,” she says. “They joined us in St. Lucia, loved it, and went home to Germany to earn their sailing certifications. A year and a half later, they invited us on a sailing trip in Croatia, with Jason as the backup skipper.”

On that trip, their friend—the first-time charter skipper with an engineer’s mindset—brought along a 3-inch binder with divider tabs. It included detailed information on the cruising grounds, potential itineraries, summaries of each destination and port, anchorage and marina chart screenshots, explanations of local weather patterns, guidance on areas to avoid and how to identify risk factors, and diagrams of line and rudder configurations for different docking conditions.

Ortiz and Decker were the only experienced sailors aboard, but each day, their friend—the new skipper—would review ­relevant maneuvers with the crew and assign clear roles.

“He maintained great communication during sailing, docking and anchoring,” Ortiz says. “Preparation paid off, and the trip was a rousing success.”

Be Realistic

One of the most common causes of charter disappointment is an overstuffed itinerary. It’s tempting, especially on your first trip, to try to check off every beach, bar and snorkeling spot that you flagged in the guidebook. But cramming too many destinations into too few days almost always backfires. You spend your week rushing between anchorages, eyes on the clock, powering through squalls or skipping swims—all just to stay on schedule. 

The problem is mindset: We come from lives governed by fixed calendars and concrete deadlines, where a change in the weather just means packing an umbrella. But sailing doesn’t work like that. Weather shifts, boats need attention, and sometimes the best-laid plans give way to the perfect cove you didn’t expect to fall in love with.

Give yourself time, especially on day one. Settle in, get to know the boat, and slow your roll. Marla Hedman, a captain with The Voyage Makers, recalls a charter crew who arrived late, eager to cast off and make their first anchorage before sunset. In their haste, groceries were hurried aboard, the boat briefing was rushed, and they motored out without properly checking systems. 

Later, when they went to raise the main, the electric winch jammed—and they kept pressing the button. Pop. Pop. Pop. The halyard, still routed through the lifelines, ripped stanchions from the deck one by one. Their charter ended ­before it really began.

The lesson? Prioritize ease over ambition. Aim for fewer destinations, with more time at each. Let the weather and your mood guide your course. Savor the unplanned layover, the lingering lunch or the unexpected sunset in a bay you didn’t even mean to stop in. 

When you make room for spontaneity, that’s when magic tends to happen.

Bring Perspective

Your mindset is one of the most important pieces of charter prep—more than any checklist or chart-plotter app. 

Charter boats get used hard. Systems wear, cushions fade, things break. The air conditioning might groan in protest, the dinghy might have a sticky outboard, and the watermaker might be out of commission entirely. None of these situations is ideal, but none of them need to ruin your trip.

One of our coaching clients, fresh back from a weeklong charter in the BVI, told us: “It wasn’t exactly as advertised. Our boat was supposed to have a watermaker, but it wasn’t working. Yet for one week in the BVI, it was easy enough for us to manage on board.” 

His takeaway? A little flexibility and problem-solving made the trip feel more like an adventure and less like a resort stay. That’s actually pretty close to real cruising, where “something always needs fixing” is less a complaint than a mantra. If you treat minor hiccups as part of the story, then you’re already thinking like a cruiser.

There’s also another way to bring perspective: If you’re chartering and curious about the liveaboard lifestyle, look around the anchorage. Cruisers are easy to spot. They typically have laundry flapping from the lifelines, an array of solar panels, jerries lashed to the rail, and someone in the ­cockpit elbow-deep in an electrical panel or a winch servicing. Go say hi. Most of us remember exactly what it was like to be cruiser-curious, and we’re ­often more than happy to swap stories or offer a quick tour.

Just maybe don’t drop your anchor right on top of theirs.

Pregame Like a Cruiser 

If you’re treating your charter as a trial run for future cruising life, don’t wait until you’re aboard to start thinking like a full-time ­sailor. Use the planning phase to build real-world skills and gain confidence with the tools that cruisers rely on daily. Try this ­four-step checklist before you even book your flight.

Practice With Charting Software: Install a navigation app such as Navionics or Aqua Map on a tablet. Practice route planning manually to get familiar with chart overlays, depth contours, and hazard markers. No auto-routing.

Track Weather: Download a robust marine forecasting app such as PredictWind. Ask your charter base which forecast models they trust most for the local area, then begin following them days or weeks in advance. You’ll get a sense of how patterns evolve in your  destination.

Scout Anchorages With Cruiser Intel: Platforms such as Noforeignland let you explore anchorage reviews and track real cruisers’ movements. Study the footprints of others to get a sense of practical, comfortable routes, as well as ones to avoid.

Understand Local Phenomena: GRIB files don’t tell the full story. Learn about region-specific weather quirks such as katabatic winds in the Med, chubascos in the Sea of Cortez, and squalls that funnel between islands. Knowing what’s likely to catch you off guard helps you stay ahead of the curve.

The post How to Bareboat Charter Like a Cruiser appeared first on Cruising World.

My wife, Kati, and I had built a small and profitable business in Nottingham, England. We decided to take a well-earned six-week vacation in Greece during our two young daughters’ school holidays. We ­rented an RV to travel at our own pace, stopping wherever and ­whenever we wanted. When we arrived in Athens, we chartered a Coronado 35 ketch for a week and sailed around the stunning Peloponnese, crewed by two American lads because we had never sailed before.

Inspired by this experience, we sold our business, house and furniture, and bought a 40-foot Endurance ketch, which we named Tranquility Base in honor of the first American moon landing. With our children aboard, we set sail for the Mediterranean on what was meant to be a two-year ­sabbatical—and we ended up staying for seven. 

After the first year, we ­realized that we needed to start earning again to sustain our nomadic lifestyle. What better way than to use our beautiful boat to charter?

Charter sailing was in its infancy in the Mediterranean back then, and I signed on with a British charter agency targeting novice sailors who were looking to learn in the sun with a captain and cook. That’s when things started to get interesting.

Bookings Begin

Our first guests were an American couple traveling through Europe who ­wanted to see if they liked sailing. Our boat was perfect for them: ­comfortable, manageable and well-equipped for short coastal trips.

One afternoon while we were anchored in a quiet bay, the wife decided to go for a swim. For reasons of modesty, she wore a wool poncho over her swimsuit. It quickly became waterlogged. The weight of the soaked fabric dragged her down. She managed to shed the poncho and grab hold of a floating line we had over the side, but she didn’t have the strength to climb back aboard.

I couldn’t lift her out of the water, so I rigged the main boom with a snatch block and passed a line beneath her arms to form a sling. Kati lowered the lifelines between two stanchions as I hoisted the guest up and over the rail. She came aboard safely—albeit ­awkwardly—landing on deck like a beached fish.

It was an unglamorous start to our chartering career, but it taught us an early and valuable lesson: Be ready for anything.

The One-Armed Sailor

On another charter, we hosted a couple whose husband had only one arm. He was considering buying a sailboat and wanted to find out if he could handle things on his own. Since we’d advertised that our ketch was rigged for shorthanded sailing, he saw it as a good test platform.

Our self-tailing electric winches were key to making sailhandling manageable for him. But at the time, portable electric winch handles—now common and helpful—weren’t yet available. He managed admirably under calm conditions and found ways to adapt, but it was clear that sailing solo or in rough weather would present serious challenges.

In the end, he chose to buy a powerboat—probably the wisest and safest option for his needs. I’ve often thought about that experience and whether someone with a similar limitation could truly handle a sailboat safely without a capable crew, ­especially in an emergency.

The Drunks

While in Gibraltar, I accepted a charter from five men who, coincidentally, were also from our hometown of Nottingham. From the outset, they were more interested in partying than sailing. Sensing how the week might unfold, Kati made the smart decision to stay ashore with our daughters in a rented chalet. I stayed aboard to skipper the boat and quickly came to regret it.

The group’s main goal was drinking and meeting women. They also wanted to sail to Tangier, Morocco, about 40 miles across the Strait of Gibraltar. I warned them that the Strait was busy with commercial traffic and that Morocco had a different cultural attitude toward gender and public behavior, especially where Western tourists were concerned. They didn’t care.

Once in Tangier, they met three local sisters who invited them back to their apartment. What the men didn’t realize was that the women still lived at home. The evening ended not with a party, but instead with tea served under the strict supervision of their father, who told them that any infidel who laid a hand on one of his daughters would lose his head. The scimitar mounted above the fireplace suggested that he meant it.

On the sail back to Gibraltar, one of the men wore a kandura​—a long, traditional robe—that got caught in the sheet winch while we were tacking. He was yanked to his knees and tangled in the lines while his friends laughed. I had to reroute another line carefully to free him, a process that took a good amount of time and effort.

It was a charter I was glad to see end, and a firm reminder that good seamanship sometimes includes managing difficult personalities as much as handling sails.

Some Caught the Sailing Bug

Not all guests were challenging. In fact, some became longtime friends, and a few bought their own boats. One family with two young daughters chartered with us near Saint-Tropez in the South of France. We spent several days sailing around Île de Porquerolles until, unexpectedly, I was told we needed to return immediately to Port Grimaud. The wife feared she was having a miscarriage. I hadn’t even known she was pregnant. Thankfully, they had good insurance and were flown back to England on a medical flight. She received prompt care.

A few years later, that same family reappeared in Gibraltar, this time arriving in an old motorboat after navigating the European canal system. They had become skilled sailors, owning a fine boat and even undertaking deliveries across Europe.

Their journey was a rewarding reminder that some charter guests truly embrace the lifestyle, growing from nervous beginners into confident boat owners and sailors.

The Rum Deal

When we were based in Gibraltar, the British Admiralty finally ended the centuries-old practice of issuing a daily rum ration to sailors—a tradition dating to 1740. This change became a windfall for Tranquility Base. Surplus rum was sold ­locally in Gibraltar for about 10 GIP per gallon (about $13.58 US), still bottled in the original pot demijohns.

I always stocked up with a couple of gallons before heading to the Mediterranean. At dinner, we served guests neat rum and grog—the classic British naval mix of rum diluted with water—keeping alive a bit of maritime heritage.

We realized that we needed to start ­earning again to sustain our nomadic ­lifestyle. What better way than to use our beautiful boat to charter?

The raw rum was a strong, warming drink that few could handle in quantity. While the traditional naval “tot” was half a pint twice daily, most guests barely managed a couple of neat servings before feeling the effects. It was also a reliable way to encourage early bedtimes in the afternoon, which, for a skipper, was often just as ­welcome as the drink itself.

Heads and ­Headaches

Our boat had just one Baby Blake marine toilet, and it required precise instructions to operate correctly. Guests had to open the valves and pump the lever in the right sequence to avoid unpleasant consequences.

I often ended up emptying the toilet after someone got it wrong, and it wasn’t uncommon to hear a startled shriek from the head when a guest struggled. On rare occasions, I even had to put on rubber gloves to retrieve items that had fallen into the bowl.

A single toilet is far from ideal for a charter boat, especially with multiple guests. That’s why on our current boat, we upgraded to two electric toilets. They are much easier to use and far less likely to cause trouble.

Seasickness: An Inevitable ­Challenge

Mal de mer was a common issue among guests who had never been on a small boat before. We always advised them to take motion sickness tablets before boarding, just in case, but sometimes even that wasn’t enough.

When nausea hit, the best we could do was provide a bucket and discreetly dispose of the contents later. Most guests got their sea legs within a day or two, but occasionally we had to remain tied up in a marina for several days while some guests adjusted to life aboard.

Patience and preparation were key, for the guests and crew alike.

Hot-Water Hustle

Keeping enough hot water for daily showers by four or five people was always a challenge aboard our boat. When we docked in port, we could plug into shore power and easily heat the water. But anchored in secluded coves, we had to rely on the engine’s heat or our portable Honda generator to warm about 15 gallons of water. Our options were noisy and annoying for a peaceful anchorage.

On sunny days, I sometimes hung a plastic bag from the mast, fitted with a shower head. The sun would heat the water inside, providing a ­simple solar shower. The catch? After ­rinsing off, guests needed to jump into the sea to wash away the soap and cool down. Children enjoyed this, but ­many adults were less enthusiastic about the swim.

Balearic Bliss

Some of our most enjoyable charters took place in Spain’s Balearic Islands, particularly Ibiza and Mallorca, where we ran day charters for groups of young vacationers. We’d pick them up from a beach near their hotel and sail to a nearby island or sandy cove.

The days were filled with swimming, snorkeling and relaxing drinks at a local bar. Many guests would nap on deck during the leisurely return sail, soaking up the sun and sea breeze.

We repeated this routine for several days each summer. It not only brought us great memories, but it also made a valuable ­contribution to our boat fund.

From Buckets to Bathtubs

All of this happened in the ­early days of sailboat chartering, when the sea felt wide open and the rules were few. Anchoring was easy, paperwork was ­minimal, and most of us were figuring things out as we went. It was a simpler time: rugged, rewarding, and full of surprises.

Today, chartering looks ­different. You can hire a ­skipper for just a few days, or even for a single afternoon, to sail, cook dinner and head home before sunset. Boats have become floating homes with every ­comfort imaginable.

Our current 50-foot ­schooner has twin air conditioners, a washer/dryer, a deep freezer, two heads with electric toilets and showers, and a full-size bathtub with jets. It’s a far cry from our early setup with one hand-pump head and a bucket on deck.

And yet, no matter how far the gear and the business have come, some things haven’t changed at all. The sea still finds ways to keep us humble. 

The post Confessions of a DIY Charter Skipper appeared first on Cruising World.

Oh, my God,” the local kids shouted and giggled. One by one, they jumped into the water from the side of a concrete boat ramp and came to the surface, repeating what they had just heard us say as we did the same thing to cool off after a long afternoon of chart and boat briefings at The Moorings charter base on Raiatea, a gem of a destination in the Leeward Islands of French Polynesia. 

From the water, I watched their mothers chatting the late Sunday afternoon away in the shade of a stand of trees. To the north, I took in the unfamiliar shapes of the daymarks lining the channels, and the coral between our harbor swimming hole and the island of Taha’a, a couple of miles away. It was all but impossible to keep my eyes off the iconic rocky peak of Mount Otemanu, shrouded in tropical haze on Bora Bora, some 20 miles to the northwest. I’d seen it in pictures hundreds of times as I read South Pacific adventure tales. 

But now, oh, my God, indeed: Here we were. We were going sailing. In Tahiti.

It took three days to get there from ­wintry Boston, with an evening stopover in Los Angeles and a second night spent in a hotel in French Polynesia’s capital city, Papeete. From there, photographer Jon Whittle and I, along with the trip’s organizer, Josie Tucci from Sunsail, and one her friends from Florida took a morning flight on a small commuter plane to Uturoa, Raiatea’s main commune. Our travels ended with a short cab ride to the Sunsail docks nearby. For the next few hours, eight more sailing and golfing friends of Tucci’s wandered in, ready to help celebrate her big 5-0 aboard two roomy cruising cats: a Sunsail 505 for the birthday girl, and Magic Dancer II, a Sunsail 454, for Whittle, me and overflow guests.

Most of the sailing we’d be doing for the next 10 days would be around the large islands that sit inside extensive coral barrier reefs, so the chart briefing was quite detailed. A local skipper went over aids to navigation, points of interest, anchorages and the like. He stressed to us North American sailors that Lateral System A is used in this part of the world, with red marks left to port, not starboard, when entering passes from the open water. Inside the lagoons, square red daymarks designate dangers toward land; green triangles show hazards along the reef; and various configurations of triangles atop poles indicate whether to leave obstructions to the north, south, east or west. We took detailed notes on large paper charts and downloaded a cruising guide PDF that would be consulted frequently throughout the trip.

There are four main islands within the group. Two of them, Raiatea and Taha’a, are quite close and within the same barrier reef. Between them lie well-marked shallows and coral beds, so sailing back and forth is fairly simple. 

Bora Bora and Huahine are another story. To reach them, open-water passages of about 20 miles are required, with a long slog upwind either going or returning, depending on the island. Early-morning departures are required so that upon arrival, passes can be navigated while the sun is high. An eye on the weather is also recommended because conditions can get boisterous.

Midafternoon, the briefing formalities were put on hold for nearly an hour when a troupe of local musicians and dancers came to welcome us. They handed out leis and headbands made from colorful local flowers, including tiare apetahi blossoms, which grow only high in Raiatea’s mountainous interior. The men sat with their instruments and played Polynesian tunes while the dancers, a mix of women and children, twirled and shimmied their grass skirts in lively routines handed down from their ancestors.

It being a Sunday, all stores had closed at noon, so provisioning had to wait until Monday. Early in the day, a couple of us from each boat took a taxi to the Champion market in downtown Uturoa, a bustling urban area where the cruise ships dock. Though all of the islands in the group have grocery stores of some sort, we were advised to get the bulk of our provisions here. The market was well-stocked, but with all goods needing to be shipped in across the vast Pacific, prices were steep.

Back at the boats, we loaded supplies and topped off water tanks. By late morning, it was time for the adventures to begin. First stop: Passe Rautoanui, an opening through the reef on the northwest side of the island. 

As we approached, we picked out the cardinal marks indicating the opening. White waves crashed on the coral reefs to either side, but the water between them was dark blue and deep. Outside, we rounded up into an offshore breeze gusting to 20 knots or so. We went with a single reef in the main, unfurled the genoa, and settled in for an easy reach south to Passe Punaeroa, about 8 nautical miles away.

Ashore, the mountaintops disappeared into the haze and clouds. The colors—blue sky, green jungle, white breakers on the reef—were spectacular and everything I’d imagined French Polynesia would be.

Back inside the lagoon, Tucci’s boat led the way along a narrow channel around the southern end of the island to a tiny anchorage behind Motu Nao Nao. We’d been told during the briefing that there’s room for only three or so boats, and there was already a large monohull there, so we aboard Magic Dancer II opted for a mooring a mile or so away in deep water off another small motu, or island. We took the inflatable across to join the festivities underway aboard what already had become the party boat. Nao Nao was the perfect place to spend a hot afternoon with a cold beverage and snacks. A few of us took off snorkeling over the nearby coral heads. It was an excellent transition to island time. 

With evening approaching and the sky clouding over, I hopped into the dinghy alone, figuring I’d make better time motoring solo back to Magic Dancer. I didn’t make it far from the swimming hole, though, before the sky turned black. Time to turn back to the cat that stayed at anchor to ride it out? Nah. I pressed on and almost at once got gobbled up in a white squall that came rolling through with ferocious gusts, stinging rain, and lots of lightning. That was a dinghy ride to remember.

Tuesday, we continued the counterclockwise tour of Raiatea, the largest island in the Leeward Group. Late morning, we anchored in about 30 feet of water, deep in Baie De Fa’aroa, a fjord located about halfway up the island’s eastern side. From there, several of us took two inflatables up the Apoomau River. We were told that it’s the only river trip in all of French Polynesia, and we soon discovered spectacular glimpses of Mount Tefatuaiti with its towering rock walls and deep valleys shrouded with mist. Our destination was the botanical garden near the headwaters. 

It was slow-going, with many sunken trees and shallow spots to dodge. Along the way, we met a local man who, for a modest fee, paddled his faded orange kayak ahead of us and gave us a guided tour of the gardens. On the way back, we stopped at his camp, where his wife and daughter wielded machetes to cut up coconuts, red papayas, grapefruits and bananas for us. We ate so much fruit that we almost didn’t need the lunch of shrimp curry and rice that Tucci’s sailing mate, Paula, had cooked while we were gone.

Later that afternoon, we tried to visit the small village of Marae, home to an ancient Polynesian temple, but the holding was poor and evening was coming, so instead we found a sandy spot to anchor on the reef off Pointe Tamapua. The crew voted to go ashore for dinner at the Opoa Beach Restaurant, where the ginger tiger shrimp were indeed a delicacy, as ­promised on the menu.

Early Wednesday morning, the big-boat crew set off for the airport in Uturoa to pick up a late-arriving guest. We lingered a bit for a swim and breakfast before hoisting sails and reaching across flat water along the shore. At the top of the island, we found the marks for a channel skirting Grand Banc Central shallows, which lie between Raiatea and Taha’a, and crossed for a lunchtime rendezvous with the big boat in Baie Apu, an anchorage on the southern end of Taha’a. 

From there, we motored up the west side of the island until we spotted the Motu Tautau and a cluster of luxury bungalows built out over the water, the La Taha’a by Pearl Resorts. We anchored just south of them in a sandy spot with about 7 feet of water. The breeze was brisk, so I stayed behind to watch the boats while the rest of the crew took the tenders and motored past the resort to a channel between a pair of small motus. Once they secured the boats, they walked up-current along the shore of one of the islets, and then jumped in for a fast snorkel back to where they’d started. Everyone returned raving about the ride.

For me, the highlight of the trip came the next day, when our little armada set off for Bora Bora. After a brief motorsail south to clear the reef through Passe Papai, we killed the engines and started off on what would be our longest day of sailing. 

Out of the lee of Taha’a, Magic Dancer lived up to its name, slicing and surfing through big trade-wind swells. According to the chart, our desired heading was 293 degrees, but trying to steer that in a blustery southeast breeze of 15 to 20 knots proved nearly impossible because of the constant threat of an accidental jibe and the jib being blanketed. Instead, we crisscrossed the rhumb line on a series of broad reaches—each one bringing the towering peak of Mount Temanu more clearly into focus—until we finally spotted the iconic light that marks Pointe Te Turi Roa on the southeast corner of the reef surrounding Bora Bora.

Along the way, we spotted flocks of birds diving for baitballs roiled up by tuna and other big fish. Occasionally, an interisland freighter or fishing boat came into view, but for the most part, we were on our own, out on a great big sea, surrounded by whitecaps and having a ball. Or at least some of us were. The others, well, they spent the time nursing cases of mal de mer.

The birthday boat was ahead of us at the light, but by radio we called them back so that Whittle could launch a drone and get photos of the two cats sailing along the edge of the reef. It was a surreal scene: the boats side by side on a deep blue ocean, a long line of frothy white surf where the swells piled up on the coral, the tranquil lagoon just beyond with the lush green island in its center. Overhead, the white clouds had greenish-blue bottoms because of the sunlight reflecting upward off the water. It was a lot to take in.

There is only one way in and out of Bora Bora: Passe De Teavanui, which is about halfway up the island’s western shore. It was midafternoon when we arrived, and once through it, we had a straight shot to the mooring field at the Bora Bora Yacht Club. We went ashore to the club for dinner and topped off the evening playing Boule, a bowling game, on sand courts near the bar.

Friday morning, a few of us walked the shore road to an ATV trail cut into the jungle-covered hillside. It was a steep climb to the top, but the reward was a stunning view of the lagoon below and a couple of cruise ships that had just arrived.

That afternoon, we got underway and followed a twisting channel inside the reef across the top of the island and down the eastern side. Though it was windy, the breeze was, for the most part, on the nose, so we motored. To be honest, it was a nerve-racking trip through shallow water teeming with coral heads. Off to port, numerous resorts were built on stilts over the water and reef. They were well-marked on the chart and helpful as we tried to keep our bearings straight. 

Anchoring is not allowed within the reef at Bora Bora, but mooring balls are plentiful all around the island. We grabbed ones off a sandy beach at the southeast corner of the lagoon and settled in for an afternoon of swimming that slowly faded into star-filled night. Overhead, the Southern Cross and Orion kept us company.

In the morning, a few of us jumped into the inflatables with snorkels and fins and went exploring in a marine park by two small islets a mile or so away. There were a couple of tour boats from nearby resorts when we arrived, but soon they cleared out and we had the place to ourselves. We found fish and coral aplenty in 10 to 12 feet of water.

That afternoon, the trip back around the island was simple: All we had to do was follow the track we’d laid down on the chart plotter the day before. Near the north end of the island, a kayaker fell in behind us as we motored by at 6 knots. He hitched a ride on Magic Dancer’s wake for 2 or 3 miles. It was an impressive paddling demonstration that the fellow put on.

For lunch, we made a stop at Bloody Mary’s, a popular shoreside bar and restaurant. As we ate, a band appeared on stage and locals started to wander in for what seemed to be turning into a Saturday-afternoon ripper. We took it in for a while, then headed back to the boats and went to find a mooring out near the reef on the western edge of the lagoon.

The original plan was to head back to Raiatea on Sunday morning, and from there, sail to Huahine for a day. To pull it off, we’d need to keep moving, and personally, I was looking forward to three more long open-water crossings. But some of the others who’d suffered on the way up weren’t so keen. On any charter, and especially one with a large contingent of nonsailors, keeping the crew happy is ­paramount. So, it only made sense to scrap the plan. Instead of spending Sunday at sea, we’d play. Hard.

The next morning, we explored ­nearby sandy motus. In the shallow waters around them, we swam with small blacktip sharks and searched for rays. After lunch, we all kicked back on the big cat, where a couple of techs from the charter company appeared with a motorboat and wakeboard. The scene only became more festive as more powerboats filled with locals zipped by, many of them pulling tubes loaded with screaming kids.

Along toward sunset, as a dinner of chicken curry simmered on the stove, Tucci’s friends decorated the boat for the birthday bash that turned into a ­laugh-filled night of music and revelry.

Monday started slow. We motored back to the mooring field by Bloody Mary’s and made a provisioning run for supplies to last us to the end of the trip. Then we took the tenders across the shallows at the southern tip of Bora Bora that keep big boats at bay. Besides seeing the southern tip of the island, we wanted to check out the good snorkeling area we’d visited earlier. It was a long, wet ride in the small boats, but well worth it once we got there. Visibility was better, and the fish were easier to spot and more plentiful.

The sea was glassy and the wind was initially calm for our return to Taha’a on Tuesday. As we passed the lighthouse on the corner of the reef, a breeze began to stir, so we raised the main and motorsailed closehauled, pointing as high as we could. Then, with 6 miles to go, the wind suddenly kicked up to near 20 knots on the nose and brought with it waves that made it a slow slog the rest of way to the pass back through the reef at Taha’a.

Inside, we motored north again along the island’s west coast and picked up a mooring in Baie Tapuamu, across from where we’d anchored a week earlier. The big cat arrived soon after, and following lunch, we headed ashore for a tour of Domaine Pari Pari, a local rum distillery. The white rum had a raw taste to it, not anything like the Caribbean rums most of us were used to. But it was ­drinkable enough, poured over ice on a hot afternoon.

Wednesday was our last full day aboard the boats. In the morning, we took our snorkeling gear and went by inflatable a short way up the coast, where we were told we might find rays. Just when I thought we’d been skunked, I watched a single manta ray come up from the depths. It had about a 6-foot wingspan and wild-looking markings on its back. Most everyone got a glimpse of it gliding along the shallows before it disappeared back into the deep.

Back in the tenders, we pushed a bit farther north until we spotted a dock and buildings where we thought we might find a spot for lunch. Instead, we’d landed at the Iaorana Pearl Farm, said to be the largest in French Polynesia. The farm manages some 2 million oysters in the waters surrounding the island. 

We were introduced to a man whose job it is to sit at a desk and implant small pebbles taken from the Mississippi River and sent to Taha’a via Japan into some 300 oysters a day. The oysters are then affixed to strings and returned to the water for 18 months, when the pearls are ready to be harvested. Several of the crew purchased necklaces and such. It was hard to pass up such unique souvenirs from an unexpected stopover.

Midafternoon and back at the boat, it was time for one last motorsail, so we set off for Raiatea, where we dropped anchor on the reef, not far from the charter base. There was still swimming to be done and merriment to be had, but I could feel my sense of island time slipping away as we checked plane reservations and packed. That evening, we went ashore to the Fish & Blue restaurant for a last team dinner. And of course, we sat up a little too late for a last glimpse of the Southern Hemisphere’s night sky. What else would anyone do on their last night in the Society Islands?

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor at large. 

If You Go

Our flights to Papeete, Tahiti, were booked on Air Tahiti Nui, which has regular flights from Los Angeles. From the US East Coast, it was easiest to plan an overnight at a Los Angeles hotel. Our flight across the Pacific was aboard a clean and comfortable plane, decorated in soothing tropical pastels. It’s a long flight but endurable.

From Papeete to Raiatea, we flew Air Tahiti. Flight time is just under two hours; a four and a half-hour ferry ride is a cheaper alternative.

Provisioning at the base in Raiatea is straightforward but expensive. Eating out is even more so: A $50 bill for lunch per person was common for our group, and a hamburger cost $15 to $18.

Most charter boats come equipped with chart plotters. Still, I found that having an iPad loaded with Navionics cartography was a great help within the reefs. It allowed us to have one chart zoomed out and the other zoomed in for details. When the onboard chart plotter stopped functioning one morning as we traveled along the south coast of Raiatea, we were able to carry on by iPad until I could reset the recalcitrant equipment. —MP

The post Cruising Tahiti: A Party in Paradise appeared first on Cruising World.

Apparently, we want it all—and bareboat charter companies are trying to give it all to us. If you haven’t checked out the bareboating scene in recent years, then you might find a fair bit of it unrecognizable. Yes, personal freedom and natural beauty are still part of the package with island and river cruising alike, but in many cases, everything from the booking process to the boats has undergone a serious upgrade. 

Wet heads? A lot of today’s bareboaters won’t book boats that have them. No air conditioning? That’s a deal-breaker now too. Squeezing like sardines into itty-bitty berths? Forget about it. Life is too short.

“The boats are going more luxury,” says Lisa Mclean, ­marketing manager at Le Boat, who adds that especially since the pandemic, bareboaters are insisting on comfort. “It doesn’t have to be luxury, but people are more discerning—and people value spending money on experiences. They’re willing to spend a little bit more to have the boat customized the way they want it.” 

That includes having enough room to move. Numerous ­companies are investing in fleets with bigger boats because ­bareboaters are demanding them. This is especially true of catamarans, says Tina Huewe, US senior marketing executive at Dream Yacht Charter.

“Modern vessels are built with comfort and convenience in mind, featuring spacious cabins, fully equipped galleys and high-quality furnishings,” Huewe says. “Innovations like air conditioning, watermakers and improved refrigeration ­systems have become standard on many charter boats, ensuring a ­comfortable living environment regardless of the destination.” 

Ian Pedersen, senior marketing manager for The Moorings in North America, says that his company is experiencing the same trend, with today’s bareboaters preferring large-volume ­catamarans to smaller-volume monohulls. 

“The modern-day charter experience is very much about large catamarans,” Pedersen says. “Both sailing catamarans and power catamarans have become the norm in the charter space as guests crave space, comfort, and all the amenities of home.”

At Voyage Charters, broker Peter Jones says that he has noticed this significant change in bareboaters’ expectations in a relatively short time span. Even five years ago, Voyage Charters was booking boats with manual pump toilets and no air conditioning. Today, the new boat is the Voyage 590, which won Best Charter Boat in Cruising World’s 2022 Boat of the Year competition. 

“That boat has six equal guest cabins with walkaround beds and en suites, plus crew quarters,” Jones says. “Everything’s electric and inverts off batteries from generators that start when they’re programmed to. It’s a massive change.”

From his vantage point on Tortola, Jones says, he sees all the boats that other companies are offering for charter. The entire market, he says, has “trended radically” toward bigger boats with more amenities, including a major shift into power ­catamarans. 

In some cases, transformations are ­happening ashore as well. The British Virgin Islands remains the top destination for The Moorings, Pedersen says, and the company recently completed extensive renovations to the marina property, hotel, on-site restaurants, gift shops and on-site supermarket. 

“If you haven’t chartered with The Moorings in the BVI recently, we welcome you to join us again and see for yourself what a difference a few years can make,” Pedersen says. 

In terms of new destinations, The Moorings recently announced its first one in years, in La Paz, Mexico. It’s expected to be up and running in time for the 2025 season. 

To the north, Le Boat recently added a route along Canada’s Trent-Severn Waterway, based on the popularity of the Rideau Canal route. Bareboaters from the United States are choosing to drive to the boats instead of hopping on a plane—about 15 to 20 percent of them with their pets in tow, for an additional $180 cleaning fee, Mclean says.

“It doesn’t have to be luxury, but people are more discerning—andpeople value spending money on experiences.”

—Lisa Mclean, Le Boat

“We’ve seen big English sheepdogs, tons of golden retrievers, and of course, the purse puppies,” she says. “We’re also seeing a lot more multigenerational travel. Pre-COVID, our smaller boats were more popular. Now, it’s the four- and five-cabin boats. I think people are appreciating being on vacation with their families, or celebrating special occasions like a wedding anniversary or a 50th birthday that they didn’t get to celebrate during COVID.”

Le Boat is also seeing a sizable increase in inquiries for Holland and the United Kingdom, particularly along rivers such as the Thames. Mclean adds, “People are more appreciative of getting on the smaller waterways and getting out of the big cities.”

Huewe says that Dream Yacht Charter is seeing a similar trend with bareboaters in Europe. Demand is increasing for destinations that just a few years ago, many people didn’t even consider.

“While Croatia has long been a favorite for sailing enthusiasts, some of its lesser-known islands are now gaining popularity,” Huewe says. “Areas such as the Kornati archipelago, in easy reach from our base in Šibenik, and the Elaphiti Islands close to Dubrovnik offer tranquil waters, picturesque landscapes, and a growing number of modern marinas.”

Technology too has become a must-have while bareboating. Today’s cruisers are not willing to settle for access to Wi-Fi once a week at an internet cafe onshore. They want USB ports to charge their devices, and the ability to work or attend school from on board. 

That profile fits at least 20 percent of Le Boat’s customers today, Mclean says. “People aren’t just traveling for vacation now. They’re working from wherever they are now. You’re on vacation, but you’re still checking email and calling in for a weekly Zoom meeting. Instead of doing it from your kitchen table, you’re doing it from the table on the boat.”

Demand has also increased for tech-focused booking processes, Pedersen says. The Moorings audience is more youthful than in decades past, with more clients in the 35- to 45-year-old range. They’d rather click on a screen than talk to a person.

“As such, much of our planning processes have become mostly digital, allowing guests to complete almost the entirety of the pre-departure journey online before they arrive to pick up the boat,” he says.

Demand for modern tech also extends to the helm and engine room in some of today’s fleets. Bareboaters don’t just want to be online, Huewe says; they also want top-notch weather forecasting apps and eco-friendly propulsion systems.

“Modern catamarans and monohulls are now equipped with state-of-the-art navigation systems, including GPS chart plotters, AIS, and advanced autopilot systems,” Huewe says, adding that Dream Yacht Charter has partnered with Fountaine Pajot on electric-propulsion options. “The Aura 51 Smart Electric yachts have been part of the Dream Yacht fleet since spring of last year, and meanwhile have been joined by the electric Fountaine Pajot Elba 45 and various electric Dufour 530 Smart Electric models.”

Going forward, these companies say that bareboaters should expect even more creature comforts as new models join the fleets. Jones says that Voyage Charters has a 51 in the early stages of production and coming to charter next year with four en suite staterooms plus two cabins for crew. Le Boat also has plans in the works for a more luxurious option for bareboaters who want even more amenities.

“I think that as soon as one charter company is offering something to try to entice charter guests, it becomes an expectation,” Jones says. “It’s raising the bar for everyone a little bit. The result of that is that we’ve got these super-equipped charter boats with all the bells and whistles.”

The post More, Bigger, Better: The Modern Charter Experience appeared first on Cruising World.

Vallon, which specializes in sports eyewear, has announced a partnership with professional skipper Boris Herrmann and Team Malizia to create sustainable sunglasses called Malizia.

Designed by sailors, for sailors, the Malizia’s frames are made from 85 percent recycled fishing nets. Vallon has pledged that for every pair of Malizia sunglasses that are sold, 10 mangrove seedlings will be planted in the Malizia Mangrove Park in the Philippines.

Malizia Mangrove Park recently surpassed 1 million mangroves as part of an effort to restore the local ecosystem. An intact mangrove belt not only provides breeding areas for fish, but also food for birds and reptiles, fish and crabs. At the same time, a mangrove belt protects the coral reefs and the shore from erosion, and it helps to bind large quantities of carbon dioxide so it can’t escape into the atmosphere. Healthy mangroves also reduce strong storm tide waves that can cause damage ashore.

Hermann is the patron of Malizia Mangrove Park, and works with the Mama Earth Foundation on the reforestation effort. Mama Earth grows seedlings in its nurseries and then helps with the planting activities with support from the Philippine Department of Environmental Protection. So far, the results have included not just the environmental benefits, but also a better source of income for local residents.

Vallon had a previous relationship with Herrmann, having created sailing sunglasses for use during the Vendée Globe challenge. Since then, the partnership has evolved, including with the release of the Malizia glasses.

Malizia is a unisex design with Vallon’s V52 polarized lenses. The recycled material in the frames is fused into a durable material called nylon 6 that is 20 percent lighter than equivalent polycarbonate or some other materials. The material also is known for good impact resistance.

“Sustainable comfort for those moments on the water when you need it most,” says Cruising World’s editor-in-chief Andrew Parkinson, who recently tested a pair of Malizia shades on a day of rigorous sea trials off the Fort Lauderdale coast. “When you’re laser-focused on putting a boat through its paces in the choppy Gulf Stream, the last thing on your mind should be having to constantly adjust your sunglasses or not being able to see the puffs sufficiently. That these glasses are also made from recycled material and that the sale of each pair helps give back to the environment felt like a win-win for me.”      

These sunglasses are lightweight, at 32 grams, and they have an ABBE value of 52, which means exceptional optical clarity. UV A/B protection is 100 percent. The frames are matte black, and the lenses have a gray tint with anti-scratch and hydro-oleophobic coatings to resist damage and water buildup.

To help with all-day comfort out on the water, there’s a Base-8 wraparound curve in the design for peripheral protection, as well as a soft rubber nose pad.

Each pair of Malizia sunglasses is delivered plastic-free with a clip-on hook and belt straps, along with a protective case.

The sunglasses, which have a suggested retail price of about $155, come with a Vallon lifetime warranty.

Where to learn more: Visit vallon.com.

The post Pro-Grade Sailing Eyewear appeared first on Cruising World.

There’s always a feeling of excitement mixed with a twinge of anxiety as the mooring pendant drops, or the anchor is catted, and a voyage begins. What do they say? The thrill in adventure is just this side of terror.

This time, it was the Friday before Easter. Any savvy sailor knows that you never begin a voyage on a Friday, not even on Good Friday.

Our plan was for a quick hop from Bequia down to the Tobago Cays, then to clear customs at Union Island, and then to head to nearby Carriacou. We wanted to visit the shipwrights who still build wooden boats the old way. We would begin our real voyage northward, up through the Lesser Antilles, the following week.

The wind was light as we headed out of Bequia’s Admiralty Bay and motored past Moonhole, an abandoned villa carved into the cliffs along the bay’s southern rampart. We rounded Western Cay with the dinghy tagging along behind and headed south-southwest, aiming for the island of Canouan. This string of islands in St. Vincent and the Grenadines stretches for 30 miles and has a lot going for it. The islands are all within sight of one another, all within an easy beam reach, and each different, with anchorages, communities ashore and great diving. It’s a smaller version of the British Virgin Islands.

I consulted my copy of Chris Doyle’s Guide to the Windward Islands as a lazy swell came from the east, barely noticeable on the calm, flat sea. With the sails rolled up and the autopilot set, the boat’s owner and I settled into the cockpit for the two-hour passage to Canouan.

Lounging there in the cockpit, under the dodger and Bimini top, I found much to like about this 30-year-old yacht. It was quality-built, with a lot of thought put into the design. Handholds were where you wanted them; the push-pit surrounded the cockpit; stout stainless steel rails extended forward to midship; and 30-inch-high lifelines ran forward from there. The decks were uncomplicated. The anchor platform on the bow was well planned. There was a good-size windlass with a chain break. A single bow roller housed the Rocna anchor. There was room on the foredeck to strap down the dinghy offshore.

I was happy to be aboard as Bequia dropped astern and two small islands appeared 2 miles off to port: Petit Nevis and Isle à Quatre. On the horizon, 5 miles farther east, was Mustique, a hideaway for royalty and the jet set. (Neither of us were appropriately attired for a visit.) Ahead, Canouan was visible, and beyond that, the rugged peaks of Union Island, looking like a gateway to Jurassic Park, only 24 miles away.

Canouan was one of the poorest islands in the Caribbean when I anchored there 15 years ago. Then, hotel developers expanded the airport to accommodate private jets. The residents now have a slightly higher standard of living. Grand Bay is the main harbor and anchorage, but we kept going.

Back in 2010, my family and I spent an overnight near here. It was a night to remember. We had anchored in 16 feet of water, off the Tamarind Beach Hotel’s dock near The Moorings charter base. The wind began to whistle down through the valleys. Gusts were heeling our 57-foot ketch. I had 100 feet of chin out on a 70-pound Bruce, but we were creeping ever closer to a catamaran anchored astern.

I got the kids (then 9 and 11) out of bed to help. The spare bow anchor was a 45-pound Danforth on 30 feet of chain and 200 feet of five-eighths nylon rode. While I brought the RIB around to the bow, the kids untied the Danforth and pulled out the chain and rode from below. They lowered the Danforth over the bow rollers as I guided it into the dink and then motored out 100 feet or more, with the kids paying out the line. Eventually, I slipped the anchor over the side—none of that anchor-throwing stuff for me.

Back aboard, we took in the rode until the anchor chain was slack. The kids were too excited to sleep, as was I. Throughout the night, the wind plucked out a tune in the boat’s rigging.

I thought about that memory as my current ride, Striker, rounded Canouan’s west end. We headed for the next small island, Mayreau, 4 miles away. On its northern tip is a perfect little anchorage, Salt Whistle Bay (more of a cove, really). Its palm-fringed beach and scattering of bars and restaurants make it too popular for those looking to get away from the crowd.

We were heading for an even more magical spot in the Tobago Cays. As we approached, I went forward and sat on the pulpit to watch the water change from deep, offshore blue to pale, with the seabed visible 30 feet below. The pale blue nearly changed to white as we approached the beach. Brown patches denoted coral heads and reefs. This was one lovely and lonely piece of the Caribbean, with only an open sea to the horizon in the distance.

It was late March with the season drawing to a close, but there were two powerboats and a dozen or more sailboats anchored. When I had last come through, it was late January with dozens of boats and beaches full of people.

My preference would be to anchor off the beach at Petit St. Vincent, a private resort that’s far from the crowds, yet within a short dinghy ride to excellent snorkeling. We passed Palm Island, with its resort and villas, and ended up in Clifton Harbor. I had been here a few times, including in 2010 after a month in Grenada.

Back then, we had planned to stop at Union Island for the night. While looking for a spot to anchor, a helpful West Indian chap had come along side in his pirogue, inquiring if we needed a mooring.

“How much?” I asked.

“100 EC.” About $60.

“Too much. We’ll anchor. Thank you, though.”

My new friend was persistent, and we settled for about $30.

“Where?” I asked.

“Follow me.”

He led us to a mooring right in front of the yacht club’s pier. How convenient. I gave him the fee, thanked him, and off he went in his colorful fishing boat. My family climbed into our RIB and went ashore to clear in.

Back on board that afternoon, as I was settling in with a rum and tonic, a day-charter catamaran approached with a woman on the bow. She shouted for us to get off the mooring. My kids ran forward to drop our mooring line as I started the engine, and we circled the harbor, searching for a spot to anchor. By the time our boat was secure, I was fuming.

I spied the pirogue tied to the fishermen’s dock, jumped into our RIB and sped ashore.

“I think he’s at his mother’s place,” an elderly chap told me. “Here, Bert will take you.”

I climbed into a nearby taxi. Off we went—first to his mother’s house, then to his wife’s, then to his girlfriend’s and, finally, back to the pier. My “friend” was waiting. He handed me a $100 EC bill. 

“You got change?” he asked. 

I ignored him and headed for my dinghy. He followed. We climbed into our respective boats. He circled our sailboat. My kids hid behind the staysail bag on the foredeck while I argued the taxi fare, the illegal mooring rental, and the unfairness of it all.

After a while, he realized I wasn’t going to give him the money. He left. I lay awake in the cockpit most of the night, fearing retaliation.

But back to today. 

This time, as we passed the harbor entrance buoy, a pirogue with two teenage boys roared up along the side. The taller boy at the engine yelled: “Do you want a mooring?”

“How much?”

“For you, I give you a discount. Usually $150EC. Today, it’s $100.”

“Too much,” I replied.

He lowered his price.

“Done. Now where?”

“Follow me.”

They led us to a sorry-looking buoy with an encrusted pendant. We passed one of our lines through the eye of the foul-looking thing. I paid the boys and they took off.

Not trusting the mooring, I donned a mask and snorkel. I swam down the mooring line to the bottom, where it disappeared into the mud. It looked as if it had been there for a century.

We dinghied ashore, tied up at the yacht club, and walk into town, through a bazaar of colorful awnings, umbrellas and tents above everything from jewelry, bikinis and vegetables to artwork and fruit.

We couldn’t resist the two-story Tipsy Turtle. We tucked into a booth on the upstairs porch, ordered rum punches, and surveyed the scene below.  

Tomorrow, we would hop over to Carriacou and clear in.

We could see it from where we sat—only half a day from Bequia, yet in another world.

The post A World Away: Cruising the Tobago Cays appeared first on Cruising World.

I had just arrived in Bequia to help a friend sail his Reliance 44 cutter, Striker, up the island chain to Antigua. Our plan was to sail down to Grenada for a quick look and then head back north.

However, in February, the disappearance of an American couple on their yacht in Grenada put a damper on many cruisers’ plans to visit. My friend was less than enthusiastic, so we elected to forgo Grenada and sail only as far south as Carriacou. We both wanted to see the shipwrights who still build wooden boats by hand, without plans. Then we’d head north, maybe.

Along the way, we obviously wanted to protect ourselves and the boat against any strangers who tried to board it. A good start is to have someone sleep out on deck. When I’m cruising in the islands, I always sleep in the cockpit, mainly because it’s too stuffy for me below. By sleeping on deck, I’m also more aware of my environment. The only downsides are the full moon and rain showers. A wind shift or something rubbing along the hull can awaken me; so far, thankfully, it has never been an uninvited guest.

Even so, as I nestle into my made-up berth in the cockpit, I often imagine how I might respond if an intruder, or intruders, were to board my boat. Fight or flight? Confront or acquiesce? In 1966, as a US Navy journalist, I went through combat training with the US Marines in preparation for deployment to Vietnam. Those lessons are still with me.

Be aware and prepare.

Know that the dinghy is secure, either locked on astern or hauled up alongside.

Be sure that the swim ladder is up and secure

Have something on hand that could be used to discourage a boarder.

Think about what could be added for security. Pepper spray is an option. A dose of that spray in an intruder’s face, from 10 feet away, renders him blind, stumbling around, cursing and wondering how to get off the boat without falling overboard. (Before leaving Maine to join Richard in Bequia, I bought a $14 can and stuffed it into my checked luggage.)

A powerful flashlight is another innocent-looking weapon that many cruisers already have on board. The bright light floods the intruder’s face, destroying his night vision. For a few minutes, the intruder becomes blind, stumbling around the deck in an attempt to escape the light.

Also have a handheld air horn. A prolonged blast in the intruder’s face will leave him more concerned about retreat than attack. At that point, a long-handled boat hook might help prod the suddenly blind, deaf intruder to a hasty exit over the side.

The surprise of having someone confront an intruder is also a deterrent. Most uninvited boarders are not professionals; they don’t expect someone to confront them. Now, I’m not advocating for this as a general practice, but it is something to consider. Start by making sure the air horn and flashlight are within reach.

A prolonged horn blast will also alert anyone else anchored nearby. Commodore Joan Conover of the Seven Seas Cruising Association told me that she is a fan of the WoodsCan Hornet airhorn, which retails online for about $260. “First, it has a fast and easy-to-use pistol grip,” Conover said. “Second, boy, does it make noise!”

Keep the boat’s VHF radio on Channel 16, all night. If another boat makes the call that there’s an intruder in the anchorage, you’ll hear it. You’ll also be able to put out your own warning.

Thinking about bringing a gun on board? It’s not a wise move unless you are trained to use it, and have used it under fire. Shooting at clay pigeons doesn’t count. They don’t shoot back. You’re likely to do more damage with a gun than the intruder will. Even highly trained police officers make poor judgment calls in these kinds of situations.  

Preparation is preferable to confrontation, so try not to look like easy pickings. If your boat seems as if it would be hard to get aboard, then thieves will pass it by. Captain Josh Slocum, the solo circumnavigator, scattered steel carpet tacks on the deck at night when at anchor in a strange cove. The screams of pain from anyone boarding unannounced would awaken the savvy old skipper. 

Capt. Fatty Goodlander, a regular Cruising World contributor, rigged a homemade pressure switch under the cockpit grating. If an intruder steps into the cockpit, a loud horn activates, frightening the attacker and waking the good captain.

How about installing a motion detector on your boat’s mast, like the one that turns on my driveway lights when anyone drives in? I welcome the illuminated drive when I arrive at night, but an intruder may not. Wire one of those lights up to the spreader lights, and aim it aft. As soon as someone approaches the stern, the light comes on. That’s enough to scare away an intruder, and it’s handy when you arrive back from an evening ashore.

Be aware of what’s around you. If you are anchored alone in a strange cove, take extra precautions. Going ashore? Secure the dinghy, the engine and the fuel tank with a half-inch chain and a lock. Wire cables can be cut.

These days, there’s a scam on the islands in which dinghies go missing, not to be sold, but to be ransomed. When you come back from dinner, a helpful young chap shows up and says he knows where your dinghy is. He’s more than willing to show you for $500.

Some cruisers own a dog or two. If they are well trained and alert, they are worth their weight in gold.  

Resources to Help You Stay Safe

Doyle Guides addresses security in the Windward Islands in its guide books and app. The guide also notes anchorages where thefts are common.

Facebook groups for cruisers are another good source of information.

The Seven Seas Cruising Association, a worldwide organization for liveaboard cruisers, shares recent and past incidents on its website: www.ssca.org. Readers can sign up for daily or weekly notifications. 

Writer Chris Doyle provided a look at crime in the islands in the April 2024 issue of Caribbean Compass: www.caribbeancompass.com.

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As winds of change continue to sweep through our sailing community, and as more participants enter the world of cruising, a startling question has emerged: Could the traditional monohull actually lose its market dominance to the up-and-coming catamaran? 

For years, the monohull-­versus-cat discussion has ignited passion among sailors worldwide. As we all continue the great debate about which type of boat is better, sales figures offer a hint at what kinds of boats we might see along the docks in the future.

According to market research by the Maryland-based Fact.MR, the global ­catamaran market stood at $1.9 billion in 2023. It is expected to see an annual growth rate of around 5.6 percent during the next 10 years. Interestingly, although sailing catamarans held a share of more than 50 percent globally in 2022, power catamarans are projected to see a noticeable increase compared with sail.

Why the sustained rise in popularity? In my experience, there always seems to be a “wow” moment whenever a monohull sailor sets foot aboard a catamaran for the first time.

Who can blame them? These sporty, twin-hulled vessels have spacious layouts, stability, and impressive speed. Catamarans come with expansive accommodations, making them ideal for extended cruising with family and friends. Their shallow drafts enable better access to skinny water, opening up new horizons for adventurous cruisers. Some proponents go so far as to suggest that catamarans represent the future of sailing.

But there is also reason to pump the brakes on wild-eyed predictions. Even amid this catamaran craze, the venerable monohull refuses to be sidelined. With its time-tested design and seafaring heritage, the monohull remains the stalwart of the sailing world. Monohulls are renowned for their stability and seaworthiness. They excel in challenging conditions. They are a dependable choice for extended offshore journeys. They slice through waves with grace and precision. Many sailors favor monohulls for their responsiveness and feel, making them the preferred option for racing enthusiasts and purists alike.

According to Grand View Research, the monohull segment dominated the overall market with a share of 59 percent in 2023 and will grow at an annual rate of 4.4 percent through 2033. That steady growth suggests that, while multihulls undoubtedly have carved out a significant niche in the sailing market, ­monohulls continue to hold their own. 

Yet, it would be remiss to ignore the challenges that monohulls face in the age of catamarans. As demand for spaciousness and comfort grows, some monohulls might struggle to compete with multihulls. Catamarans’ stability at anchor and under sail has prompted many sailors to make the switch—raising questions about the future of monohull design and innovation. But that’s a conversation for another day. 

The debate about ­catamarans and monohulls extends beyond mere preference. It’s a reflection of the evolving landscape of sailing. Both types of vessels have their strengths and weaknesses, catering to different sailing styles, preferences and priorities. But the question of whether catamarans are killing off traditional monohulls is more nuanced than it might seem. While catamarans have shaken up the sailing scene, monohulls continue to endure, driven by the timeless art of sailing. 

As for me, give me a favorable breeze, a big patch of water and some Bob Marley, and I’ll gladly take the helm, whether it’s one hull or two.

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It was a stunning, sensational, even quintessential December morning off Jost Van Dyke in the always alluring British Virgin Islands. Back home in New England, I’d just learned, the season’s first nasty nor’easter had kicked in—a preview of winter’s coming attractions. But there I was in shorts, and barefoot, warm and happy. I had a hot cup of coffee in my hand, and someone was thoughtfully streaming one of my favorite recording artists, Tom Petty, whose “A Higher Place” was the perfect soundtrack on the inviting forward trampoline of the Moorings catamaran. 

A good 15 to 25 knots of staunch, easterly trade winds—the so-called Christmas trades—were in full voice. With my hair whipping in the breeze, it occurred to me that it was an absolutely stellar day to reef down, strap up, and go for a cracking-good sail.  

But there would be no sailing for me on this day, or on any of the ensuing ones during our quick charter trip through the BVI. No, the twin-hulled vessel on which I was perched was­—gasp!— a Moorings 464PC power cat. 

Suddenly, I came to the sobering realization that, at least ­temporarily, I was likely in the midst of abandoning my very roots and selling my sailing soul. And I was having a decidedly difficult time coming to terms with it.

I’ve always fancied myself an all-around waterman. I got my scuba diving card decades ago, and I really enjoy open-ocean swimming. My current personal armada includes three kayaks, two surfboards, a good rowboat, and two sailboats: a daysailing Pearson Ensign and a full-fledged Pearson 365 cruising boat. Note what isn’t there, and never has been: a powerboat. Alas, I’ve spent my entire career advocating for and endorsing the sanctity of sail. 

Well, all that said, a guy has to make a buck. I’d been hired to host a pair of Moorings videos for the company’s two new power cats, the 464 and the 403PC. So, this was a press junket of sorts, giving me an opportunity to become familiar with the boats. It doesn’t mean I wasn’t a little unsettled by the experience. Then again, I was in the BVI. It was time to buck up, old boy, and get on with it. 

Virgin Gorda is a pretty good place to do just that. After we dropped the mooring in Jost and made our way up the windswept, whitecapped Sir Francis Drake Channel, I had my first revelation regarding my current situation: No, we weren’t sailing. But neither were any of the sailboats darting hither and yon, all of which were proceeding under power, just like us. It was too darn breezy. 

We tied up at the Bitter End Yacht Club, and it was truly great to see the iconic island destination slowly coming back to life after getting flattened a few years back by Hurricane Irma. The highlight of our overnight stay was the next morning’s sweaty hike up the hill behind the resort, followed by a refreshing dip and a couple of eye-opening bloody marys at the convenient bar right alongside the beach. My trepidation about my situation was slowly beginning to wane. As it did on the next leg of our journey. 

Thanks to a tip from a local, we exited Virgin Gorda through an extremely narrow, very shallow cut between Anguilla Point and Mosquito Island, something we never would’ve gotten away with on a keelboat. Advantage, power cat. From there, we were bound for one of my favorite islands in all of the Caribbean: low-lying Anegada, the outlying isle encircled by coral reefs some 10 miles north of Virgin Gorda. I’d not visited the place in my previous pair of trips to the BVI simply because of a time crunch. You really need to invest three days for an Anegada visit—a day over, a day there and a day back—which is often a bridge too far when trying to cram all sorts of activities into a weeklong sailboat charter.

You know where I’m going with this. The power catamaran solved this dilemma posthaste. With the throttles down at 3,100 rpm, we flew to Anegada at a tidy 16-plus knots. Once there, our photographer proclaimed that he was enjoying our steed for a reason that never would’ve occurred to me: It’s much easier to catch a drone without a mast.

Our quick trip over meant we had plenty of time to do all the things one wishes to do in Anegada. Rent a car. Hit Loblolly Beach for a snorkel and lunch. Search for the pink flamingos. Patronize a couple of beach bars. Your basic perfect day. 

Back on the boat, hanging off the mooring lines after yet another wonderful swim, I could glance back with a view through the twin hulls to catch the sunset framed between them. Pretty cool. And once darkness settled in, the underwater lights off our transom proved to be a tarpon magnet. We sipped our drinks with the super-cool water-world show just a few tantalizing feet away. We’d basically brought our own aquarium with us. 

With our abbreviated trip coming to its conclusion, we had one more stop, at the Bight on Norman Island. Ironically, by this time, the breeze had temporarily frittered away, and guess what? In these calm conditions, the sailboats still weren’t sailing. 

The harbor was chock-full of vacationing mariners, but thanks to our big twin diesels, we were there in time to pick up one of the last moorings. I’m not always the sharpest tool in the shed, but I was beginning to see the advantages of this power-cat situation. If anyone ever asked my advice about a BVI charter for a first-timer, here’s what I’d say: If you’re a sailor, unequivocally, you must book a good sailboat for your adventure. There’s too much nautical history and lore not to sample the archipelago’s joys and challenges as the first explorers did, under glorious sail. But if you’re on your second or third or fourth visit? Hmm. Those power cats are pretty convenient.

Still, I was seriously conflicted about writing a magazine story espousing the benefits of power cruising. Our photographer was sympathetic and said, “You could title it ‘Low Sodium: The Retractions of a Salty Man.’” Even for me, that sounded pretty pretentious. Then he broke it down into something simpler to understand: “Look, man, you were afloat.”

And that struck a chord. His simple statement has really been the common denominator of my entire existence. I’ve always been an equal-opportunity lover of the water, whatever the conveyance, from my own eclectic fleet to a bloody pool toy. Whatever gets you out there, gets you out there. There’s no wrong way to do it. 

And that was that. I had reached the happy and consolable conclusion that I hadn’t really been power-cat cruising, not at all. No, mon, as they say in the islands. I’d been floating.

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

Power-Cat Ownership The Moorings’ Way

As of this writing, The Moorings has a pair of power catamarans available in its yacht-management program at Tortola. Both were built in South Africa by Robertson & Caine, which also produces the Leopard line of sail and power cats. The Moorings 403PC is powered by a pair of 320 hp Yanmar diesels and has a cruising speed of 15 knots. The Moorings 464 is also powered with a pair of twin Yanmars and is laid out in a four-head, four-stateroom configuration.

Franck Bauguil, Moorings’ vice president of yacht ownership and product development, says that it’s a great program for mariners who charter multiple times each year. “If you’re going to go only once a year, or every other year, just charter a boat, don’t buy it,” he says. However, if you go three or four times a year, on trips that can cost up to $25,000 apiece, the Moorings package is well worth considering.

“The program has been around for a long time,” he says. “So it’s well-known among sailors, but not as much with powerboaters. Our fleet of boats is all privately owned, but we take care of operations and management. You buy the boat, you own it and name it; it’s very much a regular purchase. But with that purchase comes a management agreement where we maintain the boat on behalf of the owner and charter it to a third party when they’re not using it.”

As with any boat purchase, owners can lay down the cash or go the finance route. For the latter, what’s the cost? The numbers as of this past fall showed that most owners put down 20 to 25 percent of the cost of the yacht, which, in the case of The Moorings’ 403PC, was about $1 million, with a down payment just shy of $200,000. At 8.25 percent interest on a 20-year loan, the monthly payment of about $6,700 was offset by the guaranteed income of just under $7,500 per month. Management contracts generally run five or six years, after which the owner can keep the boat, trade it in, or have The Moorings’ brokerage operation place it for sale.

For personal usage, owners receive 84 points per year, with the cost of trips equating to two points per day. Of those 84 points, 42 can be used to reserve trips in advance, and 42 can be employed on short notice. Generally, this breaks down to four to six weeks per year of in-season trips, or up to 12 weeks per year of cruising in the off-season. —HM

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