A huge crowd gathers at the breakwater in Gran Canaria to bid farewell to the yachts. One by one, boats from 26 nationalities file out of Las Palmas marina toward the start line at the north of the Spanish island. Crews dance and cheer, and the music changes from Queen to ABBA as Swedish yacht Dawnbreaker docks out to the blare of an Alpine horn. The two white-haired children at the bow seem awed by the fanfare, but their brother, Alfred, waves furiously from the top of a Jacob’s ladder, looking more than ready to take on the Atlantic.

The Chuck Paine–custom-designed yacht is one of 83 vessels (six of them American) taking part in the 2,700-mile rally to Grenada, which has a stopover in Cape Verde. The direct ARC, which sails to St. Lucia, departs two weeks later.

It’s been 40 years since Jimmy Cornell launched the ARC, an event aimed at cruising enthusiasts, not “racing’s elite,” with a focus on safety. Back then, Dawnbreaker skipper Lars Alfredson was navigating with a radio direction finder. Even during his first ARC, in 2003, he was reliant on an SSB radio and a modem to stay in contact.

“You’d spend hours and hours trying to connect, but you got through sometimes,” he recalls. “You see the boats the first day and the last day, and in between it’s just empty sea.”

Now, sailing with his son, daughter-in-law and three grandchildren, Lars has Starlink, enabling the family to run their online retail business at sea.

“I wouldn’t say things are better now, but for the young people who need to be connected all the time and have to report everything that happens, they like it,” says Lars.

At 64 feet, Dawnbreaker is one of the bigger entries in the fleet, with the average yacht being 48 feet. These days, over a third of participants are multihulls, and most are equipped with satcomms, autopilots, solar, lithium batteries and MFDs. But how would the crews feel if they were zapped back in time, Marty McFly–style, to 1986? Would they still do it? This is the question we put to them as they made their final preparations for their big adventure.

Almond angst

“Yes, I’d still go, because I wouldn’t know any different,” says Richard Cropper, skipper of Beneteau 60 Salty Rascal. “You’d just get by with the tools you’ve got.”

The British dad’s decision to embark on a yearlong adventure with wife Louise and sons Jake (9) and Harry (11) was inspired by a Secret Santa gift, a book entitled Sail Away: How to Escape the Rat Race and Live the Dream. Though the idea took hold on Christmas morning 2014, it would be over a decade before that dream became a reality, and only recently did they learn that the gift was from Louise’s sister.

“I think she wanted to get rid of us,” laughs Louise, a primary care physician. “For years afterward, Richard kept saying, ‘Would you do it? Would you do it?’ I only said yes because I never thought we’d go through with it. But I wouldn’t have done it 40 years ago, not without the technology. Everyone back home thinks we’re mad, but they can follow us using the YB tracker, and knowing we’re doing it in an organized group and can send pictures back home normalizes what we’re doing.”

Richard adds: “But the danger of being part of a huge rally is you can’t stop buying stuff. It’s like when you’re at school waiting to do your exams, and everyone’s talking about what they revised, and you’re thinking, ‘God, I didn’t do that.’ You start asking if you’ve got enough equipment. Did you buy enough toilet rolls? We had a panic about almonds, and Louise is like, ‘How many almonds have you actually eaten in the last year?’”

To ease the stress of the passage, the Croppers have hired Brazilian skipper Juan Manuel Ballestero, who made headlines during the pandemic when he sailed three months from Portugal to Argentina in order to see his sick father.

“I was in Porto Santo, and the borders closed. There were no flights, no ferries. I just decided right away, I’m going,” he says. “It was more than a sailing trip, it was an inner trip. I’m still trying to shape it, after all these years, asking myself what really happened. We love our families; that is what COVID taught us. I was going home, and I didn’t care how long it would take.”

Then it was a trip of solitude: a 29-foot yacht packed with 160 cans of food and a bottle of whiskey. This time, Juan’s looking forward to an altogether different experience, as was clear the night of his arrival in Las Palmas, when he was whisked to an ’80s party by a giddy Louise in luminous leggings.

“This family is lots of fun,” he says. “I’m pretty stoked about doing the voyage with the little ones. It will be unique.”

MOB rescue

Hoisting eight flags onto the forestay—an act counted excitedly by a group of boys fishing off the pontoon—is Swan 51 Eira. The monohull is doing the main ARC, and Finnish delivery crew Markus Leppanen and Vilhelm Sjöström are preparing her for the paying passengers.

“Sailing Eira wouldn’t have been much different 40 years ago,” says Vilhelm, tapping the elk-skin-covered wheel. “We have an autopilot now but hand-steer 95% of the time. We have a big racing rudder, which is really responsive, and people participate because they want to steer and sail. They want to learn something new.”

Markus and Vilhelm have tens of thousands of sea miles under their belts. Markus recalls that in the 1993 ARC, they didn’t have a sat phone—just GPS and a plotter. Instead of weather apps, they had a guy navigating onshore, giving instructions over SSB.

Back then they were “just a bunch of friends with the smallest, fastest Swan.” Now, Eira has 85,000 nautical miles on the clock and 15 crossings. She’s a veteran in every sense of the word.

“We use a traditional spinnaker,” says Vilhelm. “At first only in light airs until we know how experienced the crew are. Running it at night requires a bit of practice. The biggest risk is something happens, and the thing that should never happen is a man overboard.”

They reflect on the tragedy in last year’s ARC, where Swedish sailor Dag Eresund, 33, fell overboard from Volvo 70 Ocean Breeze.

“I was routing from Finland,” says Vilhelm. “I noticed all the fastest boats changing course and I knew, hours before it became news, that there was an MOB. It was around 0230, 20–25 knots. When it’s pitch black and a swell of about 6 meters, you know it’s really hard to get someone out of there. These old Whitbread boats don’t turn on a sixpence.”

Eresund was wearing a personal AIS beacon, a safety device that transmits your position to the mothership and nearby vessels, yet sadly he could not be located, reinforcing the fact that even the latest satellite technology is no substitute for lashing yourself to the deck, which people have done since the beginnings of sailing.

Markus recalls an MOB on his 1999 ARC, though happily that had a positive outcome.

“It was a Norwegian racing boat, sponsored by Jägermeister,” he says. “The spinnaker came down in a squall, and they gybed, knocking a crewmember into the water. Even when it’s warm, you’ll only last 24 hours, but here is this guy in a Hawaiian shirt—he takes off his life jacket and places it under his butt to stay out of the water. After 28 hours, a German boat passes and picks him up!”

It’s not the first time a sailor has been rescued by chance during a cruising rally. In ARC+ 2021, British catamaran Coco happened upon a dismasted yacht 140 miles from Grenada and towed it into port, to the relief of the distressed French skipper.

For crews’ safety, it’s a requirement of the ARC that all skippers have the ability to send and receive emails at sea, whether via SSB radio (via a free messaging program called Airmail) or a satcom device such as Iridium Certus 100 or Inmarsat Fleet One.

“We talked about getting Starlink,” says Vilhelm, “but the skipper doesn’t want it because the experience for the crew changes. We have satcomms and can make phone calls and emails, but we don’t want everybody hanging around the cockpit reading the news. You spoil the experience.”

It was during World ARC 2023 when Elon Musk’s low-cost, high-speed internet service took off among long-distance cruisers. While only two of the 20 boats leaving St. Lucia at the start of the rally had Starlink, by the time they’d completed a world circuit six months later, only two boats didn’t have it.

Medical backup

Onboard Frolic, a J/44, we find Rhode Island sailor HL DeVore opening the cava, having successfully Googled a fix for his B&G wind sensor, saving $3,000 in parts and labor. His ex–U.S. Coast Guard vessel is equipped with Starlink, a piece of kit HL wouldn’t sail without.

“I do love the romanticism of not being able to communicate other than with attempts at SSB,” he admits, “and I’m old enough to have sailed in those days, but being connected gives the family at home security, and means we can liaise with a medical team if needed—in fact, the same one used by round-the-world sailor Cole Brauer. We’ve got IV kits, medicines—everything you could possibly need—and with modern comms we have the comfort of knowing we can solve issues at sea.”

Meant to be?

Although Starlink draws a significant amount of power, the benefit of being able to make video calls and stream sports games or Netflix has made today’s cruising yacht a true home from home. It’s allowed Mexican family the Sidauys to sell their home and possessions and move onboard their Lagoon 52F catamaran Ruaj. This new wave of adventurous young families, who buy production catamarans and choose cruising as an alternative lifestyle, was rare in the ’70s, when the majority of ARC participants were older, wealthy couples.

For Gabriel Sidauy, the idea of taking on an Atlantic crossing was sparked during a chance meeting on a flight from Tijuana to Cancun.

“The man next to me was checking out boats and charts,” says Gabriel. “He was about to start this amazing adventure with his wife and three kids. I said to him, ‘That’s the best thing I heard in my life!’”

Gabriel’s children, Moises (now 14) and Natalie (10), loved the idea, but it took four years to persuade his wife, Victoria, to sell up and sail away. When finally she agreed and they shared their plans with neighbors, they were put in touch with a sailor who agreed to be their mentor.

It turned out to be none other than Emanuel—the guy Gabriel met on the plane.

“I told him he changed our lives, and he didn’t remember me,” laughs Gabriel. “But he was great. He told me about the ARC, what boat to look for, and he came several times to the house with his wife to tell us about his experience.”

The Sidauys bought Ruaj in Italy and spent a year sailing around the Mediterranean before making their way south to the Canaries. Thanks to Starlink, Gabriel can run his plastic recycling business at sea, while Natalie and Moises can be homeschooled, with regular calls to classmates and tutors.

“We have learned many things,” says Gabriel. “We used to live in a big house in Cancun with all the space we wanted, and now we learn to live with what is necessary.”

The bare(ish) necessities

One of the joys of the ARC is seeing what families deem “necessary” for their transatlantic, whether that’s a 50-inch TV, washing machine, coffee maker or, in the case of the Sidauys, “aerial silks,” which gymnast Natalie has tied to the forestay.

“Gymnastics is my passion,” she says breathlessly, while twirling and tumbling to the applause of neighboring boats. “I also love the night sky and can’t wait to see shooting stars, and play my ukulele with Moises on his guitar.”

So, a final question: Would they do this 40 years ago?

“No, it would not be possible,” confirms Gabriel, who has to cut short the interview to receive a video conference call.

Without modern tech, Gabriel would still be in Mexico dreaming of a long-ago conversation with a man on the plane. Most likely, the Croppers would be in drizzly Manchester, England, working long hours and doing school runs. Yet for experienced sailors such as Lars Alfredson, who has sailed to the Arctic and Antarctic, and HL DeVore, a navigator with 14 Newport-to-Bermuda races under his belt, waking up in 1986 in the middle of the ocean would pose no problem whatsoever.

The great thing about rallies such as the ARC+ is that these types of sailors can come together and cross the ocean in whatever way suits them, knowing that at the end of it all, in Port Louis Marina, Grenada, they’ll be sharing stories over a rum punch as the sun goes down over the Caribbean Sea.

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Adventure sailors who believe offshore voyaging should leave more than a wake will find a new reason to look at Panexplore’s 2026 expeditions. The company has announced the launch of its Sea Dragon Ocean Fellowship, a program that places ocean scientists and content creators aboard its 72-foot steel-hulled expedition yacht Sea Dragon alongside paying guests and professional crew.

The goal is to combine long-distance sailing with real-world ocean research and storytelling that helps protect the seas cruisers depend on.

“The new Sea Dragon Ocean Fellowship program will make Panexplore expeditions all the more unforgettable and unique,” said Panexplore business manager Sanda Marichal. “Now, in addition to sailing to beautiful, remote destinations, guests aboard Sea Dragon will play a role in uplifting the voices of those protecting our precious seas and oceans.”

For cruising sailors, the idea will feel familiar. Many long-range voyagers already log wildlife sightings, collect water samples or share firsthand accounts of ocean change from anchorages and sea lanes few scientists ever reach. Panexplore is formalizing that spirit by inviting researchers and content partners to join its expedition schedule.

A Proven Bluewater Platform

Sea Dragon returns to service after a year-long refit and a recent Atlantic Rally for Cruisers crossing in support of Project SeaLabs. Built of steel and designed for high-latitude sailing, the 72 footer is a serious offshore platform, capable of handling long passages and remote coastlines.

The 2026 itinerary reflects that range, with voyages planned in the Caribbean, passages between the United States and Bermuda and Arctic sailing along the coasts of Greenland.

For cruisers accustomed to making their own way across oceans, the appeal is not just the destinations but the opportunity to sail with a professional crew while contributing to something larger.

A World Class Skipper

To support the expanded program, Panexplore is also strengthening its onboard leadership. In early 2026, Sea Dragon will be skippered by Emily Caruso, a veteran professional sailor with nearly two decades of experience including training for and competing in around the world races.

A New Way to Sail With Purpose

Ocean scientists and conservation-focused storytellers can apply to join the fellowship by contacting Panexplore directly via the company website panexplore.com or email: hello@panexplore.com. Guests book normally, but will sail alongside researchers gathering data and creating content that amplifies the realities of ocean health.

For long-range cruisers, the model highlights how modern voyaging is evolving, with today’s offshore sailors becoming more active observers, advocates and partners in the stewardship of the ocean.Berths aboard Sea Dragon are limited and Panexplore says they fill quickly, a reminder that expedition style cruising continues to draw sailors who want their miles to matter.

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The first boat of the ARC 2025 fleet has arrived in Saint Lucia, with Nextgen by Jajo claiming line honors after a fast passage across the Atlantic from Las Palmas de Gran Canaria.

The Volvo 65 completed the 2,700-nautical-mile crossing in 10 days, 48 minutes and 51 seconds, leading the fleet in the 40th edition of the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers. The crew was welcomed dockside at IGY Rodney Bay Marina by World Cruising Club officials along with representatives from the Saint Lucia Ministry of Tourism and the Saint Lucia Tourism Authority.

“Line honors is always a special thing and it’s never easy,” said owner and skipper Jelmer Van Beek. “We knew we had the fastest boat, but you still need to execute it, so I’m really proud of the team.”

Van Beek credited consistent conditions for the quick passage. “We had fast sailing day in, day out. There was so much downwind sailing and we’ve really enjoyed it,” he said, adding that the Saint Lucian welcome was well timed after more than 10 days at sea.

While the ARC is primarily a cruising rally focused on safe and sociable ocean passages, Nextgen by Jajo is purpose-built for speed. The fully carbon fiber Volvo 65 routinely sails at speeds exceeding 20 knots, demanding constant attention from the crew.

“A Volvo 65 is my favorite boat, and I have crossed the Atlantic eight times on this boat,” Van Beek said. “It’s fast and powerful, but you always have to be alert. There’s a lot of force in the boat and it’s never easy.”

Formerly known as Team Brunel, the yacht also set a benchmark in the ARC in 2015, when it claimed line honors and a rally record at the time.

With the Atlantic behind them, the team plans to continue sailing in warmer waters before turning north again. “We’re really happy to be back in the Caribbean,” Van Beek said. “As a sailor, you follow the sun.”

Nextgen by Jajo is expected to head on to Saint Maarten for the Caribbean 600 and the St. Maarten Heineken Regatta before returning to Europe. Meanwhile, more ARC boats are closing in on Saint Lucia, where the docks will soon fill with crews celebrating landfall and reconnecting after weeks at sea.

With more than 800 sailors taking part this year, the 40th ARC promises a lively finish as the fleet continues to arrive ahead of the final prizegiving later this month.

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The first yacht of the ARC+ 2025 fleet has reached Grenada, marking a major milestone in this year’s two-stage Atlantic rally. Enjoy The Silence, an Outremer 55, crossed the finish line at Camper and Nicholson Port Louis Marina on December 2 to an enthusiastic dockside welcome.

Sailing from Mindelo in the Cape Verde Islands, the crew completed the 2,200-nautical-mile second leg in 10 days, 4 hours and 28 minutes. Their finish time of 15:38 UTC put them well ahead of the rest of the ARC+ fleet and set the tone for the arrivals now unfolding in Grenada.

World Cruising Club officials were joined by representatives from the Grenada Tourism Authority and Port Louis Marina to welcome the crew ashore and kick off the post-passage celebrations.

“This is a special feeling for me,” skipper Jullien Jean said. “On one hand we are really happy because we have been pushing the boat to cross the line first, but I actually feel slightly deflated now that it is over. Perhaps I just need to do the next ARC+ because World Cruising Club is an incredible organization.”

ARC+ 2025 has delivered a mix of conditions across both legs. Light winds challenged crews sailing south from Gran Canaria to Mindelo, forcing many boats to search for pressure before reaching the trade winds. The second leg again began in lighter air but built steadily, with some crews reporting sustained winds above 20 knots during the past week.

Enjoy The Silence proved consistently quick throughout the rally. The Outremer 55 was also fastest on Leg 1, completing the 865-nautical-mile passage from Gran Canaria to Mindelo in 4 days, 15 hours and 5 minutes.

“We have a great crew on board and the boat is wonderful,” Jean said. “It provided us with comfort, security and performance for our voyage. Now, we are looking forward to exploring the island of Grenada and taking some time to clean the boat after our trip.”

More boats are close behind, including Bingera, another Outremer 55, followed by Dawnbreaker, a Kanter 64. With arrivals continuing through the coming days, crews will soon turn their focus from passagemaking to the social program and prizegiving, scheduled for December 11.

As is tradition with the ARC+, the days following arrival offer time to enjoy Grenadian hospitality, swap sea stories and cement friendships forged on a classic ocean crossing.

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Las Palmas de Gran Canaria turned into a festival of flags, music and excited sailors as the ARC+ fleet celebrated its opening ceremony ahead of the Nov. 9 start. The transatlantic rally, organized by World Cruising Club, will send 413 sailors from 29 nations across the Atlantic to Grenada via Cape Verde.

Participants gathered at the north end of the marina before parading along the Port of Las Palmas waterfront with flags from their home countries. Local bands Guiniguada and Batucada fueled the upbeat scene as crews mingled and soaked in the atmosphere.

ARC+ sailor Anthony Judd, aboard Bingera, said the ceremony captured the spirit of the event. “It’s just fantastic to see all the nations. It’s a great way of gathering people together to celebrate a great event,” he said. “Gran Canaria has to be commended for putting on some fabulous music. Those bands were awesome. They really add to the atmosphere and celebrate Las Palmas.”

Beyond the pageantry, the rally offers a full program of safety checks, seminars and social events. Crews have already enjoyed welcome receptions and sundowners, and many joined a tree-planting effort on Oct. 31 as part of the Foresta Project, which ARC and ARC+ sailors have supported since 2010. The program has planted more than 4,000 trees on the island.

“We’re looking forward to next week with all the seminars,” Judd said. “Check-in was really efficient and working with the safety team went beautifully.”

The fleet will first sail roughly 850 nautical miles to Mindelo, Cape Verde, before departing on the 2,150-mile passage to Grenada. With fair weather in the forecast, sailors are optimistic for a safe and comfortable ocean crossing. “The weather forecast from here to Cape Verde looks very nice,” Judd said. “A few holes in the wind may develop but hopefully it will be a comfortable and safe passage for everybody.”

Friends, family and locals are encouraged to line the waterfront to cheer the fleet out of Las Palmas as crews begin their Atlantic adventure.

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A bluewater adventure is officially underway. On September 29, the first seven boats in the World Odyssey 25 fleet cast off from La Grande Motte, France, bound for the Canary Islands. The rally marks the beginning of the second edition of the Grand Large Yachting group’s three-year circumnavigation event, which brings together a community of sailors chasing a shared dream of global exploration.

Families, friends, and fans gathered along the docks to cheer as the fleet departed under sunny skies. After one last “French-style breakfast” of croissants and baguettes, crews aboard Outremer, Allures, Garcia, RM, and Gunboat yachts slipped their lines for the first leg of an adventure that will span 35,000 nautical miles.

Their first stop: Tangier, Morocco, where more boats will join before the fleet continues to Lanzarote for the official start in late November.

The sailors setting out on this ambitious voyage have spent months (some, years) preparing. Grand Large Yachting’s rally team supported each crew through an extensive training program that included webinars, in-person sessions at the World Odyssey University in Lorient, and hands-on workshops with Escale Formation Technique. Topics ranged from offshore safety and medical care to mechanical maintenance and provisioning.

“The goal is to make sure every participant feels ready, supported, and connected before they leave port,” said rally coordinator Camille Allard. “It’s as much about building community as it is about the sailing.”

More than 20 boats are expected to take part in this year’s event, with crews choosing between two routes: a tropical passage through the Panama Canal or a southern course around Cape Horn and the Strait of Magellan. Along the way, participants will experience some of the most remote and culturally rich destinations on the planet.

The World Odyssey series is part of a growing portfolio of adventure rallies organized by Grand Large Yachting, which also includes the Nordic Odyssey (a voyage through the fjords and northern coasts of Europe) and the upcoming Warm Up rallies in the Mediterranean for new boat owners eager to gain offshore experience.

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British yacht builder Oyster Yachts has announced its new Explorers Club Rallies, fully supported sailing voyages designed for owners who seek real adventure without committing to a full circumnavigation.

With global adventure tourism set to approach $2 trillion by 2032, Oyster is responding to a growing demand for meaningful, experience-driven journeys rather than mere luxury escapes.

The rallies are structured for modern bluewater sailors: each voyage combines offshore passages, immersive anchorages, cultural encounters, and fleet camaraderie, all backed by Oyster’s rally team, logistics support, and on-voyage services.

Highlighted routes include the Arctic Rally (through Norway’s fjords and the Svalbard archipelago), the Viking Rally (North Atlantic exploration), the Pacific Rally (showcasing remote island sailing in the South Pacific), and the bucket-list Cape Horn Rally (a 12-month circumnavigation around the southern capes).

For cruising sailors, the length and support of these options may open new possibilities. While the full-circumnavigation model still requires major commitment, these curated fleet voyages lower the threshold for entry into serious offshore adventure, with a buffer of shared experience and Omega-level logistical backing.

According to a company spokesperson, Oyster Yachts will position these programs exclusively for its owners and relies on its rally-proven fleet, expert training, and community strategy to deliver high-quality, purpose-driven sailing experiences.

The introduction of the Explorers Club Rallies underscores a shift in ownership mindset: cruising is no longer just about comfort and destinations, but also about immersive experiences, sustainability, and connection to place and community for owners seeking more than a “sailing holiday.”

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Solo ocean crossings exist in a strange territory between ­spiritual pilgrimage and ­borderline madness. You have to be part navigator, part ­mechanic, part therapist. There’s no one to take the wheel while you sleep. No one to help reef the sails when the 2 a.m. squall hits. No one to tell you that you’re not going crazy when you wake up from a dream shouting for someone who’s not there.

Most people who take on the Pacific leg of the Coconut Milk Run—the jump from Mexico to French Polynesia—do so with crew or partners. It’s the first and longest bluewater crossing for many sailors. The gateway to a life afloat. For me, it was something else. It was the thing I had to do while my 38-foot Hans Christian, Kessel, was in its prime—and while I still had the fire in my gut to prove that I could.

This crossing, from Mexico to French Polynesia, wasn’t a whim. It was a ­calling. There are maybe a few thousand active cruisers sailing the world’s oceans. Of those, only a small fraction attempt the Pacific crossing in a given year, and even fewer do it alone. It’s a 3,000-mile stretch of open water where your only companions are the stars, your thoughts and whatever stares back at you from the deep. Those who cross this part of the world return changed.

I didn’t grow up on the water. I’m from Oakdale, California—a landlocked town better known for rodeos and almond orchards than reefing sails and reading isobars. But I’d always been drawn to the edge of things, to adventure, to the kind of stories that begin where the pavement ends. I got a taste of sailing one summer at Boy Scout camp, on a lake in Oklahoma, where the first merit badge I earned was for small-boat sailing. Years later, I was mesmerized by the yachts tied to the ­moorings off Catalina Island as I sat in my lifeguard tower watching the scouts at Camp Cherry Valley. 

In college, I shared a leaky old boat with three freediving roommates who had a copy of Chapman’s Piloting that was more salt-stained than legible. We cobbled together our own education with YouTube videos, borrowed tools, and trial-by-fire weekends out to the Channel Islands. There, in the wild of anchorages such as Prisoners Harbor and Smugglers Cove, I found what I didn’t know I was seeking. Salt. Silence. Self-reliance. Pure adventure.

From that point on, I was all in. I worked as a fireman, hoarding every paycheck to feed the habit of tools, gear and materials. Each upgrade was a step closer. Every busted fitting I replaced by headlamp was a lesson earned.

And then, I found Kessel. It was more ­ruin than boat, left forgotten in the Mexican desert, but it was the one. I saw past the grime and rust to the heavy displacement curves, the sheerline, the potential.

This 1978 build was from a time when boats had thick hulls and even thicker souls. It was meant to cross oceans, to laugh in the face of squalls. Its slip felt like a cage. The rigging was shot. The systems were failing. But beneath the corrosion and peeling varnish, I saw a warhorse.

I rebuilt Kessel plank by plank, wire by wire—not just to bring the boat back to life, but also because something in me needed it to be whole.

We weren’t just going sailing. We were going to cross an ocean together. We were going to explore the world.

Something Bigger

The first three days of the crossing were pure stoke, riding the excitement of the journey as La Cruz de Huanacaxtle, Mexico, shrank in my wake. It had been my mission to settle into things and find routine, which I would soon learn was a fluid thing. On Day 3, I wrote my first log in PredictWind to keep friends and family informed.

We were alone out here. And it was ­beautiful. Every time I glanced at our wake, I felt that primitive, ­impossible truth all over again.

“I woke up with salt on my face and the sky bleeding soft light over a restless ocean. I’d spent the night in the cockpit, unable to sleep below. The sound of the hull flexing, the groan of strained rigging—it was all too alive down there. Up top, though, I could see stars. I could feel the rhythm of the sea. It was a violent lullaby, but a lullaby nonetheless.”

Kessel was galloping. Ten- to 12-footers from the northwest rolled beneath us like sleeping giants. The wind held firm. We were closehauled at 7 knots, rising and falling like a heartbeat. Every time I glanced back at our wake, I felt it again—that ­primitive, impossible truth.

We were alone out here.

And it was beautiful.

Days of Grace

There were moments that made the whole thing feel enchanted. I streamed my sister’s college water polo game via Starlink from 800 miles offshore. I cried watching her score goals in a pool half a world away. The loneliness cracked open, and for a moment, I was there. With her. Home.

On Day 7, the wind finally came to stay. The trades hit like a gift wrapped in foam and sun. Kessel surged under the rasta-­colored asymmetric spinnaker, galloping over the swell—7, 8, sometimes 10 knots. Flying fish exploded from the water like skipping stones. I stood barefoot at the helm, cackling into the wind like a lunatic. This was what life was about, what I was built for, why I existed. In that moment, every tear, every busted knuckle, all the worst days were all worth it.

These were the days of joy. Champagne sailing. Salt in my hair. Sun on my chest. Kessel and I were the stuff that books and ballads are written about, the reason young men and women embark on these quests.

Days of Reckoning

But then there were the other days—like Day 10.

The wind was up, passing 20 knots. I ­decided to douse the kite and go to a conventional sail plan. It should’ve been ­routine. But while dousing, the hood of the kite fouled itself in its rigging. In my anger and haste to retrieve the sail, the sock tore open, releasing the mass of canvas to the howling breeze.

The only way to retrieve and salvage the sail was to dump it. I released the halyard, slowly at first, but with no one to assist, I inevitably had to surrender the sail over the side of the bulwarks.

The Pacific crossing doesn’t make you ­better; It makes you real. It’s the highs, the lows—the whole truth of who you are, stripped bare.

Kessel rounded up. Water poured over the rail and through the cockpit. Belowdecks, the galley seemed to explode. Something had knocked the faucet open, and fresh water flooded the sole.

I dragged the soaked sail onto the foredeck by hand, inch by inch, like pulling in a drowning body. I had to use a sheet winch. My only hope was that it hadn’t wrapped itself around the rudder. I was abeam to the waves, conditions nearing a gale, a thousand miles from land and entirely alone. By the time I’d cleaned up the mess, I was shaking. But we were still sailing. Kessel had held its ground.

That would be the worst of it,I thought.

The Intertropical Convergence Zone had other ideas.

Fierce, whipping squalls marched like crusaders across the horizon, dark and black, set on descending upon me and my good ship. One would come, and I would prepare. Kessel and I would battle 50 knots with sea spray that I swear would break the skin. Waves would tower half the height of the mast. Then it would be gone, and we’d wait for the next one. Again and again, the only way to survive. 

For days, it teased me with lightning and silence. I hallucinated voices. Woke up shouting names. My steering cable slipped. The autopilot failed. Solar panels couldn’t keep up. The backup system glitched. 

All the while, squalls came and went like whispers of war.

There was no rhythm. No wind. Then too much.

The Equator

I crossed into the Southern Hemisphere sometime around 2 a.m. Half-asleep, I took a photo of the GPS. No rum, no ceremony. Just me, tangled in my sheets, too tired to be poetic. But something shifted that night. Not on the water. Inside me.

I wasn’t a kid chasing a dream anymore. I was a sailor halfway across the largest body of water on the planet. And I wanted to go home. 

Traditionally, a sailor crossing the equator for the first time is initiated into Neptune’s domain. The transformation from pollywog to shellback is usually marked with ridiculous costumes and ­salt-soaked theatrics. For me, it happened in silence. In the dark. Alone with Kessel and the ghost of every sailor who’d crossed before. That moment meant everything. And nothing. The real ritual was surviving the days before and after.

People ask why I did it solo, and nearly a whole year later, I still don’t have a perfect answer. Maybe it’s because I wanted to see if I could. Maybe I wanted to prove that the years spent bringing Kessel back to life weren’t just about the boat.

Landfall

The last 72 hours were punishing. Wind at 30 knots. Seas building to 15 feet. Kessel screamed through the waves at 8 to 10 knots, surfing down troughs like a creature reborn. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I just held on.

And then, suddenly, we were there.

The dark cliffs of Fatu Hiva rose from the sea like something out of a forgotten myth. The Bay of Virgins opened like arms.

I dropped the hook. The engine cut out.

And for the first time in 23 days, everything was still. I could finally sleep.

People ask what it’s like to cross an ocean alone. I tell them the truth: It’s all of it. It’s the highs that crack your heart wide open and the lows that grind your bones to dust. It’s frying your last egg and swearing at the sky. It’s watching the ­sunrise after a night you thought might never end. It’s rebuilding your autopilot with one hand while clinging to the lifelines with the ­other. It’s talking to your boat like a friend—and sometimes, like a ghost.

The Pacific crossing doesn’t make you better; it makes you real. And that’s enough.

Kessel and I dropped the hook in the lush embrace of the Marquesas Islands. One chapter closed; another began. We were in paradise.

There’s no sugarcoating the challenge of singlehanded passagemaking. But I ­also don’t think it’s possible to describe the beauty, or the absolute elation, that comes with it. It was one of the best trips of my life. Would I do it again? Probably. Would I choose to share it with someone next time? Absolutely.

The completion of this crossing was the beginning of a grand Pacific tour, one filled with new people, new anchorages, love, laughter, and lessons I’ll carry forever. To anyone who feels the call, in whatever form it takes: Go. Do it. You’ll find what you’re seeking. 

Peter Metcalfe is a solo sailor and self-­proclaimed adventure junkie. After ­reaching the Pacific aboard Kessel, he continued sailing in search of wind, landfalls and adrenaline, eventually landing in Brisbane, Australia, where the boat is listed for sale. He is not done sailing but is moving on to bigger opportunities.

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