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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I went to last year’s Annapolis Sailboat Show with a familiar mission: to hunt for new products worth writing about. Amid the rows of sleek hulls and glistening gear, one booth stopped me in my tracks. It was filled with miniature boats so finely crafted, they looked ready to set sail across the tabletop.

This booth belonged to Abordage, a company that’s been handcrafting exquisite model boats for 35 years. Denis and Cynthia Cartier welcomed me with warm smiles. Their display gleamed with full-hull models, half hulls and racing replicas, all executed with remarkable precision and artistry.

I’ve built a few scale ship models myself—four, to be exact—so I look closely at the details. These were clearly in another league. Before long, I’d decided I wanted a half-hull model of my own schooner, Britannia, a 50-foot brigantine that’s carried me through many a fine adventure.

Abordage’s process blends digital precision with old-world craftsmanship. Working from an owner’s drawings and photos, this team builds incredibly accurate replicas, down to the winches, turnbuckles and pinrails. The hulls are created using stereolithography, a resin 3D-printing process cured by laser light. Sails are real Dacron cloth. Even the belaying pins on Britannia’s model are exactly where they should be.

The finished piece arrived this fall, after a journey as intricate as the model itself. It took a team of eight craftspeople and roughly 140 hours to complete, in their workshop in San Cristobal, Dominican Republic. It came packed in a reinforced crate so finely built that unboxing it felt like opening a nested set of treasures.

Today, the model sits within a mahogany-and-plexiglass display case. It’s light, elegant and easy to hang, like a painting. Mine measures 20 inches wide by 22 inches high, and graces the wall of my study.

Abordage has earned a reputation among serious yachtsmen, shipyards and yacht clubs around the world. The company has built models for Team New Zealand, American Magic and other America’s Cup campaigns. Larger self-standing models, like a 3-foot Fleming motoryacht or a 5-foot Uniesse Raptor, are museum-worthy pieces of marine art.

Prices vary depending on the boat and the level of customization. If your vessel is a production model, Abordage may already have the specs. For custom boats like Britannia, they start from scratch—and this year’s Annapolis showgoers could see the result, with my own completed model on display.

To me, this is a different kind of portrait than a painting. It holds the shape, soul and memories of a boat and its skipper. When the real Britannia and I have both moved on, I hope this little replica will endure, a perfect miniature of a life well sailed. 

Roger Hughes has been messing about on boats for a half century, as a professional captain, charterer, restorer, instructor and happy imbiber. He completed a full restoration and extensive modification of his 50-foot ketch, Britannia. 

Read more of his stories at: schooner-britannia.com

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Sahula is kicking up her heels. Driven by a fresh westerly breeze, she eagerly surges through the cresting seas. With the yankee and staysail well eased, and two reefs in the mainsail, the speedometer shows 7.5 knots with frequent surges to 8. Occasional spray flies across the foredeck, turned to sparkling diamonds by the morning sun.

It is not often you get a 25-knot offshore breeze along Australia’s north Queensland coast. Normally the trade winds blow from the southeast, which means there can be up to a hundred miles of fetch to build up a sea. Combined with tidal currents that are often strong, the fresh southeast trade wind seas can be quite boisterous.

But today, with this offshore wind, the limited fetch between us and shore means easy sailing. There is one small downside to this: A line of large hills lies just a few miles inshore of us. The steep-sided valleys and ridges channel the wind, so it is not from a steady direction. Instead of putting the windvane in charge, one of us has to take the helm.

Ever since we lifted our anchor, my partner, David, has been steering. For three hours, he has been seated in his favorite position on the windward coaming, gently easing the wheel a few inches one way or the other to keep the 40-foot Van de Stadt cutter Sahula perfectly on course. He is grinning from ear to ear as he feels Sahula power through another gust. I am nestled happily onto the leeward cockpit bench, savoring every minute of this rare treat.

The miles tick off as the looming cliffs of Cape Cleveland grow ever closer. We only have 40 miles to go to reach today’s goal. We’ve got a fine wind, a good boat.

Only once did I move from where I have been comfortably watching the bow wave hissing by. That was when, halfway across the Bowling Green bight, I climbed below and boiled water for mid-morning tea. I cut two slices of David’s favorite fruitcake. As this fine morning flowed easily by, I was reminded of my first offshore sailing experience, one that my husband, Larry, carefully engineered exactly six decades ago.

On that early November evening, a warm, caressing offshore breeze soothed the ever-present northwest swells off the coast of Morro Bay in Southern California. The sweep of gaff sails outlined against sparkling skies competed for my attention with the green glow of bioluminescence in our wake.

Larry urged me to try my hand at the wheel. This was the first time I’d been more than 20 miles from shore. Agamemnon, a 36-foot Murray Peterson schooner, beam-reached along, creaming through the seas as only a schooner can, her blocks creaking, her bowsprit trying to kiss the waves.

At that time, Larry was working as a professional charter and delivery skipper while building his first cruising boat. We had known each other for six months. We’d spent more than five of those months living together. I’d been asking him to take me along when he delivered boats. Until this night, Larry had made excuses, limiting my sailing experiences to afternoons on various friends’ boats, or in the 7-foot sailing dinghy he’d helped me acquire as we worked together to build Seraffyn.

While we shared the midnight watch on board Agamemnon, Larry began showing me the finer points of steering with a wheel. Guided by him, I fought to keep my eyes on a star instead of constantly staring at the swinging compass card. When, only a short time later, I began to anticipate the schooner’s needs so I only had to make fine adjustments on the wheel, I began to wax poetical about the moment. Larry put his arm around me and said, “An old friend told me, you’ll go out 10 times and then it happens—a perfect sail—and you’ll keep going out nine times more to recapture that magic.”

It was a half dozen years and halfway around the world before I learned how carefully Larry had planned my introduction to his world.

We had just sailed into Poole, a town on the southern coast of England, and secured the boat at the quay. The main street in this small town runs right along the quay, so we’d become a bit  of a local attraction. A young man came by and struck up a conversation. Larry invited him on board, and soon, our visitor said, “I’m dead keen on going off to the Med. Wife’s willing to give it a try. It’s a long weekend and we’re headed out tomorrow for a test run across the channel to France. The forecast is pretty bleak—Force 5 or 6 headwinds.”

“I’d can that idea,” Larry said. “That’s how I ruined sailing for my first girlfriend. Got her wet, scared. Why don’t you just reach over to Cowes? Take your wife out somewhere special for dinner, spend a day exploring Cowes, then the next day, reach back home. Try to make it a fun holiday. That’s how I eased Lin into this life.”

I listened as Larry described not only my first overnighter on board Agamemnon, but also the other small ruses he used to lure me into his dream and keep me there until it metamorphosed into mine. The local sailor listened, too. He changed his weekend plans.

His wife came by a few days later. Her eyes twinkled as she told us of their “grand adventure” up the Solent to Cowes, a prelude to what became several years of successful cruising.

Today, as Sahula rushes northward toward Townsville, I realize that Larry was right. For every day like this one, many will be far more challenging, and some downright uncomfortable and difficult. Right now, we are enjoying dream sailing, but in the back of my mind is the awareness that in two or three months, when cyclones become a real threat, we will have to beat south away from the tropics. Then, there are bound to be days when I wonder why I willingly go to sea in small sailboats.

But at this moment, a moment of sailing perfection, I silently thank the man who eased me into what became a sailing addiction.  Then I turn to David and say, “My turn on the wheel. You need a break.”

He reluctantly changes places with me. I settle in behind the wheel and gradually begin to feel the rhythm that keeps Sahula moving at top speed.

Yes, this is a 1-in-10 day. And it is more than enough to keep me coming back for more.

After cruising more than 240,000 miles, US Sailing Hall of Fame inductee Lin Pardey is off to sea again. Her latest book, Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond, encourages folks to go simple, go small and go now. 

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With bows pointed west and months of preparation behind them, the World ARC 2026-27 fleet officially got underway January 10, departing Saint Lucia to begin a 15-month circumnavigation of the globe.

The start came at midday local time in steady northeast trades of about 15 knots, ideal conditions for the opening leg to Panama. For many aboard, simply crossing the start line marked the fulfillment of a long-held dream years in the making.

“I’m so excited. I can’t wait to start the trip across the Pacific, and going through the Panama Canal is going to be a blast,” said Tommaso Amadori of Cashew ahead of the start. “The group is amazing, and the organization is fantastic.”

For long-range cruisers, the days and weeks leading up to departure are often as demanding as the miles at sea. In Saint Lucia, crews focused on final systems checks provisioning and mental preparation.

“You need to get the boat ship shape for what’s coming,” Amadori said. “It’s a big job mentally and physically, but the reward is amazing.”

That mix of hard work and shared anticipation defines the opening chapter of World ARC. While some crews are new to organized rallies, many have crossed oceans together before through World Cruising Club events. Regardless of background, the Saint Lucia start brought together a new fleet bound by a common goal.

Seminars, safety briefings and social events helped establish that sense of community, supported by World Cruising Club along with the Saint Lucia Tourism Authority and Events Saint Lucia. IGY Rodney Bay Marina served as the fleet’s base, offering a practical and welcoming launch point for the adventure ahead.

Over the course of the rally, boats will visit 19 countries. Many stops are places rarely reached by travelers arriving by air, a key draw for sailors seeking deeper engagement with the places they visit.

Flexibility is also built into the program. Some crews plan to pause midway, effectively taking a cruising gap year before rejoining a future edition of the rally. For many long-range sailors, that adaptability mirrors the reality of cruising life, where plans evolve with weather, family and opportunity.

The 2026-27 fleet reflects the diversity of today’s cruising community, including eight family crews and seven doublehanded teams. Different boats, different backgrounds and different sailing styles converge under the shared challenge of going all the way around.

“This has been a dream for decades,” said Will Lee of Sea Wisdom II. “I’m really looking forward to doing it with my wife Chloe and sharing this experience with everyone in the fleet.”

Later this month, the boats will transit the Panama Canal, a milestone that marks the beginning of the 10,000-nautical-mile Pacific crossing. For cruising sailors watching from home, the fleet’s departure is a reminder that big voyages are built on careful preparation, strong community and the willingness to finally cast off.

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The Cruising Club of America has named British sailor Pete Hill as the recipient of its 2025 Blue Water Medal, recognizing more than 50 years of long-distance voyaging defined by simplicity, self-reliance and a deep commitment to life at sea.

Established more than a century ago, the Blue Water Medal is the CCA’s highest honor, awarded for exceptional seamanship and adventure by amateur sailors. Hill, 75, joins a lineage that includes Bill Tilman, Bernard Moitessier, Eric and Susan Hiscock, and Sir Robin Knox-Johnston.

Hill was notified of the award while cruising in New Caledonia. “I am blown away by this,” he said. “This is such an honor.”

Over five decades, Hill has completed extensive ocean passages aboard a succession of small cruising sailboats, many of them built or heavily modified by his own hand. Central to his philosophy is the junk rig, a low-tech sail plan he has repeatedly proven across the world’s oceans. His approach has resonated with a community of sailors who value seaworthiness, repairability, and independence over complexity.

Hill’s offshore career began in the 1970s aboard a self-built 27-foot Wharram catamaran, which he sailed with his first wife, Annie, on a demanding North Atlantic circuit in 1975. The couple later built Badger, a 34-foot plywood dory, and cruised widely in both hemispheres, reaching from Greenland and arctic Norway south to the Falkland Islands, South Georgia, and Gough Island before returning north via Baffin Island and eventually sailing to Cape Town.

He later designed and built China Moon, a 38-foot junk-rigged catamaran, and spent five years cruising the high latitudes of the South Atlantic, including Cape Horn, the South Shetland Islands, Tristan da Cunha, and South Georgia. After selling the boat, Hill delivered her solo from Baltimore to Brazil in 41 days, then sailed nearly 10,000 nautical miles from Brazil to Tasmania with the new owner.

Hill also tested himself in organized ocean racing, finishing second but last in the 2006 Jester Challenge aboard a Kingfisher 22.

Subsequent projects included converting a Freedom 33 to a junk rig and cruising extensively in Brazil with his second wife, Carly, while contributing a multi-part cruising guide to Brazil for the Royal Cruising Club Pilotage Foundation. He later built Oryx, another junk-rigged catamaran, and crossed the South Atlantic from Brazil to Cape Town.

Hill’s life afloat has not been without tragedy. In 2015, Carly was lost overboard off South Africa. In the years that followed, Hill returned to sea alone, sailing singlehanded across the Indian Ocean to Mauritius and Australia.

During the pandemic, Hill and his partner, Linda Crew-Gee, built Kokachin, a junk-rigged schooner. Her first voyage included a North Atlantic crossing, cruising in the Caribbean, and a circumnavigation of Newfoundland. When China Moon unexpectedly came up for sale, Hill bought her back. After a refit in Tasmania, he and Crew-Gee departed for New Zealand in 2025, surviving a severe Tasman Sea storm that damaged the boat and required six days of continuous hand steering.

Hill and Crew-Gee are now cruising in the Pacific.

In honoring Hill, the CCA cited not only the scale of his voyages, but also his lifelong commitment to simple construction, practical seamanship, and boats designed to be understood and maintained by their owners. His career stands as a reminder that ocean cruising remains as much about judgment and resilience as technology.

More information on Hill’s boats and voyages can be found at junkrigventures.org.

The CCA also named five other 2025 award winners for their adventurous use of the seas, including Tamara Klink (Young Voyager Award); Philip “Greg” Velez (Rod Stephens Seamanship Trophy); Peter Willauer (Diana Russell Award); Christopher and Molly Barnes (Far Horizons Award); and Doug and Dale Bruce (Richard S. Nye Trophy).

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The call of the open Atlantic is about to get louder. On Tuesday, Jan. 6, Belgian skipper Quentin Debois is scheduled to depart Cadiz, Spain, on an ambitious solo attempt to break the world record for an east to west Atlantic crossing aboard a Mini 6.50.

Once Debois crosses the official starting line between Puerto Sherry and the port of Cadiz, an on-site commissioner from the World Sailing Speed Record Council will start the clock. From there, the course stretches roughly 4,500 miles to San Salvador in the Bahamas. To set the record, Debois must complete the crossing in under 30 days, a feat that would make him the first Belgian sailor to hold the solo Atlantic record in the Mini 6.50 class.

After arriving in Cadiz on Dec. 22 for final preparations and weather standby, Debois and his team now have the conditions they were waiting for. Forecasts show favorable winds toward the Canary Islands with seas of about 8 feet, conditions well suited to high-performance sailing. Strong trade winds are expected to allow a fast westward turn after the required passage to starboard of Gran Canaria, with an anticipated four-day run to the Canaries.

Farther offshore, conditions across the central Atlantic appear stable, setting the stage for an aggressive but calculated opening phase.

“I am completely ready and calm for the start,” Debois said. “My boat is also completely ready, checked down to the smallest detail. All that remains is to give the hull a final clean so seaweed does not slow the boat down, and to load the [30 gallons] of water I will need for the crossing.”

Though alone on board, Debois will not be sailing without support. Each day, he will check in with shore-based router Basile Rochut, who will analyze weather models and routing options.

“As soon as I set sail, I will check in every day with my router Basile Rochut, who will be my co-pilot from land,” Debois said. “The goal is to get off to the best possible start because we do not know what lies ahead.”

Rochut emphasized that the skipper remains firmly in command. “Every day, I will send Quentin routings and comments on the strategy,” he said. “Quentin will be able to view them, give his opinion and make his choices. It is always the skipper who makes the final decisions on board.”

Debois expects to hand steer between eight and 10 hours a day, using the autopilot only for short rest periods of about 20 minutes. Safety remains central to every decision.

“To succeed in this challenge, we want to stay close to areas of strong wind, but always within reasonable limits,” he said. “It is the good sailor who has the final say over the competitor. The first thing I have to think about is the safety of the boat and myself.”

While his target time is an ambitious 27 days, Debois is realistic about the variables. Technical reliability, human endurance, routing decisions and a measure of luck will all play decisive roles.

“I will be alone on the boat, but ocean racing is a real team sport,” Debois said. “If we break a record, it will be a team victory.”

Regardless of the outcome, Debois is already looking ahead. In June 2026, he plans a west to east Atlantic record attempt from New York to Lizard Point in England, a shorter but often more demanding route. Long term, he hopes these projects will form the foundation of a professional offshore racing career.

For now, the mission is simple. Cast off the dock lines, point the bow west and settle into the long rhythm of solo sailing across the Atlantic.

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Ready to tack,” Chris said, nodding to our nephew Truman, who sat cross-legged in front of me, his eyes wide with anticipation.

At just 10 years old, Truman was now the same age Chris had been when he started racing in the High Sierra Regatta with his father. I was witnessing the proverbial tiller pass from one generation to the next as Truman scrambled into the cabin of our Victory 21, Geronimo. Moments later, with the maneuver complete, he popped back up like a seasoned crewman and found his place on the rail, just as Chris had instructed him. The transition was almost second nature.

“He’s good blood ballast,” I quipped, chuckling as our sensitive little boat responded favorably to the added 80 or so pounds. Every bit of weight and inch of adjustment makes a noticeable difference, as the elders of our fleet have been telling us for years.

This race was special for many reasons. Chris and I have been sailing together for 10 years, but this was our first regatta with a third crewmember. Let’s just say that in years past, the way we conducted ourselves was not exactly conducive to having little ears aboard. This year, though, something had changed. Maybe we were still riding the high of our second-place finish aboard Avocet in the Banderas Bay Regatta in Mexico, or maybe we were ready for a new chapter. Either way, we were thrilled to have Tru on the water with us—and after two solid fourth-place finishes, we were certain it wouldn’t be our last regatta as a crew.

After our final race (which ended in a photo finish), Chris handed over skipper responsibilities to Truman, who navigated us back to the marina. Watching him, you could see the subtle shifts in his focus—the way his small hands guided the tiller with growing confidence, his eyes locked on the telltales as he read the wind’s subtle shifts. His voice, though young, rang out with the command we’d taught him—“ready about”—both timid and confident in equal measure.

Chris and I were in awe of his raw talent, but there was no real surprise that he was a natural. After all, he has Neely blood in him. It’s about 80 percent salt water and 20 percent  wanderlust. Chris spent his formative years sailing with his family on Sea Castle, a Mason 43, navigating San Francisco Bay. His older brother Jon later bought his own bluewater cruiser, the Hans Christian 33 Prism. Sailing was more than a pastime—it was a family tradition, a bond forged through wind and waves.

Back in 2021, when Chris and I cast off for cruising adventures on Avocet, our Cheoy Lee 41, we promised ourselves that summers would always be spent back home, anchored in family. Part of that promise meant making lasting memories with our nephews before they grew up. During those sun-soaked summers, we noticed Truman’s natural affinity for sailing. His comfort with the elements came so easily that Chris and I offered to foster that talent.

After securing approval from Truman’s parents, we set out to find a boat that he and his brothers could call their own. Something small but capable where the boys could learn and grow as sailors. Our search led us to an International 14—a classic choice.

I’ll never forget the sheer excitement in Truman’s eyes on Christmas morning when we unveiled it. The boys christened it with a splash of soda on the bow and the name Bluey on the stern. Since then, the whole family has enjoyed countless sails on California’s Huntington Lake. Truman’s love for sailing has only grown, fueled in part by his time at Gold Arrow Camp, which holds its own legacy of sailing on those same waters.

I often look at old photos of Chris at that same camp, stretched out on a Sunfish with the unmistakable Neely grin and zest for spending time on the water. I see the same sparkle in Truman’s eyes.

“And in fifth place, the crew of Geronimo!”

The sound of applause brought me back to the present. Chris was off helping friends load their boat onto a trailer, so Truman and I made our way to the front of the crowd. The trophy wasn’t for first place, but the sense of accomplishment glimmered all the same.

I held the microphone and thanked the fleet for nurturing our love of sailing as well as the budding passion of our new crew. I said that I hoped to see Truman on the water again next year, continuing the family tradition.

This regatta marked the beginning of something new. Our journey now had a third crewmember to share in the adventure—someone to help carry the legacy forward.

Who knows? Maybe someday Truman will help our future kids, his cousins, learn to sail, passing on the same knowledge and love for the water that we’ve shared with him. Sometimes, you just have to pass the tiller.

The post How To Inspire Young Sailors: Pass the Tiller appeared first on Cruising World.

The week after the Annapolis Sailboat Show, I found myself at the helm of a brand spanking new Balance 580 with a stiff northerly breeze pumping the sails full on a glimmering Chesapeake Bay. I had a feeling that never gets old: that surge of excitement when everything aboard is new, clean and working exactly as it should. After years of sailing older, well-worn boats, it reminded me why our Cruising World team does what we do, continuing our Boat of the Year program every year.

I know what you’re thinking. Nice, buddy. But that boat costs more than a house. And you’re right. For most of us, new boats, especially some of the million-dollar stratosphere models in this year’s contest, aren’t exactly practical purchases. They’re aspirational, and maybe a little intimidating.

But that doesn’t mean they’re irrelevant. Far from it.

Here’s the thing: Watching and sailing these boats gives every boat owner a yardstick. Whether we’re buying used or dreaming of someday upgrading, we can see what’s working in design. We can tell which innovations are genuinely improving life aboard. We can identify the systems that will eventually filter down to the wider market. When you see a hybrid drive quietly charging batteries while under sail, or a well-planned deck layout that makes single-handing a breeze, it’s a glimpse into the future of cruising.

During our week of sea trials with the Boat of the Year judges, including sailing and systems experts Herb McCormick, Tim Murphy and Ralph Naranjo, we sailed a fleet built all over the world: France, Denmark, Slovenia, South Africa, Thailand. And yes, the prices made me blink more than once. The least-expensive new boat in the fleet was a spry Beneteau First 30 at $200,000. At the other extreme, the Balance 580 came in at $3.6 million. Yet even within that diversity of sizes, rigs and designs, there were lessons for everyone.

I learned a lot about myself too. Sitting at the helm of the Dragonfly 36 trimaran, zipping along in low teens of wind, I couldn’t help but grin as the boat’s designer, Jens Quorning, leaned in with that infectious energy sailors know well. He shouted: “You feel alive on this boat!” He spoke for all of us.

For the rest of the week, I toggled between 14 nominee boats, from the minimalistic, tiller-driven thrill of the Beneteau First 30 planing under a screecher, to the sprawling, technically sophisticated Pegasus 50’s tandem keel, triple-headsail rig and twin rudders. Each boat, in its own way, reminded me that cruising is about choices: sometimes subtle, sometimes monumental. Design matters as much as the dream.

The best new designs do more than dazzle. They influence everything we buy tomorrow. Builders are competing with used boats more than ever. Systems, ergonomics, hull shapes, sail-handling innovations—they start here, and over time, they appear on brokerage docks around the country. In a practical sense, knowing what’s coming lets you evaluate older boats with a sharper eye. You start to see why a certain rig choice matters, or how a particular electrical arrangement can save headaches down the line.

But beyond the tech and the specs, there’s another reason to celebrate new boats: inspiration. You don’t have to write a million-dollar check to appreciate ingenuity. The thrill of seeing what’s possible is contagious. Even a small tweak, a smarter layout or a cleaner power system can transform life aboard.

And then there’s the communal aspect. How many dockside friendships have started with, “Hey, I noticed your solar panel setup…” or “How are you liking that mast furling so far?” Whether it’s sharing knowledge, lending a hand or swapping stories over sundowners, the community we love is built on curiosity and collaboration. And seeing the next generation of designs keeps that conversation alive.

So yes, I spent a week sailing some of the priciest, flashiest boats on the market. And yes, it was exhilarating. But here’s the takeaway for every Cruising World reader: You don’t need a million-dollar yacht to get something out of this. You can look, you can learn, you can be inspired. And when you return to your own boat, you’ll do so with fresh eyes and maybe a few ideas to make your time aboard even better.

So step aboard and take the helm, and save the math for another day.

The post Eyeing What’s Possible: New Boats, Fresh Ideas appeared first on Cruising World.

The wind screamed against the steel hull, sending icy mist sideways across the deck. It was the kind of cold that clawed into bone, the kind of wet that no amount of gear could keep out. Thirty-foot swells rolled like sleeping giants beneath the boat.

Dan Lambert, on hour 20 of a Bering Sea shift, gripped the rail with callused hands. Somewhere between sleep deprivation and survival mode, a thought drifted through his salt-slicked mind: I wonder how warm it is in Mexico right now.

This is Lambert’s reality—one foot in the violent rhythm of the North Pacific, the other in the slow-burn dream of a sailboat still on the hard. It’s a dream that, like most good ones, started with a friend and a little peer pressure.

Lambert grew up in Kodiak, Alaska. It’s a place where the sea doesn’t whisper. It roars. Kodiak is an island of steep hills, damp wind and hard-earned meals. The ocean was in Lambert’s blood before he ever stepped aboard a working vessel.

“Neither of my parents were fishermen,” he says, “but our whole town ran on it. You start young. You work hard. You learn quick or you don’t last.”

He spent his younger years in competitive swimming, always in the water, always moving. But swimming pools became fishing decks, and before long, summer jobs turned into seasons, then years. He worked his way through every part of the operation: salmon fishing in Bristol Bay, Pacific cod in the winter—endless cycles of openers, closers and cold so deep it rattled the teeth.

Yet, Lambert is not your average Bering Sea fisherman. Sure, he’s got the frostbitten fingers, the thousand-yard stare, the effortless way he ties knots that would leave most sailors Googling for help. But he also has a dry, unflinching wit. A laugh that sneaks out of the corner of his mouth. A storyteller’s soul wrapped in raingear and sarcasm. He’s the kind of guy who can make you laugh in the middle of a squall, and mean it.

Lambert didn’t move to Mexico for the tacos or the tequila. He came to help my friend Peter Metcalfe work on Peter’s 38-foot Hans Christian Kessel in the Cabrales Boatyard, the same yard where my boat, the 41-foot Cheoy Lee Avocet, spent her summer after our first cruising season. It was Lambert’s first time south of the border, and he had no plans to buy a boat—until, well, plans changed.

“I got food poisoning and was couch-riding in the cruiser’s lounge, half-dead, scrolling Facebook sailboat listings for no real reason,” he says. “Then I saw her—this 1976 Ta Chiao ketch. The photos looked familiar. Turned out the boat was literally across the yard. I could see her from the couch I was dying on. Felt like a sign.”

The boat, now named Rue De La Mer, isn’t pretty. Not yet, anyway. It has an inch-thick fiberglass hull and stained-glass portholes, two of its only redeeming features. But Lambert saw potential, maybe. Or at least a path out of the freeze-thaw loop of commercial fishing.

Coming from a background of journalism, he had always wanted to travel. Sailing, he thought, might be the cheap way to do it. He laughs now, like many of us do: “I’ve never been more wrong in my life.”

Still, he returns to the boatyard between seasons, chipping away at a refit list that reads more like a personal reckoning: rigging, electronics, sails, deck hardware, bowsprit, paint. “Honestly, way too much to list,” he says. “But not working on my boat makes me want to work on it. So there’s that.”

Lambert describes fishing for Pacific cod in the Bering Sea is as “the apex of commercial fishing.” Haul gear for 20 hours, sleep for three. Fill the boat with up to 200,000 pounds of cod. Repeat. “You’re just hoping to come back with all your appendages,” he says.  Which, unfortunately, is not an exaggeration. Our friend went deep sea fishing off the coast of Canada and tells the tale of a buddy who lost a finger—clean off, just gone. He had photos to prove it.

And yet, when the fish are sorted and the hold is full, there are moments. Raft-ups in Bristol Bay. Grills lit. Rainiers cracked. Midnight sun hanging high above the water. For a brief second, the ocean turns soft again.

The real dream is not tied to quotas or survival. It’s the idea of floating freely, of chasing warm currents and slow mornings. Of anchoring somewhere that doesn’t feel like a battleground.

Lambert wants to start small. Shake out the sails, learn the rhythm. Someday, maybe, take the boat all the way north from Mexico, to bring it home. To prove something to himself. “I think the click moment will be when it finally hits the water,” he says. “Right now it’s just a dream sitting on jack stands.”

There’s something about people like Lambert that sticks. He reminds me that not all grit looks the same. That humor is armor. That storytelling is survival. Those dreams, even when absurd or unfinished, are worth documenting.

A lot of people are out there refitting boats in backwater yards with no real timelines and very questionable budgets. But few of them are hauling gear in the Bering Sea one month and sanding down their bowsprit in the desert the next. Fewer still can make you laugh while describing both.

Lambert is still waiting to cast off, but in all the ways that count, he’s already underway. He’s working, building, suffering, laughing—and above all, hoping. Maybe that’s what drew me to his story. Maybe that’s what makes me root for him.

The post Between Salt and Solace: A Fisherman’s Sailboat Saga appeared first on Cruising World.

Sahula is barely discernible, just a red dot against the green of the heavily wooded hills beyond her. The 9-foot inflatable dinghy that brought us across the river estuary to this narrow sandspit is now an insignificant speck. No matter which way I look, the only other sign of human inhabitation is the mile-long trail of footprints that my partner David and I made as we stretched our legs after a quiet day afloat.

Island Head Creek, on Australia’s Capricorn Coast, is part of a vast wilderness and military exercise area. Because the sea area to the south of us is closed to sailing traffic while joint NATO/ANZUS naval exercises commence, we have a rare chance to savor being completely on our own. There is not another boat in sight. The hills and sand dunes cut off the view out to sea. So we can’t see the occasional ship that must be sailing past the entrance 3 miles from where we chose to anchor. There is no internet reception, which adds to the feeling of being completely cut off from the outside world. We’ve been here for four days now and aren’t eager to move on.

A flock of pelicans runs clumsily along the water’s edge in preparation for taking flight. As I watch, I am reminded of how rare it is to be completely on our own, other than when we head off across an ocean. I enjoy the feeling of being disconnected when we are on passage. But at sea, the responsibilities of taking care of the boat, adjusting or changing sails, the need to ensure we stay well rested and keep a good lookout, the intrusion of twice-a-day weather checks, changes the dynamic. Here, in contrast, in an almost perfect anchorage, we can forget about the boat’s needs, the responsibilities of good seamanship. I can’t remember a time when I felt more completely relaxed.

David has set up his easel next to the chart table. I have my computer open on the saloon table. While I begin the pages that might someday become another book, David creates paintings in pastel or oil showing his vision of the wonderful sunsets and island scenes we encountered as we meandered north among the islands of the Great Barrier Reef. Half the day, sometimes more, slides gently past this way. Lunch in the cockpit stretches far longer than it would at sea or ashore as we watch the whirls and eddies from the tidal current that rushes past Sahula. I am surprised that, despite the almost perfect conditions, I have no desire to knock another item off Sahula’s ever-present work list. This situation is too rare, too fleeting.

Though David and I choose to be internet-free at sea, whenever we make landfall and hear the ping indicating our phones have a Wi-Fi connection, we almost instinctively feel obliged to catch up. Our meander north has kept us relatively close to land, so we often chose our position in various island anchorages by the strength of the internet connections. The first day we anchored here in Island Head Creek, I used a halyard to hoist my phone up the mast in the hope that it might pick up a signal. Now I am glad it didn’t. Within a day, our conversations started to change. Instead of feeling overwhelmed by happenings in the outside world, sometimes we shared memories of other voyages, other wonderful anchorages, other adventures we’d encountered before we began sailing together. Sometimes we tried to imagine the shape of our next months and years, hopefully spent afloat as we are right now.

Last night, I laughed when I realized how little I had to write in my daily log entry. After noting that David had started a new painting and I had finished writing the foreword for Herb Benavent’s book on rigging, there was nothing I could add.  If someone had asked me what I’d done to fill the day, I would have worked hard to think of what to say. Yes, I’d read a novel. Yes, I spent a bit of extra time cooking dinner. But mostly, I would have had to say, “I did nothing.”

As I savor this feeling of complete disconnect, I am aware that it is not everyone’s cup of tea.  Many years ago, my husband, Larry, and I were cruising south along the west coast of Ireland after a wonderful summer of Irish pub music and what the Irish call “good craic.” (Fine times shared with like-minded people.) The midday forecast indicated deteriorating weather. We were just off the Kenmare Estuary, or maybe it was Bantry Bay. Our chart indicated a well-protected cove within easy reach. I looked in the cruising guide put out by the Irish Cruising Club. This anchorage wasn’t mentioned. We decided to head there anyway, as it was the closest. If it didn’t suit us, the guide showed another option just 5 miles onward.

Right before dusk, we sailed into the unnamed cove. It looked perfect. We set the anchor. The holding was excellent. We had 360-degree protection. No other boats were there.  No village was nearby. No roads were visible. The gale passed quickly. We got a good night’s sleep. Though we were somewhat eager to reach the UK before the onset of winter, we ended up staying for three days. We launched our dinghy and explored a creek. We walked along lightly used paths and picked the last blackberries of the season. We never once saw another person. A week later, when we sailed into Kinsale on Ireland’s southern shores, we were invited aboard the boat of a local sailor. Larry asked why the perfect anchorage we’d found wasn’t mentioned in any guidebook. Our hosts’ immediate reply: “G’way! Who’d go there? There’s no pub.”

Now, as we add a second set of footprints on our trek back to the dinghy, I think about how this evening’s rising tide will cover this sandspit and wash them away. By morning, Island Head Creek will appear just like it was when we sailed in, untouched by humans.

I know I will feel reluctant to sail onward when our provisions run low. But that isn’t a thought for today. I plan to fully savor being truly alone, yet not one bit lonely.

After cruising more than 240,000 miles, US Sailing Hall of Fame inductee Lin Pardey is off to sea again. Her latest book, Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond, encourages folks to go simple, go small, and go now.

The post No Pubs, No Problem: Disconnect to Boost Your Sailing Experience appeared first on Cruising World.