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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In an Atlantic crossing, whether racing or cruising, the ocean rewards preparation, patience and sound judgment. As competitors ready themselves for the 2026 RORC Transatlantic Race from Lanzarote to Antigua, three of offshore sailing’s most accomplished navigators are studying the same weather systems that shape any east to west passage. Their approaches may be sharpened by competition, but the lessons translate directly to long range cruising.

Chris Jackson, RORC race officer and an eight time Atlantic crosser, sets the strategic backdrop. “On current forecasts the weather outlook for the RORC Transatlantic Race this year is looking good,” he said. The trades appear well established, with a lighter wind exit from the Canary Islands before settling into steadier downwind conditions farther west. For cruisers, that familiar pattern reinforces the value of patience early on, resisting the urge to force speed until the trades fully fill in.

Jackson also points to factors cruisers know well. Isolated squalls may pepper the course, and much of the route is shaping up as a VMG run close to the rhumb line rather than a deep dive south. For passagemakers, that underscores the importance of balancing miles sailed against comfort and consistency, not simply chasing stronger breeze.

Juan Vila, navigating the Carkeek 45 Ino Noir, brings a perspective that resonates strongly with cruising sailors. Having navigated everything from America’s Cup yachts to record setting maxis, Vila emphasizes that boat speed dictates strategy. “On a fast boat you sail from one weather system to the next,” he said. “On a smaller boat you wait for the weather to come to you, so positioning becomes far more important.”

That mindset mirrors the reality aboard many cruising boats. Rather than hunting distant forecasts, Vila focuses on medium-range models, currents and the evolving shape of the trades. His advice applies offshore as well. Study how wind belts shift day to day, watch current flow and be ready to adjust course slightly to stay in pressure. Flexibility matters. “That flexibility is huge,” Vila said, noting how VMG sailing early and efficient reaching later can make a meaningful difference.

Vila also stresses instinct. “When you are in island shadows or playing squalls, you trust what you see,” he said. Cruisers threading squall lines at night or managing acceleration zones downwind know that no model replaces eyes on the water and experience built over miles.

At the other end of the spectrum is Will Oxley aboard the Baltic 111 Raven, a yacht capable of sustaining speeds that most cruisers will never see. Yet his core principles remain familiar. “The fundamentals of routing don’t change,” Oxley said. “Every boat has a polar and you run routings against that.”

For cruisers, the takeaway is knowing your own boat. Understand realistic speeds loaded for passagemaking and factor sea state into decisions. Oxley routes to avoid rough water even if it means sailing farther. That tradeoff will sound familiar to any crew choosing comfort and safety over shaving a few hours off an ETA.

Oxley also highlights the importance of understanding weather data rather than simply consuming it. “You must understand why they are showing what they show,” he said. High resolution models are powerful tools, but interpretation and context remain critical. New AI-based models may extend forecast confidence, but judgment still matters most.

Miles Seddon’s world aboard the MOD70 Zoulou is defined by speed and immediacy, yet his insights echo classic seamanship. “It looks like getting into the trade winds quickly and avoiding a ridge of high pressure north of the rhumb line will be key,” he said. For cruisers, that reinforces the classic Atlantic goal of finding sustained pressure and staying out of light air traps.

Seddon emphasizes discipline at speed. “We set clear limits on wind strength and direction before maneuvers,” he said. Long distance cruisers may not jibe at 30 knots, but preplanning sail changes, squall tactics and rest schedules is just as important when shorthanded.

Across three very different boats and mindsets, a common thread emerges. Data informs decisions, but experience refines them. Whether waiting for the weather to arrive, protecting the boat in big seas or committing to a conservative line through uncertain forecasts, the Atlantic demands respect.

As the RORC Transatlantic fleet prepares to depart Lanzarote, us mortal cruisers watching from afar can take comfort in a familiar truth: The same trade winds, squalls and currents shape every crossing. The best outcomes come from patience and preparation, and making every decision with the long view in mind.

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Ocean Posse has announced a new voluntary reporting arrangement designed to improve safety for private cruising boats transiting parts of the Caribbean and the Eastern Pacific. The program encourages offshore sailors to share basic voyage information before departing remote areas where vessel identification can be difficult.

The initiative focuses on passages beyond 12 nautical miles in the Eastern Pacific south or east of Huatulco Mexico and north of Ecuador as well as portions of the southern Caribbean. Ocean Posse says the goal is simple: help reduce the chance that an innocent cruising yacht could be misidentified while underway.

“Recreational sailors could become collateral damage in an environment where accurate vessel identification is increasingly difficult,” said Dietmar Petutschnig founder of Ocean Posse. “A properly filed float plan and an up-to-date vessel profile can make a meaningful difference during an unexpected encounter.”

At the core of the program is voluntary pre-departure communication. Captains are encouraged to update their vessel profile on MarineTraffic with current details and photos and to file a standard U.S. Coast Guard Auxiliary float plan 48 to 72 hours before departure. That float plan is emailed to a dedicated humanitarian notification address so it can be referenced if needed during the voyage. Crews are also asked to confirm safe arrival at the end of the passage.

Ocean Posse emphasizes that participation is optional and designed as an added layer of situational awareness, not an enforcement process. Underway best practices include maintaining a continuous watch, monitoring VHF Channel 16, transmitting AIS when possible, clearly displaying a national ensign and responding promptly to any hails at sea.

The organization also highlights established rescue coordination contacts for family members and shore-side supporters should concerns arise during an offshore passage.

“This is not mandatory but it is the best layer of protection available right now,” Petutschnig said. “It provides clear confirmation that a vessel is a legitimate cruising yacht with a known itinerary.”

Ocean Posse says full instructions are available to members and the wider cruising community and encourages offshore sailors to review the guidance as part of routine passage planning.

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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 new feature from the Noforeignland app aims to make digital seamanship even easier for sailors on the move.

The popular social platform for cruisers, Noforeignland, has introduced a built-in GPS boat tracker that allows sailors to share their positions, record passages, and document their voyages, all at no cost. Available for both Apple and Android devices, the app has grown rapidly since its launch and now claims the world’s largest online sailing community.

“We wanted yacht tracking that just works; no subscriptions, no setup,” said Steve Neal, co-founder of Noforeignland with his wife, Helena. “Our built-in GPS lets sailors share their adventures instantly and securely, all for free.”

Using the new tracker is simple. Users can tap Move My Boat to log a position update, or choose Record My Boat Track to start a live track of a passage. The app then uses the phone’s GPS to create an accurate record of the journey, which can later be shared or exported.

For cruisers already using satellite devices or tracking systems, Noforeignland is designed to integrate easily. The app is compatible with Garmin inReach, Iridium GO!, Yellowbrick, PredictWind DataHub, and other systems. Users can also import or export GPX files for seamless data sharing between tools.

Where Noforeignland appears to stand out from most tracking platforms is in how it weaves navigation and storytelling together. Sailors can attach photos, videos, and notes to their routes, building a personalized digital logbook that doubles as a public journal for family, friends, and fellow voyagers.

Founded in 2017, Noforeignland has evolved into a crowd-sourced global sailing resource, combining location-based information, social networking, and now, vessel tracking. Its community-driven “wiki” model lets users contribute details about anchorages, marinas, and shore facilities in real time. The app and website are free to use, with no data selling or tiered paywalls, and supported instead by community donations and partnerships.

For everyday cruisers, the app’s latest update represents another step toward integrating passage tracking, navigation, and social connection into a single, free platform.Learn more or download the app at noforeignland.com.

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When Sarah and I tell people we’re planning to sail around the world, we usually get one of two questions: “Where will you go?” and “What kind of boat are you doing it in?”

The first answer is simple: everywhere we can. High latitudes and tropical trade routes, quiet coves and remote anchorages, oceans to cross and people to meet.

The second question takes longer to answer—and the decision behind it took even longer to make.

We knew from the outset that this boat wouldn’t just be a mode of travel. It would be our home, our lifeline, and our entire support system for months or even years at a time. That made the search personal, and deeply mission-driven. The end result—our Boreal 56, Spindrift—is the product of months of discussion, dreaming, and refining what really mattered.

If you’re beginning your own search for a serious offshore cruising boat, we hope our experience helps frame the questions that matter most.

Start With the Mission

We began with a clear plan: to circumnavigate under sail, as safely and comfortably as possible. Our route would include everything from tropical trades to high-latitude routes with cold water, long passages, and unpredictable weather.

Our crew? Often just the two of us. Occasionally, our daughters Hannah and Samantha would join. Maybe, now and then, another couple. That meant two things had to be true: the boat had to be easily handled by two people, and it had to be rugged and forgiving in heavy weather.

We weren’t in a rush. Retired and finally free of the demands of career and commuting, we had time on our side. But that also meant we didn’t want to spend our retirement years tied to a dock, elbows deep in a refit or chasing system failures across foreign ports. We were looking for a boat that wouldn’t just go the distance—it had to arrive ready to go.

New vs. Used: The Time Equation

This led us to the first big fork in the road: old boat or new build?

There are plenty of excellent older boats out there, and we seriously considered going that route. But we also recognized that a “project boat” can quietly take over your life—and often carries invisible risks. In our case, the price of uncertainty outweighed the savings.

We didn’t want to be in a boatyard for the first year of retirement. We wanted to be at sea.

Material Matters: Why We Chose Aluminum

With the new-build route in mind, the next big choice was hull material. Fiberglass? Steel? Aluminum?

After plenty of research, conversation, and crawling around in boatyards, we decided on aluminum. For us, the pros—ruggedness, impact resistance, structural strength, repairability—outweighed the cons. We liked that aluminum deforms rather than cracks, and we trusted the long-term durability when built well.

The construction techniques used in our final choice were impressive: a thick keel plate, double-digit millimeter hull plating, and a monocoque structure that removed as many failure points as possible. Concerns about electrolysis are real, but manageable with good engineering and proper maintenance.

Hull Form and Handling: Comfort First

Comfort underway became a guiding value. Not comfort in the sense of plush cushions and granite countertops, but a kind motion—a boat that takes care of her crew in rough seas.

That ruled out multihulls for us. We gave them a fair look, even touring a Chris White Atlantic 55. But in the end, we preferred the motion and security of a monohull. One particular design caught our attention: the Boreal 56, a centerboarder with twin daggerboards—a rarity, but a configuration with huge upsides. It could go shallow, surf safely, and track well on long passages.

Weight distribution was also thoughtfully managed—fuel, water, chain, and batteries were centralized low in the hull. This created not just a more stable ride, but also increased internal volume where we needed it most: for storage, guest accommodations, and systems access.

The Rig: Safe and Simple

The rig design sealed the deal for us. We chose a Solent configuration with twin furling headsails and a main with deep reefing capability. Downwind, we carry a Blue Water Runner and a furling gennaker, all sized for short-handed control.

But what impressed us most was the attention to safety. The mainsheet is out of the cockpit entirely, mounted to the top of the doghouse—no traveler to fall into or trip over. Winches and sail controls are brought inboard where they can be handled safely from the cockpit. These details reflect real offshore experience. They’re not flashy—but they make a big difference in the moments that matter.

Finding the Right Builder

No boat is built in a vacuum, and in the end, the people mattered most.

After visiting many yards, we found one where the philosophy aligned with our own. The builder’s experience, integrity, and design evolution made a strong impression. The founder had clearly spent thousands of miles at sea and poured that experience into each detail.

What sealed the deal wasn’t just the specs or even the prototype—it was the team. The pride they took in their work. The thoughtfulness in their answers. The way every decision seemed tied back to the real-world question: “Would this make life safer, easier, or better for the crew?”

Final Thoughts

We know Spindrift isn’t the right boat for everyone. But for our goals, the Boreal 56 checked every box. And that’s the point.

There’s no single answer when it comes to boat selection. The “right” boat depends on your mission, your crew, your risk tolerance, and your sailing style. The only real mistake is not thinking hard enough about the decision.

Ask questions. Challenge assumptions. Visit builders. Talk to other cruisers. And most of all, know your priorities.

This was our process—and it led us to the boat of our dreams.

Offshore Cruising Boat Selection Checklist: A Practical Planning Guide for Cruisers Starting Their Search

Whether you’re dreaming of trade winds or tackling high latitudes, here are 10 questions to help guide your offshore boat search:

1. What’s your mission?
   Define your sailing goals—distance, locations, duration, and seasons.
   
2. Who’s your crew?
   Will you sail solo, as a couple, or with friends/family? This impacts layout, sail handling, and safety.
   
3. How important is comfort under way?
   Evaluate motion at sea, not just interior space. Try different hull types in different conditions.
   
4. Do you want a new or used boat?
   Consider time, budget, project appetite, and the hidden costs of a refit.
   
5. Which hull material fits your plans?
   Fiberglass, aluminum, and steel each have trade-offs in weight, repairability, and resilience.
   
6. How shallow do you want to go?
   A centerboard, lifting keel, or shoal-draft design could expand your cruising grounds.
   
7. Is your rig optimized for your sailing style?
   Look for a setup that’s safe and manageable by your smallest likely crew.
   
8. Can systems be maintained off-grid?
   Think about power generation, redundancy, and access to critical parts.
   
9. How is safety integrated into the design?
   Look beyond marketing—ask how design decisions reduce real-world risks.
   
10. Do you trust the builder?
    Visit yards, talk to past owners, and evaluate the yard’s philosophy and support.

About the authors: Tony and Sarah Mercurio grew up on the water in New Jersey and Rhode Island and now live on Long Beach Island, NJ. Lifelong sailors, they spent years chartering globally before commissioning their current world-cruising sailboat. In retirement, they’re pursuing a lifelong dream to circumnavigate aboard Spindrift, their Boreal 56. Follow their voyage at KrustyKrabAdventures.com.

The post One Couple’s Search for the Right Offshore Cruising Boat appeared first on Cruising World.

A sailing outfit based around the 51-foot ketch Arbella is offering offshore passage opportunities for sailors looking to gain experience on bluewater routes between Canada and the Caribbean. Salty Coffee Sailing Expeditions, founded by Tucker and Catherine—a husband-and-wife team with 15,000 nautical miles of offshore experience—provides hands-on training aboard a rugged, performance cruising boat.

The program runs seasonally from November to June and includes passages from the Canadian Maritimes to Bermuda, the Caribbean, and return. According to the organizers, trips are open to all experience levels, but participants are expected to take an active role in sailing and vessel operations.

Sailors join the boat as working crew members, standing watch, handling sails, navigating, and participating in routine tasks aboard. The goal, says the team, is to give participants real-world offshore experience under the guidance of a licensed captain and experienced mate.

The platform for the program is Arbella, a Skye 51 designed by Kaufman and Ladd and built in Taiwan in the early 1980s under Alden Yachts supervision. The design features a long fin keel, skeg-hung rudder, and ketch rig. Only 18 Skye 51s were built, and the boat is known for combining traditional offshore qualities with a relatively fast hull shape and manageable sailplan.

Below, Arbella includes two cabins, multiple bunks, two heads, a navigation station, and a U-shaped galley. The boat’s layout and rig are suited for short-handed offshore sailing, with multiple sail combinations available for varying wind conditions.

Salty Coffee’s co-founders describe the program as a way to help more people experience offshore sailing while also building competence and confidence in passagemaking. While the tone of the experience is intentionally hands-on and collaborative, it’s not positioned as formal instruction or certification.

The company got its name from an early sailing memory: attempting to drink coffee while sailing upwind into 20 knots of breeze and taking spray in the face. That moment, they say, reflected both the challenge and clarity that comes with going offshore—a theme that underpins their approach to the experience.For more information or to see upcoming passages, visit saltycoffeesailing.com.

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This definitely wasn’t the best start.

Our plan was to deliver the Jeanneau 53 Kaimana across the Pacific from San Diego to Honolulu for a friend and client, Michael Prescesky. I found myself drifting in a tiny inflatable, in the Pacific, a few miles off San Diego.

The dinghy engine had just spluttered to a stop, and the small inflatable was rocking gently in a light sea breeze. It was eerily quiet. I watched Kaimana sail away under its new pink spinnaker, against a fine backdrop of the distant San Diego skyline. To my right, the hills of Tijuana, Mexico, shimmered in the sea haze, dead downwind. 

While taking photos of the boat during our sea trial, I had gotten carried away (no surprise there) and quickly used all the gas in the tiny, built-in fuel tank of the 6 hp Yamaha outboard. This now seemed like a significant lapse of judgment.

I pulled out my phone and called my crew, longtime sailing friend Tracy Dixon, aboard Kaimana. A retired US Navy explosive ordnance diver, Tracy is predictably methodical. He hates surprises. And yet, he has inexplicably done several ocean crossings with me. 

My phone erupted in a burst of static, followed by a recorded voice saying something in Spanish like, “Bienvenidos a Mexico.”

Tracy and I knew this boat well, having delivered Kaimana from Hawaii to the Pacific Northwest. While waiting for my two nephews, 24-year-olds Rowan and Quinn, to arrive from work, and in Rowan’s case, a college graduation, Tracy and I had decided to go on a shakedown sail and test the new spinnaker.

For our sea trial, I’d enlisted the help of some veteran local racing sailors, Lani and June Spund. Tracy and I had met them while searching for a used spinnaker for our downwind run back to Hawaii. Having owned and raced a series of ultralights like the Santa Cruz 50, Lani had a treasure trove of sails and gear, but he didn’t have the sail we needed. Regardless, we immediately struck up a friendship with the delightful couple. Lani felt that sailing to Hawaii with my two nephews was simply “a gift.” They volunteered to come along and help with the shakedown cruise because Quinn and Rowan hadn’t yet arrived.

I stood in the dinghy, hoping that Lani and June would be able get the sail down with Tracy, then turn back for me in the waning daylight. Otherwise, it would be bienvenidos a Mexico for me.

My first thought was: And you don’t even have your passport.

Kaimana, now on a beam reach and perfectly trimmed, was disappearing at an alarming clip under its pink sail, sans the skipper. Until now, I’d been excited that I’d finally found that crispy, nearly new spinnaker for our downwind crossing at the local Doyle loft through its fantastic SailM8 resource for sailing gear. By the look of it, the sail was a perfect fit. Too perfect. It was flying beautifully, pulling the boat away from me at a pace of around 7 knots.

Preparing a boat for a Pacific crossing is never easy—even this boat, a recently surveyed Jeanneau 53 from 2017.

I was a little uneasy being so far out at sea in a 10-foot inflatable, but the situation wasn’t life-threatening. I was more embarrassed that I’d left the boat and failed to return.

Meanwhile, on board Kaimana, Tracy had begun methodically untangling the spinnaker snuffing sock, which, after a few jibes, had become tangled. As they sailed on, another yacht appeared to leeward, all smiles and cameras pointed at the pretty spinnaker, but also blocking the route downwind that they wanted to douse the sail. They finally got clear, doused the sail, and motored back to me. By this time, they’d covered several miles, and just managed to find me. 

I apologized sincerely for making the crew scramble. Tracy, to his credit, said it was great practice for a man overboard. The lesson was that under spinnaker, a man overboard could be recovered only if the boat were immediately stopped. Sailing away while messing with the sail wouldn’t be an option. 

At 6 to 8 knots, the boat covers a mile in less than 10 minutes. At even a fraction of that distance, with intervening seas, a swimmer would not be visible. I resolved to keep the crew safely aboard. Failing that, if anyone went overboard, we’d change course immediately to stop the boat, whether luffing up into the wind or heading dead downwind. The spinnaker could then be tamed or depowered by blowing the tack, then quickly snuffed or dropped on deck. 

Of course, all crew would have an AIS beacon attached to their inflatable harness. Far offshore, the AIS beacon is the only device that can alert your own boat, certainly the closest vessel, and is your best chance of a timely rescue. It was a given that the dinghy would stay stowed while underway.

Preparing a boat for a Pacific crossing is never easy—even this boat, a recently surveyed  Jeanneau 53 from 2017. I had already delivered Kaimana across the Pacific once, a passage to windward, from Hawaii to Victoria, British Columbia. Michael then sold it, but later decided that he just couldn’t live without it and purchased it again. In the meantime, the boat had mostly sat idle in its berth. 

I spent weeks preparing the boat. And I still had unexpected issues at sea. More about those later.

Hundreds of jobs presented themselves, from the top of the mast to the bottom of the keel. We flew in from Hawaii, arriving late in San Diego. I woke up ready to dive right in, and pumped up a glass of water with the foot pump at the galley sink. While downing it, I realized that I was ­actually drinking salt water. San Diego Bay salt water, in fact. Where the military runs ships, dry docks and bases. The foot pump, I remembered, has a handy Y valve to switch from salt to fresh water. Somehow, I survived without getting sick. Long-term effects are yet to be determined.

The best thing about Shelter Bay was Roberto’s Taco Shop, which stands out even in a city full of great Mexican food. We loved this food so much that we became a fixture there. We met the owner and his family, most of whom worked at the shop. They were openly curious about our story, wondering how we could sail “all the way to Hawaii.” We found the family hardworking, kind and generous. Basically, your typical Mexican immigrants. When I showed up just after closing time one day, they sent me back to the boat with a chili verde burrito, on the house. Unable to live without Roberto’s food, we ordered three huge trays of frozen meats for the crossing: carne asada, chili verde and al pastor. We even brought numerous bags of the heaviest, most lard-filled and delicious handmade tortillas ever made.

Our weather window showed a few days of headwinds, followed by developing high pressure that would send us all the way to Hawaii, with trade winds on our starboard quarter. 

My two nephews arrived. Both of them have crossed an ocean with me once or twice. Quinn, my brother’s son, had just graduated from the University of California at Santa Barbara with a degree in geography. A keen surfer, Quinn had some free time before heading out to Indonesia to coach resort tourists on how to surf some of the best waves in the world, a posting that made his uncle a bit jealous. Quinn is an instinctual and physical learner, the kind of sailor who feels the boat and sails it fluidly, without evident effort.

Rowan had also just graduated, from the University of California at Berkeley, with a degree in architecture. After two Atlantic crossings with me, and time at a college sailing club honing his skills, Rowan can usually balance the boat in that sweet spot between too high and too low. I can sleep when either of these “kids” is on deck, which in fact might be the highest form of praise from a captain. I also had Tracy aboard, who has done even more crossings than these two. A few years older than I am, he retired as a senior chief from the Navy, where he spent his career defusing bombs in underwater demolitions. He always offers to take the worst job on the boat. After several tours in wartime Middle East, his usual response to any hardship at sea is to say, “Oh, yeah, I’ve seen much worse.” For me, this was the dream crew, and they all got along well. Never a cross word was spoken.

Despite the fact that the Pacific High hadn’t quite filled in and we would have to beat to weather for a few days, it was time to go. We’d worn out our welcome at Shelter Bay Marina with the most miserable harbormaster I’d ever met. For some reason unknown to us, she’d decided that she did not like us. After she’d threatened to come down and physically cut equipment off the boat, claiming it belonged to another client, I’d felt it was time to go. Sailing to windward wouldn’t be so bad in comparison. That is the beauty of a sailboat: You can always just sail away. 

San Diego was surrounded by the usual coastal low clouds when we motored out of the bay. The wind was light and unreliable. We knew we’d have to get clear of Point Conception before we’d find the northwesterlies. 

As we motorsailed out into the Pacific, our AIS and radar showed a naval vessel on our starboard bow. It seemed to be slowly altering course to pass behind us. Tracy identified it as an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer as it passed us to starboard on a reciprocal course. A series of helicopters flew overhead, dropping large parcels into the sea off our port side. 

Suddenly, the destroyer began firing 5-inch projectiles into the sea at these parcels, right across our wake. It was a spectacle. I was heartily glad they’d let us get well past before opening fire.

The wind began to increase late that night in fits and starts as we sailed out into the unobstructed coastal northwesterlies. We passed the shoals at the famous big-wave surf spot Cortes Bank, about 100 miles off the coast near the Channel Islands, due south of Point Conception. We began to hit speeds of 10 knots, and soon had double reefs in both the main and jib. At 7 to 8 knots, the boat was working in the seas and taking occasional waves over the bow. Rowan ejected his chili verde burrito dinner over the rail. 

Before daybreak, I heard footsteps from my bunk in the forward cabin. Quinn, the surfer, had noticed that the tail of our spinnaker tack line had washed loose where it was coiled at the bow. Most people would have left it, but being Quinn, he was going forward to secure it. 

I peered up out of my hatch. Quinn seemed a bit nervous, which I realized had nothing to do with the seas. He wasn’t sure how I’d react to this adventure, as captain. I could tell he was fine. He was balanced on the foredeck, he was properly tethered to the boat, and he kept an eye on the seas while riding the boat like an oversize surfboard. 

He was the one who volunteered for the most challenging jobs. Later in the voyage, when the wind got light, it was of course Quinn who volunteered to dive down to remove a loop of ­drifting fishing-net rope that had fouled the prop. Emerging with rope in hand, he was the spitting image of his father, Alex, when he was in his 20s: capable, fit and pumped up for any adventure.

Quinn was also the keenest fisherman aboard, diligently setting the lines every morning before sunrise. We used my trusty squid jigs, weighted with lead on heavy 300-pound-test monofilament hand lines, with oversize bungees. We had little luck for a week. Quinn was disappointed. “Uncle Tor,” he complained, “this is the worst fishing trip I’ve ever been on.” 

Sadly, it was just after Quinn had gone below for a nap that we hooked a 6-foot-long billfish. I had deliberately wrapped the fishing line backward around the windward sheet winch in the cockpit so that the spinning winch would alert us if we had a strike. Suddenly, the winch spun wildly, then stopped. I pulled in some of the line, but it was slack—no fish on. We could see a large gray shape underwater following the lure. Knowing that billfish first hit their prey to stun it and then come back to swallow it, I released the line in my hands all at once. The fish swallowed the lure. Sheeting out the sails to slow the boat, I brought the beast up to the transom with some effort, where we gaffed it and brought it aboard. 

Until we managed to secure a line carefully around the bill of the flailing fish, there was a real threat of serious injury from the whipping bill, hook and gaff. This far from medical care, we did everything carefully. To our amazement, Quinn slept through it all. When he reappeared on deck, I told him we had “caught a little fish” and sent him to look on the transom, across which the beast was stretched.

When he said he didn’t feel well enough to stand watch, I knew he was incapacitated.

He was happy that we had a fish, but ­obviously, he had wanted to be the one who caught it. Quinn wasn’t disappointed for long; a day later, he caught two large wahoo on his morning watch. The ocean provides.

Unfortunately, though, Tracy had apparently contracted a case of COVID in San Diego while we were provisioning. Fever and chills began just as we encountered open ocean seas. He developed an alarming, deep cough. When he said he didn’t feel well enough to stand watch, I knew he was incapacitated.

Luckily, we had four crew, and there was some slack built into our watch schedule. The schedule had each crewmember keeping a four-hour watch, with me, the captain, as second watch stander and backup in case of sail changes, ship avoidance, or anything else. I hadn’t scheduled a watch for myself, which kept me ready at any time that I was needed on deck. This was such a time, and I was able to stand Tracy’s watch, with no change in the schedule for anyone else. 

After two nights of this, Tracy ­miraculously appeared on deck and began sharing his ­encyclopedic knowledge of the history of ­civilization, so we knew that he was pretty much back to normal.

Our main concern at sea was large vessels, so we kept a good watch. We encountered a number of container and tanker ships off the California coast. On two occasions, large container vessels changed course unpredictably and erratically, making it nearly impossible to decipher their intentions. A quick VHF radio call to the bridge got their attention, and we were able to avoid them.

Having seen this before, the experience got me wondering what would cause them to drive like drunks. I later asked a friend who captains a container ship for Matson. He told me that these ships have trouble slowing down. Much as with our smaller marine engines, they’re vulnerable to carbon buildup when run at slow speeds, and they’re designed to run at nearly full rpm, except when maneuvering, which is maybe 5 percent of the time. When waiting for a berth, they’ll often zigzag, slowing down only minimally, to kill time. They also perform regular steering tests and man-overboard drills.

We were well into the crossing when we found out that our water supply was contaminated. The water had appeared fine at the dock, but once it all got stirred up offshore, a nasty white film clogged the filters and water pump. Changing water tanks didn’t help. We had already added vinegar to the tanks, but this didn’t help. The white slime remained. I tested two water samples in clear bottles, adding bleach to one and vinegar to another. The bleached water was clearer, but the white slime remained in both. 

Fortunately, we’d had the foresight to stow a good amount of bottled water under the floorboards in case of contamination like this, or a leaking tank or water line. Immediately taking stock of our bottled water, I came across a large trove of water bottles deep in the bilge. We had stowed these in 2018, when we had delivered this same boat from Hawaii to Victoria, British Columbia. Complete with labels saying “Aloha Water,” this unexpected gift meant we would have a good backup of clean water to make it to the Aloha State.

Our next unhappy discovery was oil in the bilge. It started as a small puddle, but as we puzzled over its source, it began to accumulate faster. Finally, we isolated the source to the generator, which we’d had serviced in San Diego before leaving. The mechanic had failed to tighten the new oil filter adequately, and oil was spraying out in increasing volume. 

Unfortunately, the generator was installed ­under the transom, and the only access required removing the heavy transom cover, exposing the boat to following seas. We discussed our options. We had our new pink spinnaker flying and were making good speed in relation to the relatively moderate following seas. There was still the risk of being overtaken by a wave at the wrong time. 

Tracy, ever the careful, methodical bomb tech and our voice of reason, advised against tackling the issue so late in the day. Quinn, my go-getter nephew—who coincidentally had done a lot of the oil cleanup—wanted to go for it and stop the leak. 

I made a snap decision to go ahead and ­disassemble the transom. Tracy located the ­perfect filter wrench, and I found myself fully harnessed in, literally dragging my feet in the wake as I leaned over the generator, tightening the fuel filter as the boat surfed along under spinnaker in the golden light. I got it done, and just as I dropped the heavy transom cover back into place, a wave slopped aboard, harmlessly. It was a win for the crew.

The Pacific High filled in slowly, bringing the welcome puffy clouds and brilliant blue skies of trade-wind weather. The seas increased in size, and we began surfing down waves to 12 and even 14 knots under main and genoa. Squalls increased, usually looking more ominous than they were. 

I awoke one night in the forward master cabin, feeling the boat heeling a bit farther than normal, ripping downwind. Donning my self-inflating vest with a harness, tether and AIS beacon attached, I stumbled on deck to find Rowan on watch, enjoying some active sailing as the boat careened downwind. It was still in control, but only just. Being a fairly conservative sailor, and this being a delivery, I mentioned that we might want to reef. 

“Oh, no need,” Rowan said. “It comes and goes.”

“OK, Rowan, but you know where I am if you do need to reef,” I replied, reluctantly going below.

Not half an hour later, I felt the boat heel ­rapidly. Too much sail. I rushed back on deck in a pelting rain squall to help Quinn, who had just taken over the watch from Rowan, reef the sails. We squared everything away quickly without issue after a few tense moments. 

According to Quinn, Rowan had pointed out a number of squalls in the moonlight before heading down to his warm, dry bunk. He said Rowan had joked: “Captain wanted to reef, but I told him to f-ck off.”

Of course, Rowan became the object of some friendly mockery for a few days after that, but we forgave him. I never thought being the captain and the uncle at the same time would be easy.

Rowan made up for his transgression by somehow baking a spectacular peach pie, which followed a luscious roasted chicken with potatoes for our halfway party. We’d settled into a rhythm, adjusted to our watch schedules, overcome a few challenges, and made it halfway across an ocean. 

Even the dreaded squalls seemed less fearful and more beautiful with their deep purple-blue hues and towering clouds.

Things didn’t seem quite as overwhelming, the goal was in sight, and even the dreaded squalls seemed less fearful and more beautiful with their deep purple-blue hues and towering clouds.

The trade-wind conditions made for some spectacular scenes as the boat surfed down deep blue waves under brilliant sunny skies and dark squalls. I concentrated on flying my drone, ­skimming the wave tops and trying for lower angles that showed how the boat was surfing down the waves. 

I’d just gotten some fantastic images of the boat surfing at 12 knots in big seas when the inevitable happened: The $3,000 drone flew straight into a wave. 

It was lost forever, along with its precious ­images. I tried to remind myself that I’d already downloaded some good images, and I still had a tiny backup drone that could be pressed into service for the rest of the voyage.

When the wind moderated a bit, we began to see marine debris: large plastic barrels, lengths of fishing rope and pieces of fishing nets, some quite extensive. There was more debris than I’d ever seen in numerous Pacific crossings, and we began a constant refrain of “there goes another piece.’’ 

As most cruisers are aware, this is what’s known as the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, which is actually a collection of items suspended in the water column of the North Pacific Gyre. It is not the more-sensational “floating island twice the size of Texas” that some people claim—not to minimize the problem of marine plastics at all, just to be honest about it here.

Quinn was fortunate to watch a setting full moon, balanced on one horizon off the bow, with a rising sun in our wake, and no soul but him to witness it. From his reaction, I’d guess the young man won’t forget that experience.

The boat rolled considerably in the steep seas, but after nearly two weeks at sea, we just rolled with it.

We had to dive down to free our propeller ­frequently while sailing through this area, usually removing a length of fishing net or polypropylene line. Normally I’d be the one to dive, but with Quinn aboard, it made more sense to send him down with a safety line while I made sure the boat was stopped. The passing on of knowledge and roles is a big part of our family sailing lifestyle. I recalled a line from David and Daniel Hayes in their excellent father and son tale, My Old Man and the Sea: “When the father helps the son, they both laugh. When the son helps the father, they both cry.’’

Epic days of trade-wind sailing passed in ­succession, with a happy crew laughing and joking often. I played the song “Sailing” by Christopher Cross, apologizing to the boys ­because it is ­perhaps one of corniest songs ever written. It pretty much defines the genre of yacht rock. 

Soon they were singing along, bawling out lyrics like: “Sailing takes me away to where I’ve always heard it could be.” 

“All caught up in the reverie, every word is a symphony.”

“Oh, the canvas can do miracles.”

As the moon waned, brilliant stars blazed in the skies free of light pollution, and we watched as constellations wheeled across the sky. One night within a few hundred miles of Honolulu, Tracy looked up to see a series of perhaps 20 small bright lights follow each other up into the sky, pass over our heads, and vanish out into space. He called me on deck to witness it. We suspected that these might be a satellite series launch, and indeed it turned out to be SpaceX’s Starlink ­satellite launches.

The sight left us somehow conflicted. On one hand, we were impressed by this feat of technology, with its potential to improve our lives and bring us closer together. On the other hand, we felt uneasy, as if our precious night sky had somehow been colonized by a for-profit venture—an attempt to steal our attention away from our natural world of ocean and cloud to focus us on tiny glowing screens. We were using an Iridium Go unit to download weather data, a technology that Starlink has supplanted on many yachts. The world at your fingertips, all day and all night. Who has time to look at the stars?

As we approached the Hawaiian Islands, the wind increased a notch, accelerating around our home island chain and its mountain peaks reaching as high as 14,000 feet. Now the trades were over 25 knots, out of the east. It was a dead run, pretty much directly astern. 

Experimenting with sail combinations one day, I found that with the higher wind strength, we were able to run straight downwind at close to hull speed under the 120 percent genoa, which surprisingly stayed full dead downwind. This saved us a lot of distance sailed compared with jibing back and forth at angles to the wind. Lacking the stabilizing force the sails would exert on a reach, the boat rolled considerably in the steep seas, but after nearly two weeks at sea, we just rolled with it.

On our 14th day at sea, we sighted the long slopes of Maui’s volcanic crater, Haleakala (house of the sun). Soon after, the highest sea cliffs in the world, on Molokai’s north shore, rose 4,000 feet into the clouds. These looming cliffs guard Kalaupapa, with its mournful history as a leper colony. 

We closed with the coast, surfing at 8 knots. Steep breaking seas surrounded Father Damien’s church. (Damien was recently canonized St. Damien for his great sacrifice here.) The area is now a national park. We weren’t permitted to go ashore, but we didn’t mind. We toasted our safe voyage, complete but for the daysail across the channel to Waikiki. 

We toasted not having to stand watch. I felt like Bernard Moitessier, the French sailor who continued on around the world again, reluctant to finish the voyage and face the rush of humanity. We had made a fast passage and were ahead of schedule. There was no rush to sail home to Oahu.

With the boat owner’s blessing, we spent a day anchored under the cliffs at Kalaupapa. We were in fact the only boat anchored off the entire north coast of Molokai.

The next morning, I nearly dropped my coffee when a dolphin leaped into the sky a few meters astern of the rail where I stood. It turned out that the boat was surrounded by an inquisitive pod of spinner dolphins, which spent the day circling the clear sandy-bottom bay. Each of us swam out alone several times to commune with them. Curious when we dived down to their level, some swam along with us, seemingly bemused by the awkward humans.

Every voyage should be celebrated, and that single day was distinctive as an epic bookend to a remarkable journey. What made the trip stand out as one of my best-ever voyages was not that we didn’t have problems. We’d certainly had our share, starting with my own bad judgment in the dinghy, but our crew dealt with the problems together, and we shared the experience. And that can only be described as a gift.

The post Problem Solving at Sea: The Gift of a Pacific Crossing appeared first on Cruising World.

We sailed into the Kingdom of Tonga at dawn after five days at sea. The verdant shores looked like broccoli tops through the wet haze. Huddled under my rain jacket, I stood at the helm of Compass Rosey, a 43-foot Polaris older than me, with my Nescafé. I breathed a sigh of relief when the hills blocked the ocean swells. During my watch, our speed had dropped to 3 knots in the light air, making the broadside rollers particularly nauseating as we pitchpoled between them.

During the past six months, my husband, Rob, and I had bobbed for 33 days from Panama to the Marquesas, and crewed on several multiday jaunts between anchorages in French Polynesia and the Cook Islands. You’d think that after crossing 4,500 miles of the world’s largest ocean, I would be a seasoned bluewater salt, right? Immune to rollicky seas, with legs of steel? Happily singing chanteys while munching on canned veggies and soggy crackers? 

Nope. This passage had been just as uncomfortable and monotonous as the last several.

Sipping my tepid coffee, I reminded myself why I’d upended my life at age 33 to hitch rides across the Pacific. To see the infinite blues of the sea and sky. To marvel at the fact that two hunks of canvas can cart us across hundreds of miles. To embrace the solitude of gliding alone across watery wilderness. To take pride in managing my mind, body and boat at sea. And the cherry on top, the real reason I’d signed up for all these ocean crossings: to visit crystal-clear lagoons and postcard-perfect islands.

The trade-off was having to pass by anchorages we desperately ­wanted to explore, yield to questionable ­decisions, and rely on others’ ­navigation skills.

We’d made it to the reward again. As the water under our keel turned from cerulean to jade, the boredom and discomfort from the passage evaporated. 

I steered us toward the biggest horseshoe-shaped island in the clump of 30-odd specks that comprise Vava’u, one of four island groups in Tonga. In the center of the horseshoe sat Neiafu, the second-largest town in the kingdom, with 3,900 people. All told, Tonga’s islands take up nearly as much ocean real estate as the Caribbean islands but have a tiny fraction of the Caribbean’s humans. I grinned, excited to explore the deserted beaches and miles of teeming reefs.

I set our autopilot and roused the rest of the crew. Our captain, Mark, called the customs office on the VHF radio to announce our arrival, and then perused the charts for moorings. Rob groaned as he hefted himself into the cockpit, draping himself on the bench beside me. He suffered from seasickness, so the slow rocking last night hadn’t done him any favors. 

“Smell that?” I asked as I gulped in an exaggerated breath. The pungent scent of flowers and fruit was striking after days offshore, both pleasing and overwhelming. “Dirt, baby.”

“Mangoes, here we come!” Rob said with a fist pump. It had been a month since we’d been anywhere with enough soil to grow food. 

Compass Rosey was the fifth boat we’d crewed aboard since leaving our home in Montana. Originally, as we plotted our midlife escape from landlocked 9-to-5 jobs, Rob and I had dreamed of buying our own boat to sail the South Pacific. We’d created budgets and voyaging itineraries, researched trade winds and provisioning ideas, and saved as much money as we could. 

One year into planning and scrimping, we realized that it would take many more years to make our dream a ­reality
—unless we used someone else’s boat. We altered course and decided to crew instead. Cruisers often look for an extra pair of hands to help with watches and chores during long passages.

We posted on Cruisers Forum, advertising our services in exchange for a lift to French Polynesia. A family of five from New England answered our ad. We spent two months aboard their 53-foot steel ketch, transiting the Panama Canal from Colón and then sailing downwind to Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas via the Galápagos. That 33-day Pacific puddle jump included endless games of Scrabble, a visit from a lone orca, and a lot of jumping jacks on the stern.

After our first prearranged ride, we relied on hitchhiking to hop between islands. Or hitch-sailing, as I dubbed it. Many cruisers follow the same route on the “coconut milk run,” leaving around March from the Americas and traveling the trade winds east to west to make it to New Zealand or Australia before cyclone season starts in December. That means we saw the same two dozen boats at most anchorages. Though pickings were slim for hitching a ride, it also meant that we became friends with the people on these boats, and they were more inclined to give us a lift. 

Our second ride from the Marquesas to the Tuamotus was a C&C 40 with a young couple. Third, we hopped on a Choate 40 with a retired couple to get to Tahiti. Fourth was a short ride with a British singlehander to Huahine in French Polynesia. Then we joined Mark, who was delivering Compass Rosey to Australia for the boat’s owner. 

I like to think that Rob and I are easygoing folks. But even the most flexible adults would start to feel weary after adapting to five different captains who each had a set way of doing things—and varying degrees of openness to suggestions. We’d learned a ton about bluewater sailing and saved hundreds of thousands of dollars by volunteering as crew. The trade-off was having to pass by anchorages we desperately wanted to explore (we’ll be back for you, Maupiti), yield to questionable decisions (like sailing with no running lights one night off Tahiti’s busy shipping channel), and rely on unfamiliar equipment, and others’ navigation skills (which once plowed us into a reef while sailing at 7 knots).

Rob and I were ready to be the masters of our own destiny. We were jumping ship in Tonga and had planned to stay ashore for a bit. We’d hoped to rustle up a boat-sitting option during the upcoming cyclone season.

As Neiafu’s deep, protected harbor came into view, I took in our new digs. Shiny yachts mingled with dilapidated wooden skiffs. Onshore, crumbling concrete ruins slumped next to brightly painted houses. On one hill, a white church sat picturesquely, its bells ringing. A taller hill, crowned with a radio tower, rose behind the bay, with a path winding up the side. I couldn’t wait to climb to the top to stretch my atrophied legs.

We pulled up to the customs dock, and Rob greeted the official who ambled toward our boat: “Malo e lelei.”

He always made sure he knew how to say “hello” and “thank you” in the local language before we arrived. Along with a smile, those two phrases worked like magic in most countries.

In our cruising guide, I’d read that Tongans use three languages in their kingdom: one for royalty, one for nobility, and one for everyone else. Luckily, we’d be able to get by with English because most Tongans are fluent in that as well. After our passports were officially stamped and we’d picked up a mooring ball, Mark dinghied us to shore with our belongings: a few backpacks and one beat-up guitar. We bid him farewell, then turned to walk the six blocks of Neiafu’s main street. Kids in navy-blue-and-white uniforms walked to school. The market was coming to life, with mounds of spinach, pineapples, eggplants and tomatoes as music to my eyes. The largest building downtown, made of whitewashed brick, housed a souvenir shop, a beauty parlor and an open-air Italian restaurant. A shop called the Tropicana promised ice, laundry services, and pay-by-hour computers. The grocery store had mint-green walls and sold either vanilla or strawberry ice cream by the scoop from a wrought-iron window. Chocolate came by boat once a week, we learned, and sold out fast. An ATM on the corner shelled out pa’angas, valued at 2 to every 1 US dollar. Chickens cock-a-doodle-dooed in rising crescendos, and pigs roamed the streets. Yes, pigs. Big fat ones, little baby ones, pink-and-gray and speckled ones. They grunted in the gutter, scarfed down garbage, and scuttled through the foliage in search of rotting fruit.

We headed back to the Italian restaurant for espresso with real cream (a treat I hadn’t had in months) and asked the lovely Tongan waitress about the roving pigs. “We roast them to celebrate birthdays, weddings, funerals,” she told us, setting down my fruit smoothie and coffee. “The more pigs you have at your funeral, the more important you are.” 

Rob toasted me with his cappuccino after she left. “I think Tonga will fit us just fine.” After our snack, we found a room. It had a shared balcony overlooking the harbor, a bed with a significant sway in the middle, a tiny bedside table, and one electrical outlet. 

It was 10 times bigger than any of the berths we’d occupied during the past six months. It didn’t move. No one would wake us at midnight for watch. Supposedly the internet worked too. A dream come true. 

Brianna Randall hitch-sailed aboard seven sailboats with her husband, Rob, in 2013. They visited 25 tropical islands in nine countries and learned that they really like being the captains of their own destiny.

Hitch-Sail  (´hĭch-sāl)

1. Soliciting free rides at marinas, anchorages or ports where sailboats congregate.

2. Working as volunteer crew on a private yacht in exchange for passage across the sea. 

Sailing off into the sunset is a common dream. Actually buying a sailboat and navigating it to foreign shores is less common. One compromise for those antsy to get a move on—or for those looking to gain bluewater experience—is to hitch a ride on someone else’s boat. With a bit of forethought and a healthy dose of patience, you can get a lift to your desired destination. Here are a few tips:

• Get to know the captain, virtually or in person, before you commit.
• Negotiate up-front ­whether you’re sharing food and mooring expenses.
• Chip in early and often with chores such as night watch, cooking and cleaning.
• Pack light; one waterproof backpack should suffice.
• Bring your own ­seasickness meds.
• Be resilient, ­adaptable, and at peace with uncertainty.

—BR

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I’ve always been a list person. Some people thrive in the chaos of spontaneity, but for me, the calm comes in the form of bullet points and checkboxes. If you’ve ever caught an introvert in the act of trying to wrangle the external world into something manageable, chances are, you’ve seen a list. Grocery lists, to-do lists, “Things I’d Say If I Actually Wanted To Make Small Talk” lists. I even have a list titled “Lists To Make When I Have Free Time.” It’s not a coping mechanism; it’s a lifestyle.

So anytime the dream of a longish-range sailing excursion comes into focus, my first instinct isn’t to imagine sunsets at sea or the exhilarating snap of a spinnaker catching the breeze. No, my brain immediately turns to creating The Mother of All Lists, a grand manifesto of preparation that will guide me from part-time seafarer to competent passagemaker.

The thing about sailing—and specifically long-range cruising—is that it has a way of exposing your weaknesses. There’s no hiding from yourself when you’re out there, 500 miles from the nearest coastline, trying to remember if you packed spare impellers or a replacement fuel filter. For an introvert, whose inner world is as loud as their outer world is quiet, sailing demands a level of organization and ­forethought that is both ­thrilling and terrifying.

Take provisioning, for example. It’s not just about jotting down “beans, rice, coffee” and calling it a day. Oh, no. You’ve got to think about how much coffee you’ll need if you’re stuck in a storm for 48 hours and your watch partner has decided to forgo sleep in favor of caffeinated chatter. (Not recommended, by the way.) You have to plan meals, calculate portions, and ask yourself deeply existential questions such as, “How many cans of tuna is too many cans of tuna?” Spoiler: It’s fewer than you think.

And then there’s the gear list. This is where humility makes its grand entrance. I once was drafting one my “Gear and Safety Must-Haves” lists back in my early days of sailing, and I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had spreadsheets, color-coded categories and a solid three weeks of research under my belt. But then came the advice from a seasoned sailing buddy of ours: “Oh, you don’t have a ditch bag on board? Rookie move.” Or fast-forward to present day: “You’re bringing a spinnaker pole but no backup bilge pump? Bold choice.” Turns out, many a cruiser’s master plan is more like a rough draft.

And let’s not forget the maintenance log, because nothing says “adulting” like keeping track of oil changes, impeller replacements, and which bolt you tightened with questionable confidence six months ago. My maintenance list has sublists. My sublists have footnotes. Some days, it feels like I’m auditioning for the role of World’s Most Obsessive-Compulsive Person Stuck on a 40-Foot Boat.

But for all the effort and obsessive detail, the beauty of lists is that they anchor me. They’re the ballast to my ­overthinking, the windvane to my wandering mind. Sure, they’re not foolproof. I’ve ­forgotten sunscreen (big ­mistake) and underestimated how much chocolate a single human can consume in 24 days (bigger mistake). But lists give me a framework, a way to tackle the vast unknown—one checkbox at a time.

And really, isn’t that what sailing is all about? Preparing as best you can, knowing full well that the ocean doesn’t care about your spreadsheets or your neatly laminated safety protocols. It’s about adapting when your perfect plan meets imperfect reality. It’s about having the humility to admit that you missed something and the humor to laugh at yourself when it’s something ­spectacularly obvious, such as forgetting to pack ­biodegradable toilet paper.

So, here’s to lists: the unsung heroes of introverts and sailors alike. They won’t guarantee smooth seas, but they just might keep you sane when the autopilot fails at 2 a.m. and you’re hand-steering through a moonless night. And if all else fails, at least you’ll have a handy record of everything you forgot to do. 

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