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.

The post How Top Race Navigators Read the Atlantic and What Cruisers Can Learn appeared first on Cruising World.

“This is the worst trip… I’ve ever been on.” I sing the chorus to “Sloop John B.”  My voice rings out loud and clear.

Just 15 feet from me, my partner, David, is sound asleep. But no matter how loud I sing, I know I won’t disturb him. My voice is nothing compared to the sound of wind whistling through the rigging, the crash of water rushing across the foredeck as Sahula shoulders her way through wave after wave.

For the past three days, we have been taking turns hand-steering as we fight our way toward Australia. A polar dip has caused two different weather systems to unexpectedly overlap each other, creating messy cross seas. Without our assistance, the windvane self-steering gear struggles to keep Sahula close hauled in the near-gale-force winds. 

We are both tired. The work of sitting behind the wheel in these sloppy seas is physically demanding but also boring. We have shortened our normal night watches to just two hours.  Sleep comes instantly when I get down below, strip off my foul-weather gear and climb into the leeward settee for my off-watch. David is the same. And though I am technically getting enough rest, I still need to do something to keep me fully awake and alert as day 13 of what is usually an eight- or nine-day passage slowly dawns. 

The Tasman Sea doesn’t have the best of reputations. Only one of the five previous crossings I have made between New Zealand and Australia could be considered pleasurable. The others ranged from plain hard work to one of the worst passages I recall making with my husband, Larry. Thus, I had been determined to choose a good weather window for this sixth crossing. 

The month of May is usually the best time to head westward from New Zealand. The seawater temperature has cooled down from its summer high, so the risk of tropical cyclones has fallen right off. Winter gales have not yet begun rampaging across the Tasman Sea. Several weeks earlier, I’d started watching the online weather forecasts on Windy and PredictWind, plus Met Office New Zealand. I was looking for a time when the center of a low pressure system crossing the Tasman was just passing the North Island of New Zealand,  and before the next low pressure system shoved its way between Tasmania and mainland Australia. Potentially good departure windows seemed to appear every fifth or sixth day.

Ten days before the end of May, we’d finally taken care of all our landside obligations. We’d enjoyed a brisk sail 120 miles north toward Opua, the customs clearance port, to complete the formalities of leaving New Zealand. But before we cleared, both of us were looking forward to finding a quiet anchorage among the myriad islands near Opua where we could spend a few days recovering from the rush to set sail while we waited for our weather window to open.

Weather patterns are complex. Two-day forecasts are reliable, but longer-term predictions are educated guesses. Windows open and close.

Only hours from Opua, our plans were derailed. My scour of weather sites indicated the exact pattern I’d hoped for was already forming up. If we could clear customs, make a dash to the local grocery store for fresh fruit and vegetables and set sail the next morning, we’d have a fine chance to reach northwestward with fresh, favorable winds for four days, and then catch a trade-wind sleigh ride westward.  

“What about catching the following window?” David suggested. “Be nice to do nothing for four or five days.”

It was tempting. Then I looked at the weather sites again. “This front is moving slower than usual. Could be 10 days before another window opens up,” I answered. 

As I rushed about buying provisions, then doing the pre-departure paperwork, David topped up Sahula’s water tanks, secured the deck strap for our harness lines, set up the para-anchor and its bridle so we could launch it without having to go on the foredeck, and then deflated the tender and secured it on the aft deck.

As I was walking back down the dock toward Sahula, I met Doug, a Kiwi cruiser I knew quite well. He asked when we planned to set sail. 

“In the morning. Nice weather window.”

He replied: “Cruising is a lot easier and safer now than when you and Larry set off. Now we’ve got all the info we need to avoid sailing into heavy weather.”

I recall those words just as a particularly hard gust of wind adds to the cacophony of sounds and I have to swing the wheel hard over to counteract Sahula’s surging. It’s true that Larry and I had far less access to weather info as we voyaged across oceans. But in some ways, that made sailing less worrisome. When we were planning to set off across an ocean, we used pilot charts to determine the best potential times to make a passage and the most advantageous course to sail for a chance of fair winds. To determine our actual departure day, we used local radio forecasts, the TV weatherman we watched at the pub near our anchorage, and the weather synopsis printout we could find at the local port captain’s office. We’d look for a time when we’d have at least three or four days of favorable winds to clear the land. Then we prepared the boat and ourselves as best we could for whatever weather might come eight or 10 or 20 days later.

We were never truly surprised or disappointed when the weather deteriorated five days or eight or 10 days after we set sail. We just reefed down and kept the boat moving comfortably, or we hove to until conditions improved.

Now, as I struggle to stay awake, I realize David and I are fighting something that should just be accepted. I don’t wait for the end of my watch. Instead, I call down to David, “Come on up and help me get this boat hove to.” I get no protest at all. Together, we soon have the staysail furled. We’ve used the mainsheet traveler lines to haul the double reefed mainsail tight amidships, and tied the helm to leeward. 

We were never truly surprised when weather deteriorated days after departure. We reefed down and kept moving or hove to until conditions improved.

Sahula slows until she is making almost no headway at all. The chartplotter shows she is now drifting downwind at about half a knot. The wind feels like it has dropped by half, and spray no longer lashes the boat. I put the kettle on to make a cup of tea while I download the latest forecast. Iridium Go! indicates the wind should start to back sometime in the next several hours. 

“Don’t count on it,” David comments as he climbs into the cockpit, and released from the chore of steering, settles comfortably into a dry corner under the doghouse to watch for coastal shipping traffic. 

As I climb into the bunk, I feel certain this short-term forecast will be right.  I also recall what Bob McDavitt, a well-known New Zealand weather specialist and sailing router once told me: “So many factors can affect weather patterns. That means, while it is relatively easy to make accurate two-day predictions, we forecasters are just making educated guesses about what will happen four days out. You sailors have to be aware, windows may open, but windows also close.” 

Less than six hours after we hove to, the wind did back. We set sail on a close reach to arrive at our destination 36 hours later, having sailed 1,370 miles in 14.5 days. No gear failures, no need to use the para-anchor, and two of those days were true dream sailing. 

The rest was hard work. But now, as we meander ever so leisurely north inside the Great Barrier Reef, it is those perfect days that come most readily to mind. 

After cruising more than 240,000 miles, US Sailing Hall of Fame inductee Lin Pardey is headed to sea again. Her latest book, Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond, encourages sailors to go simple, go small and go now. She is also the co-author, with her husband, Larry, of the essential Storm Tactics: Modern Methods of Heaving-to for Survival in Extreme Conditions, a must-read for anyone preparing for offshore voyaging.

The post Weather Windows: Lessons in Planning and Patience at Sea appeared first on Cruising World.

Cruising sailors across the Pacific were on high alert Wednesday after a powerful magnitude 8.8 earthquake struck off the coast of Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula, triggering tsunami warnings that extended across the Pacific basin.

The earthquake, which occurred approximately 80 miles southeast of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, ranks among the most intense seismic events ever recorded. Initial tsunami waves reached as high as 4 meters (over 13 feet) in Severo-Kurilsk, Russia, where local authorities declared a state of emergency and evacuated nearly 3,000 residents. Regional officials reported several injuries, including one individual who leapt from a building during the quake.

From the Kuril Islands to the Hawaiian archipelago, the seismic shockwave set off a chain reaction of emergency protocols. Japan ordered the evacuation of over two million people and temporarily shut down nuclear facilities as tsunami waves arrived along the eastern coastline. Although initial wave heights were relatively modest—around 60 centimeters (2 feet)—the potential for aftershocks kept officials on edge.

In Hawaii, tsunami sirens sounded across all islands as waves measuring up to 1.8 meters (6 feet) were recorded. Beaches were closed, commercial harbors were evacuated, and operations at Maui’s main airport were temporarily suspended. The U.S. Coast Guard ordered all commercial vessels to leave port. Governor Josh Green assured residents that the wave activity had been minimal but advised continued vigilance.

Elsewhere along the Pacific Rim, tsunami waves between 0.5 and 1 meter were observed in California and Alaska. Warnings and advisories were also issued for Oregon, Washington, Mexico’s Pacific coast, and as far afield as Central and South America. French Polynesia’s Marquesas Islands braced for possible wave heights of up to 4 meters.

Cruising sailors in New Zealand, Fiji, Samoa, Tonga, Micronesia, and the Solomon Islands were advised to avoid coastal areas until official all-clear notices were given. In many areas, including Guam and the Northern Mariana Islands, alerts were later downgraded or lifted as wave activity subsided and no major damage was reported.

The seismic event serves as a stark reminder of the Pacific Ocean’s volatility. The Kamchatka region sits on the volatile “Ring of Fire,” where tectonic plates frequently collide. The region has a deadly precedent—the 1952 Severo-Kurilsk tsunami claimed over 2,000 lives.

As of Wednesday evening, no fatalities from the latest quake had been confirmed, though aftershocks continue to rattle the region. Coastal communities and mariners are urged to monitor official alerts and be prepared to act quickly should conditions change.

For current tsunami alerts and advisories, visit tsunami.gov.

The post Massive Quake Off Russia Triggers Tsunami Alerts Across Pacific appeared first on Cruising World.

We all know what happens when there’s an extreme weather alert on land: Smartphones start making a racket, buzzing at a decibel level that’s impossible to ignore as they alert us about a tornado warning or a fast-incoming blizzard squall or whatever else Mother Nature might be hurling at us.

Now, PredictWind is introducing mobile alerts for extreme weather forecasts at sea. The notifications will be based on all extreme-weather forecasts issued by the Global Maritime Distress and Safety System, or GMDSS.

While land-based alerts are typically based on a smartphone’s current location, the PredictWind extreme weather alerts will be tied to a sailor’s saved locations. Sailors can enable the alerts in the “forecast alerts” section of their PredictWind account on the website, in the app and in the offshore app for basic, standard and pro users.

What is GMDSS? The GMDSS is an internationally recognized distress and radio communication safety system that has been in place for several decades. It’s automated ship-to-shore and ship-to-ship system that uses satellites and terrestrial radio systems with digital selective calling. These systems inform vessels of navigation hazards and weather conditions, and enable distress calls with location and identification information included.

How the PredictWind alerts work: GMDSS forecasts are written text forecasts prepared by meteorologists in designated regions. PredictWind collects and compiles every forecast worldwide, plotting weather systems and warning regions onto an interactive map. This approach gives sailors a global overview of the GMDSS forecast, including extreme weather patterns worldwide.

Sailors can look at the interactive map to identify extreme weather that’s approaching near them. Clicking on any alert icon will reveal detailed forecast information, including the full text report from the GMDSS meteorologists.

Are there other PredictWind Alerts? Yes. Sailors can select parameters for notifications about any combination of wind speed, wind direction, wave height, tides, rainfall, cloud cover, temperature and pressure. Users also can add parameters to specify the time for alerts, anywhere from five days out to “holy cow it’s happening right now.” The various combinations of alerts can be set for different destinations, too.

For more information: visit predictwind.com.

The post PredictWind Adds Extreme Weather Alerts appeared first on Cruising World.

“Hurricane coming,” Ray Pentrack quipped as I passed him in the Cruz Bay grocery store. He was the manager at Cruz Bay Marina on St. John in the US Virgin Islands. I had just flown in from Maine, looking ­forward to a few weeks on my boat before hauling out for ­hurricane season. 

“What hurricane?” I asked.

“Hurricane Hugo,” Ray said. “It’s going to be a whopper. Category 3. We have our hands full. Can you take care of your boat?” 

Afaran, my Lord Nelson 41 cutter, had spent the summer on a mooring in nearby Great Cruz Bay. 

 “Sure, but when?”

“It should make landfall on Guadeloupe tomorrow, and then hit us sometime on Monday. Many of the boats are heading for Hurricane Hole at the east end of the island.”

This was the first summer I’d left Afaran in the Caribbean, on a rented mooring, instead of sailing back to Maine with the seasons. Now my mind went into hyperdrive. Was Afaran ready for this? Was I ready? 

I had an idea of what it was like to live through a hurricane. Two years earlier, in September 1987, Afaran and I had managed to ride out Hurricane Emily in Bermuda—barely—thanks to my 75-pound fisherman-style storm anchor. Afaran’s working anchor was a 65-pound CQR on 300 feet of chain. I had a 45-pound Danforth too. Enough?

The bigger question was whereto anchor Afaran. I’d just have to go look.

I loaded the shopping cart with extra jugs of water, bread, canned goods, frozen chicken, peanut butter, jam, UHT milk and cereal. By late afternoon, I was moving it all onto Afaran’s deck.

Next, I unlocked and opened the companionway, shoved back the hatch, and went below to inspect the bilge. It was dry. I then prepared the boat to get underway as the VHF radio’s weather channel droned in the background. 

“Hurricane Hugo will pass near or over Guadeloupe Saturday night. Winds are predicted to be in excess of 140 knots, seas to 20 feet, with a storm surge of 3 feet or more. On Sunday evening, we expect Hurricane Hugo to pass over the Virgin Islands as a Category 3. All mariners are urged to make all necessary ­preparations for a very dangerous storm.”

It was like listening to a judge hand down your life sentence. I seesawed between thrill and dread—excitement for the challenge and fear of the disaster—as I removed all the sails and stowed them below. 

 Eventually, I turned on the running lights and motored out of Great Cruz Bay. At the beach off the Caneel Bay Resort, I dropped the hook for the night.

Saturday, September 16

As Afaran rounded Privateer Point at the east end of St. John, I could see a few boats anchored in Hansen Bay. Up in Hurricane Hole, I saw dozens of boats squeezing in, bows riding to anchors, crews tying off stern lines to the mangroves and then rigging fenders. The scene looked like a boat show. It was too crowded. 

I motored over to Coral Bay Harbor, where the large anchorage was surprisingly unpopulated. With an eye on the sounder, I picked a midharbor spot in 15 to 20 feet of water. I dropped and set the CQR, then dived over the side to inspect. Sand had buried the plowshares, while the shank and chain rested on the seabed. No coral heads or rocks to foul the anchor lines or chain.

  With no breeze, it was hot, sweaty work. I rigged the 75-pound fisherman-style storm anchor, this time securing two nylon rodes to the 30 feet of chain. I let one line slack to take up the strain as the first one stretched out. I slipped the anchor over the side into the dinghy, motored out and set it, creating a V with the chain on the CQR. To mark each anchor’s position, I buoyed each with an empty gallon water jug. This, I figured, would alert others not to anchor between them.

Next, I spliced a thimble into one end of a 30-foot nylon snubbing line, shackled it to the anchor chain, slipped a 3-foot length of reinforced hose on for chafing gear, tied off the bitter end on the Samson post, and then let out 10 more feet of chain, allowing the snubber to take the chain’s weight. Now, before the chain became taut, the nylon line would stretch out, cushioning the CQR anchor. 

I rigged chafing gear on the two rodes that ran over the bronze rollers on the bowsprit to the fisherman-style anchor, then deployed a third anchor off the port quarter, just in case. I stowed all the deck gear below but decided to leave the dodger in place, giving me a place to hide out of the wind.

While wolfing down a PB&J sandwich at lunch, I listened to a commercial radio station on St. Thomas. Hugo would hit Guadeloupe that night with wind gusts up to 140 mph. We would begin to feel the effects of the storm the next evening. We could expect winds over 100 mph, with gusts to 140.

Toward evening, with little left to do, my concern turned to worry, and then anxiety. My mouth was dry. A knot grew in my belly. My mind raced with disaster scenarios. A chain link would part. An anchor would break out. Afaran would be driven into the mangroves astern. Another yacht would drag down on us, entangling its anchor line with mine. The hulls would smash, with the storm dragging both boats to the beach. 

 Then my rational brain spoke up. When in trouble, what do you do? Seek local knowledge. I needed to talk to someone.

It was happy hour ashore at Skinny Legs Bar and Grill. I pulled up a stool next to someone I knew: a burly Kiwi named Derek. He was the mechanic at Cruz Bay Shipyard who had worked on my boat. Seated on the opposite side were his wife and teenage daughter. They lived in Coral Harbor on their 50-foot ketch, which was anchored on the other side of the harbor from me.

“How can anyone expect to survive a hurricane like this?” I asked.

“It can be done,” Derek said, slowly nursing a Red Stripe.

“It blew 115 knots during Hurricane Emily two years ago when I was in Bermuda,” I said. “It lasted only two hours, but that was enough for me. It’s supposed to blow 140 knots, and for 10 to 12 hours. I don’t see how any boat can survive.”

“Go forward every half-hour and inspect the chafing gear.”

“How can you see anything when the wind blows rain in your face at 100 miles an hour?”

“Use a mask and snorkel.” 

That sounded reasonable. 

He added: “Most of the damage done to boats at anchor or on a mooring during a storm comes from lines that chafe through.”

I had one more question, as I glanced at his wife and daughter: “Are you staying on your boat or going ashore?” 

“Stay with your boat,” he said. “Protect your boat—it’s your home. Just check the chafe gear every half-hour. It’s the one thing you can do to ensure that you have a boat the next day.”

I ordered Derek another Red Stripe, and all four of us tucked into a dinner of conch fritters and fries at the bar.

Later, under an almost full moon, I removed my dinghy’s outboard engine, secured it in the cockpit, and hauled the dinghy on deck, deflated it, and packed it in its bag, securing it to the life raft just forward of the mast. Then I crawled into my bunk. 

The night was full of dreams—huge waves, pounding surf—and the feeling of being underwater, rolling around.

Sunday, September 17

The day was still and hot. There was nothing more I could think to do. I sat on the foredeck, reading Tom Clancy’s The Cardinal of the Kremlin. As more boats arrived, I shooed away those ­attempting to anchor in front of me.

In the afternoon, high, thin clouds began to cover the ­eastern sky. The land-based AM radio stations were full of news. Hugo had crossed over Guadeloupe the night before, with winds over 140 miles per hour, 20-foot waves and a 2- to 3-foot surge. A dozen people were killed. Hugo’s expected path would bring it directly over the Virgin Islands from that night until the next morning.

By dusk, more than 50 boats were anchored all around me in Coral Bay. Some people dropped a single anchor, left their sails on, jumped into their dinghy, and went ashore. Few stayed aboard. 

As dusk arrived, so did the tendrils of wind, sweeping down from the sky to hit the water at the far edge of the moored fleet and then shoot across the harbor, tearing up the water, kicking up spray and knocking boats flat. It went roaring up the hillside, stripping leaves from the trees. It left a brown path of snapped trees and torn-up brush in its wake. 

This went on as darkness fell. I sat on the life raft and watched.

Then the rain began—not all at once, but in fits and starts, along with the wind that came and went. I went down and stuffed a can of warm beef stew into my stomach. I put on my foul-weather jacket, pulled the hood over my head, and strapped on my dive mask to keep the hood in place. I was not about to leave my bald head unprotected. 

I would be spending the entire night on the foredeck, crammed in between the windlass and the bulwarks, out of the wind.

By 10 p.m., we were in it. The winds initially came from the east, then gradually shifted to the south as Hugo’s eye slowly moved northwestward, passing just 30 miles south of us, over St. Croix.

Gusts blew well over 100 knots. By 2 a.m., we had 5- to 10-foot swells entering the harbor. Afaran rose to meet each swell, only to plunge into the steep troughs. I worried that we might hit the bottom, but the surge had increased the water’s depth. We bottomed out only twice, with a thud.

I lay on the deck, in the dark, the wind shrieking through the boat’s rigging, the air full of rain and spray blown off the tops of breaking waves. A gust would hit the boat, and it would rear back like a horse trying to shake the halter. With my flashlight, I watched as the nylon lines stretched out. Then, when the gust retreated, Afaran would surge forward, the stretched-out nylon rodes acting like rubber bands. The lines hung limp off the bow rollers until the next gust drove us back. 

Every 15 minutes, I turned on my flashlight and inspected the rodes and chafing gear. I was gratified to watch the bronze bow rollers as the rodes and snubber line stretched out. This ­minimized friction compared with stationary chocks. 

Occasionally, the night was ablaze with light. Derek, on his boat, had fired up his big searchlight and was sweeping the harbor to see what was happening. I raised my head above the gunwale to follow the light. Each sweep saw an increasing ­number of yachts piled up on the beach.

On deck, the noise was deafening, like standing on a New York City subway platform as the express roared through. Every hour or so, I crawled back to the cockpit to check the ­windspeed. Steady at 100 knots. 

Descending below, I found the cabin alarmingly serene compared with the hell up on deck. I’d drink water and tap the barometer. The needle would jump down—the hurricane was still advancing on us.

By 3 a.m., things were at their worst. Derek’s spotlight revealed that more of the anchored boats were missing. The 90-foot Bermuda yacht had taken two others ashore with it.

By 5 a.m., it was getting lighter. At 7 a.m., I could stand on deck. I removed my mask and snorkel, and looked around. 

There had been 55 boats anchored in Coral Bay. I counted only five of us still riding to our anchors. The mangroves and the beach road were lined with boats, two and three deep.

At 9 a.m., it was all over. The wind stopped. The sun came out. 

It had been 12 hours. Hurricane Hugo had left the building.

 My boat never lost electrical power, refrigeration, music or a working stove. As Afaran and I cruised from island to island, we were alone. For a week, I saw no other boats underway. It felt as if we were the last boat left in the world.

Editor’s Note: Six years after Hurricane Hugo, Lyman rode out Hurricane Luis aboard Afaran at anchor in Mayo Bay, in St. John, USVI, before Hurricane Marilyn finally took Afaran, leaving behind only the mast, engine and pieces of the hull no larger than a refrigerator door. Lyman was not aboard during that storm. 

The post Against the Wind: Anchored in the Eye of the Storm appeared first on Cruising World.

It was, in fact, dark and stormy on that night in September 2023. The sunset had been extraordinary, shining orange and pink on breakers pounding the headland of Great Wass Island in Beals, Maine. Spray leapt 20 feet into the darkening night until the lasting image was foamy fangs of white against the gloom. 

Hurricane Lee had sent these waves as shock troops before the true impact. The wind was fitful at first, and then it steadied from the northeast. Our 43-foot cutter, Gusto, moved against its anchor, pulling slack and then settling into the center of the deep water. 

Then it was full night. The clouds moved in. The only lights were our own. 

When the storm hit, our initial experience was not through sight, but through the ears and the body. Our eyes were locked out by cloudy midnight and sheets of rain, but our ears magnified the creaking anchor rode. Our bodies felt the rattle of halyards and pounding rain on the deck. 

As the big blast arrived and the first big tug on the anchor held, I was up the ­companionway. The spotlight showed trees raving wildly around, catching the wind and holding the worst gusts above us. The water was coated in pine needles and dust. This hurricane harbor was like a foxhole, and we were down there getting religion. 

This was the first time that I had ever been on board in a place where the National Weather Service predicted a hurricane would hit. For most of us, hurricanes happen to other people. This one was about to hit me, my wife, Whitney, and our Gusto. 

When a hurricane is headed in your direction, what decisions need to be made? Which ones do you absolutely need to get right? The first attempt at most anything is tricky, whether that’s changing the impeller or docking the boat. 

The biggest lesson I learned from Hurricane Lee? The psychological challenges are as big as the physical ones.

At the Start

The National Hurricane Center advisory for September 13 was that Lee would remain a large and dangerous cyclone while it approached eastern New England and Atlantic Canada. Hurricane conditions and coastal flooding were possible in eastern Maine, southern New Brunswick and western Nova Scotia, and a Hurricane Watch was in effect.

It was an unusual advisory. Most years in Maine, these systems spin out to sea. Hurricane Lee made it personal by coming straight for us. 

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Lee was supposed to fade east, and we were supposed to enjoy Down East cruising from Roque Island to Eastport before coasting on to Nova Scotia. 

Cell coverage is not what it could be on that bold coast, so, after a placid phone-free weekend, it was bracing to sail into cell service and see the phone light up with texts: “Look out!” “Plan for Lee?” “You might be in the bull’s-eye” “Pull the boat and move ashore!” 

There was the bright-red pinwheel passing Bermuda and tracking by Cape Cod, Massachusetts, toward this cul de sac where Maine ends and Canada begins. This storm wasn’t blowing itself out to sea. It was blowing itself right up Gusto’s wake like a big, bad wolf on our scent. 

Whitney and I sailed to nearby Jonesport to make our plan.

Today, you know that Hurricane Lee landed as a tropical storm, and that winds merely blew 60. In the pause preceding impact, we had only alerts and imaginations. For most cruisers, when the storm has passed, it is easy to assert a confident storm strategy. But the days before, while a sinister swell rocks the sea, we all feel ambivalence. I know that I did. At that time, those of us afloat between Schoodic Point and Cape Sable had three days to ponder just how violent our tropical visitor would be.

That interval interests me: the time between innocent summer cruising and the deadly named storm. Given how warm and stormy the Atlantic has become, we should all get better at this process of preparing for impact. 

Into this countdown, every skipper packs weighty decisions that can’t be undone. Your choices about location or anchor or boatyard accumulate into a storm reckoning. You wrestle with uncertainty, hesitate to make definite decisions from indefinite information, strain your brain while sharing evolving ideas. I suppose I’m saying that storm preparation is physical and mental, and it’s worth acknowledging that the story of tying lines and setting anchors can look far too straightforward. 

The truth is, Lee kind of wore me out. The maritime museum in Castine has old photos of schooner captains. They look careworn, stern and preoccupied. Now I know why. 

Analyze, Think, Repeat

Today’s sailors have weather information that the skippers of yore would have drowned their mates for. Yet, we have so much information from so many sources that we get overwhelmed—salty paralysis by analysis. We’ve all become anxious supercomputers processing web pages and storm videos and weather routing and insurance disclaimers and Weather Service alerts. Surely you’ve seen the cruisers at one marina or another circling around and around the forecast with decision anxiety.

And why not? That storm strategy might be the most important decision any of us make, and we have to make it in soggy shoes, considering places we’ve never been, obliging crew with travel plans, and waiting for new forecasts. The old-time sailors sniffed the breeze and tapped the barometer. Whitney and I reloaded updates in far-flung harbors with spotty cell service, holding our devices skyward like pagans propitiating sky gods. 

The first question for any storm is: Where do I put this boat? From our anchorage off Roque Island, Jonesport was close and attractive. We motored there through fog denser than lobster bisque. Then we wedged into a man-made affair that crowds four-score lobster boats between town and breakwater. 

Too bad that it was open to the northeast, and too bad that the northeast was where Lee would blow the hardest. Whitney wondered, “Would a mooring get us through?” 

The generous folks at the Jonesport Shipyard thought theirs would, even though Gusto was the largest of four sailboats in the harbor. Staying there and hoping for the best was certainly tempting but, deep down, felt like the ostrich option where we put the pennant on the cleat and hope. This forecast had so much northeast in it and these boats were so close together that we were tempted to do this easy thing, but we decided to find another plan. 

“I’d put her up on land,” the dockhand said. “Safe as going to church.” 

Around us, lobstermen hurried to pull their boats. I asked Whitney, “What about hauling?” Doable: Haul Gusto at the shipyard, put a bunch of jack stands around her, cinch down everything, rent a room on high ground. She joked that it was like my Sharktivity app that spots great whites and warns: “The only way to avoid sharks is to stay onshore.” 

But hauling your boat on short notice in a small harbor is not simple. As we talked it through, I concluded that I didn’t want to see Gusto stilted precariously above some parking lot by people I barely knew. Could they even schedule us? We didn’t want to pester these generous folks about scheduling and extra jack stands and tie-downs and space from other boats. And, if we weathered all that, then we’d have to get her launched amid all the fishermen hungry to get back to work. No, those deficiencies were real, and sufficient to focus my mind on hurricane holes.

Our third option was to anchor Gusto somewhere with good wind protection, sufficient room to swing, and shelter from waves. We wanted a hurricane hole. 

The Plan

I’m glad to say that what Down East Maine lacks in luxury amenities, it overachieves in steep-sided coves. A hurricane hole is a secure anchorage, a natural refuge from a storm’s wind, waves and surge. The chart showed a snug shelter not far from Jonesport called Mud Hole. A promising title for our heavy anchor.

Mud Hole looked to have the requisite characteristics for surviving Hurricane Lee: wave protection from all sides; wind protection from most directions, and especially the north; good holding; and room to swing. 

The morning of September 14, we untied from our Jonesport mooring and felt the rising tide lift us toward Mud Hole on Great Wass Island. We motored through cloying fog with only a few lobstermen for company on the radar, and we hoped that this decision would be the right one.

Mud Hole is basically an Olympic-size pool reached through a crooked passage and hemmed in by 50-foot trees atop 20-foot cliffs. That’s a lot of shelter.

The long axis is a half-mile of east to west, and the short axis is 400 feet of north to south. You enter on a rising tide and then place yourself in the center of the muddy pool that gives the place its name. Hurricane holes turn out to be like music clubs in New York: The harder it is to get in, the better it is once you’re there. Sheltering banks north and south, mud flats to the west, and a sinuous maze of ledges to the east. A fjord? Whitney’s Norwegian ancestors probably wouldn’t call it a fjord, but it was close enough for our purposes.

Obviously, it felt good to be there because the protection was profound, but it also felt good to be there because we had decided to live with our decision. No more studying storm videos or wondering about Travelifts. It was time to get into the physical process of storm preparation. 

My own punch list is probably shorter than many sailors would make, and probably more than a few others would complete. In this case, my attention went to anchoring, windage, chafe, scuppers, dinghy, sleep and food.

These are mostly self-­explanatory items, but a couple merit discussion. First is my choice to put out a second anchor. I’ve read anchor theory about two anchors on one rode (tandem anchoring), and I’ve sailed in the Bahamas enough to know about the Bahamian moor, but my approach in Mud Hole was simpler than both, and it worked. 

Basically, the primary Rocna went in toward the north side of our muddy pool, and we set it well. That’s 73 pounds of Rocna and 120 feet of chain in the mud. Then Whitney and I fished out our trusty Fortress, attached its chain to line rode, and motored at a 60-degree angle west of the Rocna. We tossed the Fortress over, set it well, and then adjusted that rode to complement the primary. 

This V theory trusted that the primary would hold us when the wind hit. If we dragged the primary at all, then our Fortress would get involved in holding us against the north wind. As the weather backed west late in the storm passage, I wanted the Fortress to keep us off the new lee shore to our east. So the two anchors were set to compound their holding in the primary blow, and then to guard against dragging east when the wind backed gusty to the west.

Of course, swinging room is paramount to any anchor plan. We had our choice in lonely Mud Hole. In Gusto’s days there, we had not one other visitor—not a fisherman , not a powerboat, not a sailboat. It’s important to have space to anchor away from others whose gear might fail, so I felt glad about that security. 

At the same time, Whitney and I couldn’t help but wish for one other salty craft, an experienced skipper to say, “You’ve chosen well.” Some ancient mariner with a tale of great storms weathered in this perfect spot. 

Instead, it was just me and my swinging room to ponder what would come next.

Preparations

The anchors performed even better than I’d hoped, with the big Rocna holding tight and the sturdy Fortress doing its part against the west wind. It was easy to adjust the rope rode on the Fortress because Gusto swung on the ­primary, so I could fine-tune that other scope within inches of my goal. 

Our sturdy bow pulpit and anchor roller made it straightforward to pad the rope rode for chafe and set the primary chain on my burliest snubber. The only real complication for these dual anchors came the day before Lee arrived. That day’s mellow calm let the tide swing Gusto in a lazy circle that tangled the rodes. Solving that was much easier than most boat projects: I walked the dinghy forward, undid the rope rode from its cleat, passed it in a bundle the correct way around the chain, and cleated it again. 

Obviously, that’s not the sort of unweaving I could do in 50 knots of wind, but they tangled only because there was a calm and a 12-foot tide in those hours before the system arrived.

Windage was on my mind when Lee was reported gusting 100 in the Gulf Stream. Whitney and I took down the genoa, flaked it, and brought it below. Our mainsail furls into the Schaefer boom, so we tucked that in as snugly as it would go and then tied off the boom. We removed the sides of the dodger but left the canvas over the top because we felt so well-protected by the Mud Hole topography. We removed loose cockpit items and prettied all the running rigging with any slack.  

OK, so that was wind. Whitney pointed out that if we were going to get drenched under 6 inches of rain, we’d better think drainage. 

Kind woman at the grocery store: “You on that sailboat? You take your pretty wife and come stay with me. You’ll both get killed out there.” 

The scuppers were clear of obstructing lines. The cockpit drains I snaked clean before any flying debris would clog them. The hatches and dodger would just have to do what they were made to do. 

As it turned out, Gusto drained well. Indeed, we used galley pans to gather water for cooking in the deluge. The only problem was that our gallant dinghy gathered so much rain so fast that I had to bail her with a bucket in a momentary lull. 

And, yes, the dinghy trailed aft instead of being hoisted aboard. Others might have deflated their dinghy, but we thought that our little inflatable could be as content trailing there as on a daysail towing behind. And it was…except for collecting 50 gallons of rainwater.

Finally, we set the intention to make extra food, eat regularly, and get plenty of rest. I figured I’d be up all night during the storm, so any extra sleep I could get would be money in the proverbial bank. And it was.

And then… 

After all of that preparation, Hurricane Lee became Tropical Storm Lee. To be honest, the real work was the mental processing of all those storm tracks and the constant shifting of all those variables between Gusto and shelter. In this sense, the expectations were the hardest part because they kept changing, while the storm preparations in Mud Hole were simple physical actions we’d performed dozens of times. Each small chore made us feel more in control of our destiny while the clock counted down to impact. 

The grind for skippers is surely the mental pressure to make clear choices from fluctuating inputs about storm track, timing and direction. This means that hurricane planning should include storm psychology. To me, it seems crucial to allow time and energy for that mental element, recognizing that once you have selected your storm strategy, enacting it is a familiar series of seamanlike tasks. 

Of course, others might say that storms often miss, and that all these preparations are just nervous foolishness—unhealthy signs of an edgy disposition. 

Maybe. But remember, if the storm hits, all this preparation is the only thing between your pants and the cold waters of eternity.

The post Surviving the Storm: A Sailor’s Tale of Hurricane Lee appeared first on Cruising World.

When I first sailed the Lesser Antilles islands in the late 1970s, I listened to the morning weather broadcast from Radio Antilles. It came on every morning at 8:05, from an AM radio station on Montserrat. “Today’s weather will see winds south of east to north of east, from 12 to 18 knots, with higher gusts. Occasional showers. No significant change is anticipated over the next 48 hours.”

I swear, it was the same recording we heard every morning. 

The trade winds do blow, with predictable regularity, from the northeast to southeast all year long. There’s an occasional deviation: the passage of a hurricane or a few days of calm. There is a wet season in the summer, a dry season in the winter, and short periods of stronger winds—the Christmas winds—in late December through early January.

Still, after 25 years of sailing here, here are my words of warning: You can get lulled into complacency amid these islands. It’s part of their charm. But then you pay for it when the winds kick up.

Christmas Winds

A few years ago, at the end of a delivery from Antigua, I had anchored off the charming village of Sainte-Anne on Martinique. Something awakened me at first light. Still half asleep, I plodded to the companionway.

When I emerged into the cockpit, the weather was blowing like stink. I looked through the dodger window to see hundreds of whitecaps marching toward us. They were only a foot or so high, but they were steep, deep and sharp. They didn’t really bother the 54-foot sloop I was on, but the dinghy astern was dancing a jig.

Then, I heard the surrounding noises. There was a hum throughout the boat as the wind strummed a tune in the rigging, rising in pitch as the wind increased. Other noises mixed in: the snapping of the ensign astern, the flapping of the sail cover, the high-pitched whine of the wind generators above the aft arch.

I switched on the nav instruments. The wind indicator hovered between 20 and 25, then scooted up to 30 as a gust hit. This is a moderate gale on the Beaufort scale.

It was late January. The Christmas winds had arrived—late.

I thought it would blow like this for a few days, but rarely a week. It’s all academic, I told myself. What were the practical implications? Getting ashore in the dinghy would be a wet ride. I was reluctant to leave the boat on its own.

By the time I looked again, the RIB tied off astern was bouncing like a pony trying to throw its halter. The painter couldn’t take too much more before it would tear the ring out of the boat. I had elected to anchor way out at the edge of the field, for privacy and an unrestricted sunset view. That means the easterly wind had a longer fetch to build up these nasty waves.

I hauled in the RIB and tied on a longer painter, figuring more scope might reduce the snapping. It didn’t. Closer in? That didn’t work either.

Other boaters had come to the same conclusion. We all needed to haul our RIBs out of the water. Some had davits; others, like me, had to use a halyard or stow the thing on deck. 

That done, I checked the anchor chain. As the boat was driven back in a gust, the anchor chain straightened out, and the snubber came taught and stretched out. I had dived on the anchor when I first set it and was confident it would hold, but I wondered if I might awake one morning on my way to Honduras.

I watched as two French bareboats attempted to re-anchor. It didn’t go well. The wind was driving them sideways so fast that the anchors never had a chance to set.

The Christmas winds—we’d all just have to sit tight.

Island Effects

The tall mountains of the larger Caribbean islands block the trade winds, creating a wind shadow to leeward. These shadows can extend out to sea for 10 to 20 miles, which means a lot of motoring as you make your way south or north along the island’s flank. It can be a welcoming experience after bashing through the open Atlantic between the islands.

As I was sailing north from the Grenadines up to Antigua last April, I was aboard Richard Thomas’s Reliance 44 cutter. We’d left Prince Rupert Bay on Dominica that morning and were sailing north, west of Îles des Saintes. It was mid-afternoon when we ran into Guadeloupe’s wind shadow. We were about 5 miles offshore and had to proceed under power.

Then, I spied three sailboats, close in with the shore, sailing north, their sails full. Could there be a westerly sea breeze at play? 

“It is possible to make way under sail in the lee of the High Islands?” Don Street writes in his Transatlantic Crossing Guide (my copy is from 1989). “Most sailors assume there will be a total lull close to shore, so they pass 3 to 4 miles off—which is just where you find absolutely no wind. But there is a way to skirt along the lee shore of these high islands, which I discovered in a book of 18th-century sailing directions. There are three recommended ways of passing the islands: at seven leagues (21 miles offshore) or else close enough to be within two pistol shots of the beach.” 

The historian Dudley Pope explains that a pistol shot was a recognized term of measurement in those days and appears frequently in accounts of naval battles. It’s the equivalent of 25 yards.

“So stay within 50 yards offshore,” Street continues. “Which may be a bit closer than you want, but not by much. You stand a good chance of enjoying a smooth, scenic sail the length of the high island. The best time to try this is between 1000 and 1600. After 1600, the breeze falls off rapidly.”

He continues: “During the day, as the land heats up, you’ll sometimes pick up a westerly onshore breeze right up to the beach, counter to the trades, which continue to blow to the west higher up. Alternately at night, the cool air falls down off the hills, often providing a beautiful moonlight sail along the beach.”

This is one of the tricks savvy sailors use when sailing along Hispaniola and Puerto Rico’s north coasts.

“Dawn and dusk are the only times when there is absolutely no wind in the lee of these islands.” Street goes on. “I would say that, except for these times, you’ll be successfully sailing the lee shore about 75 percent of the time. Of course you can always sail up and down the islands, passing to windward of them.”

Night Winds

It’s those night winds Don writes about that concern me most.

Anchored in the delightful harbor of Deshaies on the northwestern tip of Guadeloupe, I’ve experienced these night winds numerous times. All is fine as you nestle in at anchor, and then the winds begin around 2 a.m. Easterly blasts of cool air traveling at 30 knots barrel down through the mountain valley, and through town and the harbor, testing your ground tackle and anchoring skills.

I lay awake in the cockpit, one eye on a fixed light ashore to see if we were dragging. 

“These are katabatic winds,” Chris Doyle told me recently. “Heavy cold air at the mountaintops slides down the slopes in the valleys and out to sea, resulting in a westerly airflow at the sea surface.”

Island Wind Refraction

Refraction is the phenomenon by which waves—light, radio, sound and sometimes ocean waves, currents and wind—bend when meeting an obstacle and curve away from their original path. That obstacle can be an island.

When sailing south one season on Searcher, my 57-foot Bowman ketch, we motored down the lee shore of Dominica with plans to anchor in Saint-Pierre on the northeast tip of Martinique for the night. As we approached the southern tip of Dominica, we began to experience a south-southeast wind, and I fell off to the west southwest. Swells were behaving the same way.

Five miles later, the wind and waves started to come back to the east, and we corrected our course to the south. By this time, we were too far west and in no position to fetch Saint-Pierre. Then, I figured we’d experience the same effect, in reverse, as we reached the northern tip of Martinique. The winds did bend to the north, and we were able to correct our course and make it in.

This effect occurs around many of the islands’ northern and southern tips. Tides also play a part. Even if only a foot or 2, a foul tide can also kick up a nasty chop when running counter to the prevailing wind. 

During last April’s voyage, north up the coast of Guadeloupe, we decided not to duck into Deshaies for the night. We could make the anchorage off Jolly Harbor on Antigua by midnight. As we were rounding the northern tip of Guadeloupe, we encountered confused seas and strong, gusty winds. It was frustrating and uncomfortable.

I’ve experienced this before; the winds get channeled between the main island landmass and two small islands off the tip of Pointe Allegre. After a while, things settled down, and progress could be made. By the time we got the anchor down off the beach in Jolly Harbor, it was 2 in the morning.

No Wind

Occasionally there are days of no wind at all. Larry Tyler, owner and skipper on the charter yacht The Dove, has been sailing these islands for more than 30 years. Recently, he told me, “The only thing that comes to mind is that every year once or twice, the winds die down completely and then suddenly you get a westerly wind blowing you on to beach, if you are anchored too close.

Last April, during the Antigua Classic Yacht Regatta, the first day’s race was a drifting competition in calm conditions. The sea was like a mirror.

Hurricanes

Every summer and fall, from June through mid-November, these islands are visited by a series of tropical waves. Before some of these waves reach the islands, they may turn into tropical storms with winds as high as 70 knots. As they accumulate energy and build strength, they turn into hurricanes, with winds in excess of 70 knots.

The whirling winds, rain, surges and waves pass through the island chain quickly, normally moving along at 12 knots. They come and are gone in less than a day, but the devastation they leave behind can be extreme. 

Hurricane Beryl came through the Grenadians last July, destroying 70 percent of the homes on Carriacou and Union Island, and severely damaging the remaining 30 percent. The peak of hurricane season is September, after the summer sun has heated up the Atlantic surface water, leading to enhanced evaporation, the fuel that drives a hurricane.

Thankfully, these days we have excellent sources to find out what’s coming.

The post Understanding Wind in the West Indies appeared first on Cruising World.

Relief efforts for Hurricane Beryl are underway in the Caribbean after the storm pounded Carriacou, Petite Martinique and the Grenadines on Wednesday.

Beryl, the first hurricane of 2024, has made headlines for its devastating damage in the Caribbean before more recently making landfall in Texas. The storm began unusually early this year as an exceptionally dangerous category 5 hurricane. The National Weather Service has previously predicted above-normal hurricane activity in the Atlantic basin this year with 4 to 7 major hurricanes.

Following what is expected to be catastrophic damage in Grenada’s islands, Caribbean sailing publisher Doyle Guides has created a list of items needed for relief efforts. Grenada’s National Disaster Management Agency (NaDMA) has requested the following items:

• Water
• Tarpaulin (100ft, 40x30ft)
• Nonperishable food (powdered milk, canned vegetables, sardines, corn, etc.) that has an expiry date at least 1 year from now.
• Cots & sleeping blankets
• Pillows
• Batteries & battery packs
• Hygiene kits for women, men, and children
• Toiletries
• First aid kits
• Hand sanitizers
• Sanitary napkins
• Baby diapers & wipes
• Baby formula
• Adult diapers
• 5-gallon Jerry cans (water)
• Reflective vests
• Collapsible water bladders (3,000 gallons and bigger)
• Emergency solar/battery-operated radios
• Flashlights (solar)
• Solar lights
• Generators (2,000+ watts)
• Chainsaws + Spare bars & chains (18 – 32-inch blades)
• Fuel cans
• Books/coloring books for children
• Medical supplies (please contact NaDMA in advance about these)

In addition, people on the ground are asking for;

• Hard-bottom shoes to protect against hazardous debris
• Temporary housing (tents, sleeping bags, inflatable beds)
• Water filters (easy to assemble and use)
• Short-range communication devices (VHF radios, walkie-talkies)
• Solar fans, hats, sunglasses, sunblock, long sleeve shirts
• Waterproof containers to store remaining belongings
• Electric wires (3G, 2.5mm)
• Headlights
• Tape
• Gas
• Waterproof bags

Doyle Guides notes that these needs will likely change over time, and sorting donations in advance would be helpful. 

The publication has also compiled a list of relief efforts organized by location and type (monetary or goods). Doyle Guides states that they have not had time to vet any of these efforts, and this is simply a list of those available. 

Additionally, those who decide to sail to affected areas without guidance of an official organization should keep in mind that these islands are still in a state of upheaval, and secure storage and equitable distribution are major concerns. Blindly leaving donations ashore unattended or without direction could result in potential looting and unfair distribution.

As much as we’ve tried to confirm the details on this page with official sources, there are still conflicting reports, even between government officials of the same country,” Doyle Guides states on their website. “Be aware that any aid that you attempt to deliver outside of established organizations like Hope Fleet, NaDMA, MAYAG, and NEMO may be out of line with prevailing government regulations at the time.”

Doyle Guides’ list of relief organizations is available below.

For those sailing abroad

Hope Fleet has partnered with the Seven Seas Cruising Association to organize boats willing to transport humanitarian supplies to the affected areas. Those interested in helping sail to any of the affected areas with donations can sign up here. You will be asked to prepare and provide a list of items you are bringing.

• In St. Vincent & The Grenadines: Please email svgremotelogistics@gmail.com ,who are coordinating yacht-based aid efforts with the St. Vincent National Emergency Management Organisation (NEMO). 

• In Carriacou: Yachts with donations can now bring them directly to Carriacou. After Ours / Frog’s restaurant in Tyrell Bay is being set up as a community center with a community kitchen and day care, and is accepting and organizing relief supplies for distribution. 
• You can dock (or use the dinghy dock) at Tyrell Bay Marina to offload donations, but call or WhatsApp Joanna at +1-473-419-6492 in advance to schedule a time for her to meet you. If you are unable to do so, ask for Emma Williams or the NaDMA team at the dock. 
• Please have a detailed list of your donations to give them, and it would be helpful if you could sort donations ahead of time. Please arrive fully self-sufficient with full gas and water tanks.
• Great care should be taken on approach and when anchoring as there is debris everywhere and sunken boats. A PDF map of Carriacou and Petite Martinique with nautical information (created in 2020) is available here.

• In Grenada: The Marine & Yachting Association of Grenada is organizing volunteers, deliveries, and taking donations from Gleans Garage on the Lagoon in Grenada. Email mayagadmin2@gmail.com if you would like to help transport donations to Carriacou.
• If you would like any assistance upon arrival in Grenada, please contact Caribbean Sailing Association Board Member Brian Sylvester in Grenada at +1 (473) 535-2583.
• Noonsite.com also advises to hail the Coast Guard on channel 16 when you’re within distance of Grenada with your intentions as there have been reports of looting. Great care should be taken on approach and when anchoring as there is debris everywhere and sunken boats.

Local Relief Organizations

• Grenada’s National Disaster Management Agency (NaDMA) – Elvis Young: 473-419-0199, Terry Charles: 473-420-9207, relief@nadma.gd, www.nadma.gd, Facebook Page
• Grenada Red Cross – +1 473-404-1483, team@grenadaredcross.gd, www.grenadaredcross.gd, Facebook Page
• Caribbean Disaster Emergency Management Agency – Keith Goddard, Communications and Public Relations Specialist, (246) 434-4880, keith.goddard@cdema.org
• Action Bequia is accepting monetary donations to aid the Grenadines here.

If you are in Grenada

• Grenada’s National Disaster Management Agency (NaDMA) is accepting items daily at the NaDMA Headquarters in Morne Jaloux, St. George. More info +1 473-440-8391, relief@nadma.gd. Facebook post with list of items needed here. 
• MAYAG is organizing volunteers, deliveries, and donations from Gleans Garage on the Lagoon. They are also looking for boats to deliver items. Email email mayagadmin2@gmail.com or meet at Gleans at 10am any day this week (July 1st). Facebook post here.
• Items can also be delivered to Breakfast Bites on Kirani James Blvdfrom Tuesday to Friday Between 9am and 5pm. To request pickup of items call or Whatsapp Annandale Waterfall & Forest Park / Lady Irie – 473- 421-4320. Facebook post here.

International & Monetary

• GOVERNMENT OF GRENADA NATURAL DISASTER FUND (more info here)

You can now donate through an online payment portal here, or via wire transfer to the accounts listed below.

Beneficiary: Government of Grenada Natural Disaster Relief Fund
Beneficiary Bank: Grenada Co-operative Bank Limited
Swift code: GROAGDGD
Bank address: 8 Church Street St. Georges
Beneficiary A/C #: 121004900

CORRESPONDING BANK FOR USD TRANSACTIONS

Bank Name: Bank of America
Bank Address: Miami, FL
SWIFT: BOFAUS3M
Account No.: 1901964767
ABA #: 026009593

CORRESPONDING BANK FOR CAD TRANSACTIONS

Bank Name: Bank of Montreal
Bank Address: The International Branch, Toronto, Canada
SWIFT: BOFMCAT2
Account #: 1019198
TRANSIT #: 31442 001

CORRESPONDING BANK FOR GBP/EUR TRANSACTIONS

Bank: Lloyds TSB Bank
Address: UK International Services, London, UK
SWIFT: LOYDGB2L
Sort Code: 30-96-34
GBP
Account No.: 01017544
IBAN: GB98LOYD30963401017544
EUR
Account No.: 86161549
IBAN: GB32LOYD30963486161549

• The High Commission for Grenada in the UK is accepting monetary donations to the following account: 

Grenada Disaster Relief Fund
Account Name: Grenada Disaster Relief Fund
Account number: 00584503
Sort Code: 30-92-83

The High Commission will also have a donation desk at Heritage Day scheduled for July 6th at Perth Road Playing Field, White Hart Lane, Wood Green, N22 5QJ. We will be prepared to accept financial donations there, and to provide additional information on the shipment of food and other items to Grenada.

Should you require any additional information, please feel free to contact the Mission at office@grenada-highcommission.co.uk or call 02073854415/ 07375330696.

Official notice on the website here.

• Global Giving Hurricane Beryl Relief Fund (tax deductible) is here.

• General GoFundMe campaigns

A general Union Island GoFundMe campaign is here.

A general Mayreau GoFundMe campaign is here.

A general Carriacou & PM GoFundMe campaign is here and here.

The Carriacou Animal Hospital GoFundMe here or PayPal here.

Additional GoFundMe’s are available on Doyle Guides’ original post found here.

Item Donations by Location

• Caribbean – In St. Martin, MV Spirit will be accepting cargo from July 10th – 13 for stops in Dominica, Antigua, St. Lucia, and St. Vincent. Contact Tanya from Instant Shipping services at +590-690-65-20-37

In Antigua, Promise Kept Shipping will be accepting cargo July 4th – 6th to go on MV Spirit. Contact +1-268-783-5299

• London, UK – You can donate items and funds to: Mo Better Cuts, 316a Ladbroke Grove, London, W10 5NQ …Or….300 Old Brompton Rd, London, SW5 9LB

More info: Saskia, 07572492258, Facebook post here.

Islandwayz Limited UK is also collecting items and will be shipping a few containers of building materials, food, furniture, appliances, and household items from the UK. Closing date is July 15th and they can pickup items within the London area. Call +447456534772 to arrange pickup or for more info. 

They are also accepting monetary donations to go towards purchasing items in the UK, shipping costs, and immediate aid. See the Facebook post here for details. 

• New York, U.S. – You can donate items and funds to; 

July 3rd – 8th to Compass Shipping, 730 Chester St., Brooklyn NY, 11236, (718) 773-5430, 9am – 4pm. Label drop-offs To: Solange Dowden, c/o Valini, Lavish & Wings of Sparrow. Facebook post here.

July 5th – Aug 5th at Nostrad Hall, 713 Nostrad Ave, Brooklyn NY, 11216. Mon- Fri 4pm – 7pm. Contact Natasha for more info 929-386-6037 / 347-322-2347. Facebook post here.

1369 Rockaway Pkwy, Brooklyn NY, 11236. Before dropoff call +1 (347) 371-5443 or WhatsApp 929-428-5328. See Facebook post here.

Irica Frank, 2003 Bergen St, Brooklyn NY, 11233, Contact SpiceKidd (631) 948-8964. Facebook post here.

Camelo (Garz), 963 E 77th St, Brooklyn NY, 11326, Contact SpiceKidd (631) 948-8964. Facebook post here.

HMF Foundation – Whiskeys Shippers & Movers Inc, 4461 East 99th St, Brooklyn NY. More info +1-473-425-1098, hmffund@gmail.com. Facebook post here.

• New Jersey, U.S. – You can donate items and funds to; 340 Amherst St. East Orange NJ, 07018. Contact SpiceKidd (631) 948-8964. Facebook post here.

• Atlanta, U.S. – You can donate items and funds to; HMF Foundation – 2047 Gees Mill Rd, Suite 226, Conyers GA, 30013. More info +1-473-425-1098, hmffund@gmail.com. Facebook post here.

• Florida, U.S. – Global Empowerment Mission is accepting item donations Mon – Fri 10am – 5pm at 1850 NW 84th Ave, STE 100, Doral FL, 33126. info@globalempowermentmission.org. More info here.

• Canada – You can donate items and funds to; HMF Foundation – 13 Fairglen Ave, Unit 1, Brampton ON, L6X 5E8. More info +1-473-425-1098, hmffund@gmail.com. Facebook post here.

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PredictWind, the New Zealand-based company known for providing sailors with weather data, has introduced the PredictCurrent App.

The PredictCurrent App has a quick-view dashboard where sailors can see wind, current, waves and tide height data in one place. Animated maps provide extensive detail on tidal currents, setting what the company calls a new standard in tidal current modeling.

PredictCurrent’s tidal current maps cover 90 percent of the world’s coastlines, according to the company.

“The launch of the PredictCurrent App marks a pivotal moment in marine navigation technology,” Jon Bilger, CEO of PredictWind, stated in a press release. “Our dedicated team has spared no effort in providing mariners worldwide with unparalleled access to comprehensive current data, fostering safer navigation and informed decision-making on the seas. We’re thrilled to be at the forefront of enhancing maritime safety and empowering users with unprecedented insights.”

The app is supported by ultra-high-resolution models that cover areas characterized by complex bathymetry and high tidal flows. This provides accuracy at 100-meter (328-foot) resolution. Supported by a 400-meter (1,312-foot) resolution within 90 kilometers (55 miles) of the coast and a 4-kilometer (2.5-mile) resolution extending up to 600 kilometers (372 miles) offshore, users can see tidal flows anywhere in the world.

Backed by PredictWind forecasts, the app also provides marine weather forecasts in a table format, including weather warnings, tidal current flows, tide times and atmospheric parameters. Users also can access tidal currents, sea temperature maps, wind and wave displays.

Does PredictCurrent also let sailors see ocean temperatures? Yes, in color-coded zones.

Where to learn more: visit www.predictcurrent.com

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Why were we in French Polynesia during cyclone season and an El Niño year? Well, our plan was to sail to New Zealand after six months of cruising in Tahiti, but we fell in love and stayed. So, we ran into cyclone season, which is from November through April in the South Pacific.

The behavior of cyclones changes during El Niño because of differences in sea surface temperatures and atmospheric conditions, influencing the frequency, intensity and paths of the storms. El Niño started in 2023 and continued into 2024, giving the central and eastern parts of the Pacific Ocean warmer sea surface. This can shift the cyclone formation zones eastward. Islands that are typically less affected by cyclones, such as the Southern Cook Islands and French Polynesia, have higher risk.

The Marquesas Islands are outside the typical cyclone belt; their only close call was Tropical Cyclone Nisha-Orama in February 1983. It developed north of the Marquesas during an El Niño year and had sustained winds of 115 mph in the Tuamotus. Areas more frequently affected by cyclones include Australia, New Zealand, Vanuatu, Fiji, Samoa and Tonga—but it is not impossible for cyclones to affect the Marquesas if conditions are right, such as during El Niño years.

Preparation in Tahiti

After a wonderful time diving with humpback whales in Mo’orea, we went to Tahiti to prepare the boat for the journey east to the Marquesas. Wanderlust, our Seawind 1600 catamaran, is equipped with daggerboards. It adeptly sails upwind. This feature, combined with the robust design and comfortable living space, has made it the ideal vessel for us in our long voyages across challenging waters.

In Tahiti, we inspected the rigging and systems, and unfortunately found cracked wires in the cap shrouds and the cross-beam cable (the martingale). The good news was that there are excellent riggers in Tahiti, but the bad news was that the cable had to come from Australia with a lead time of at least two weeks that turned out to be a month. By then, the easterly trade winds would be in full force and on our nose.

Meanwhile, we stocked up at the island’s markets, which are brimming with fresh produce. At every visit, we packed our bags, ensuring our boat was ready to face whatever the ocean had in store.

Papeete Marina

Papeete Marina is on the northwest side of Tahiti, which means it’s open to northern wind and swell. Large waves enter the basin, creating a significant commotion, chafing and breaking dock lines, ripping off docks or surging them over the pilings. In cyclone season, when the northern swells are more frequent, boats are often asked to seek shelter at anchor. As the inclement weather was approaching, we could already feel some of its effects. The monohulls started to behave like bucking broncos.

Finally, our cables for the repair arrived, and Wanderlust was ready.

Strategy

We tossed the lines on December 4 with a plan to sail to Fakarava, setting us up for a good angle to the Marquesas, but the next round of squalls was hot on our tail so we decided to pull into Tikehau, 150 nautical miles to the northwest. The atoll’s sparse population and natural beauty provided a serene backdrop and time to plan the journey ahead. We were held by the weather, but it wasn’t bad at all.

A couple days later, the weather changed, and we had a spectacular sail during the day. Wanderlust chugged miles quicker than expected, and we realized we would arrive in darkness—when it is unsafe to enter the atoll. We furled our screecher and set the jib to slow down a knot or two. A few hours later, the wind disappeared and was replaced by torrential rain. We had to motor and arrived at the atoll’s pass almost two hours after the desired slack tide. Not a real problem with two 80 hp engines, but it could have been with a smaller boat.

Fakarava greeted us with the rare convenience of a fuel dock. However, we did not make use of it, thinking we would be fine with the fuel we had. Rookie mistake. This amenity would have allowed us to bypass the cumbersome process of ferrying fuel in 5-gallon jerry cans, saving time, effort and my rotator cuffs, which I later destroyed in Hiva Oa by shlepping more than three dozen of them.

Fakarava hosts a vibrant underwater world and UNESCO-protected status, with unbelievable diving at the south pass, the famous wall of sharks, and the grouper spawning under a full moon in July. We were fortunate enough to enjoy that during our previous stay. This time around, the squally weather continued, and we did not even take a dip in the water.

Final Leg to Fatu Hiva

With a northwest wind, we sailed close-hauled for three days. Then the wind disappeared, and we motored in flat-calm waters that are unusual for that time of the year. The silver lining was that we were able to land a 143-pound yellowfin tuna that fed us and our friends delicious sushi and tuna tartar for months. And we learned another important lesson: While trying to lift the tuna using the main winch, I may have used the wrong size rope (I admit nothing). The winch stripper arm broke. It was a most expensive tuna, too.

On day four as the sun was starting to set, the southernmost island of the Marquesas, Fatu Hiva, presented its rugged landscape: the perfect gift on Christmas Eve. Giant clouds resting on jagged peaks, the sun’s evening light casting a golden hue on its face. A distant squall reminding us of what we’d been through. We had navigated Wanderlust about 1,000 nautical miles from Tahiti, upwind, to this Jurassic-like sanctuary for cyclone season. In the day’s final light, we anchored in the stunning Bay of Virgins, a spot already marked on the chart plotter from our previous visit.

Fatu Hiva

This land boasts a rich cultural heritage, friendly people and breathtaking landscapes. After spending some time on the island, we found ourselves reverently walking paths surrounded by raw beauty. Eventually, we stopped trying to articulate our awe, and we became part of the larger tapestry of life and nature. Gently running our fingers on the leaves of holy basil to release the magical scent, inhaling the pungent whiffs of drying copra, and bowing over gardenia flowers to take in their exhilarating aroma. Long-tail tropical birds circled above us in the backdrop of lush volcanic peaks.

Kahoha was the greeting we exchanged with the locals. Even Yoda, our dog, became a beloved figure on the island, responding joyously to calls from across the river. We made friends, bartered rope and other items for fruits, and for wild pig and goat meat. We felt a profound connection to this island.

Getting there was worth every bit of effort it took. We lived an unforgettable adventure that brought us closer to each other.

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