I nurtured dreams of the Amazon as a kid growing up in rural Maine in the 1980s. What I saw on PBS documentaries and read in National Geographic at the library made Brazil feel as distant as the moon. Then I went to Bowdoin College, where I fell in love with the work of Brazilian photographer Sebastião Salgado. Later came beautiful films like City of God and Lower City, and images by photographer David Alan Harvey. These glimpses into different aspects of Brazil’s culture suggested layers of complexity I longed to explore.

Motherhood forced me to set aside, albeit temporarily, my visions of remote river adventures, wild carnival nights and wandering Brazil’s streets with a camera. Brazil wasn’t on our immediate sailing route early in our family sailing adventures, either. My husband, James, and I had no firsthand experience with Brazil, neither of us spoke Portuguese, and we had no contacts there. And we had toddlers aboard.

Over the years, however, we slowly started to explore Brazil. Each visit helped us fall more in love with the place. Our introduction began gradually, with brief encounters that sparked our curiosity and built our enthusiasm.

In 2011, we sailed through Brazilian waters with our two oldest children, Tormentina and Raivo, when they were 3 and 1. We followed the trade winds on our Open 40, Anasazi Girl, from Cape Verde to South Africa. Our route took us directly to the Fernando de Noronha archipelago, where we unfortunately had to change course to avoid the islands that night. We sailed past Recife without stopping, before tacking and turning toward South Africa.

In 2016, James delivered a Stevens 47 from the Brazilian state of Bahia to the island of Trinidad, gaining experience in the Salvador ports of Aratu and Bahia Marina. The marina staff were professional, the facilities were excellent, and he returned with a new understanding of the country’s sailing infrastructure.

In 2017, we made our first visit to Brazil as a family. It was an unplanned stop in Rio on Anasazi Girl while sailing from Uruguay bound for Grenada. By then, we had made many ocean miles with our children: North Atlantic, South Atlantic and a full loop eastward in the Southern Ocean. We had also added two new crew members, Pearl and Tarzan, who were born in New Zealand and Chile. With four kids younger than 8 on board, you could say we were more seasoned when it came to sailing with children.

On that passage, we encountered strong headwinds as we approached Cabo Frio. We decided to turn around and take refuge in Rio while we waited for a wind shift to continue north.

The moment we began our approach toward Guanabara Bay and saw our first glimpse of Rio’s cityscape, a euphoric feeling overwhelmed all of us. In this precise moment, we all began to fall in love with Brazil. Any disappointment at having to alter our course was overtaken by the natural beauty of the place and the excitement of discovering somewhere new.

Making landfall in Rio is truly unforgettable. Its skyline and mountains are distinctive, especially when approaching from the sea. The city reveals itself in a multitude of layers. The granite walls of Sugarloaf, Corcovado and Pedra da Gávea are unmistakable. The bright sandy shores of Copacabana and Ipanema are layered with the city’s urban architecture, which ranges from upscale modern buildings to densely packed favelas. For James, a lifelong rock climber, it was always a dream to climb the granite walls. Our children also talked excitedly about one day scaling the towering peaks.

Inside the naturally protected waters of Guanabara Bay were hundreds of sailboats on moorings, all with views of Christ the Redeemer and Sugarloaf Mountain. We tied up to a mooring ball of the Iate Clube do Rio de Janeiro, then had an unforgettable Sunday brunch on the club’s veranda.

We met welcoming club members and explored the high-end restaurants, gardens and service areas. We met Olympic sailing athletes who were training. Even though we were in the middle of the city, it felt like we were in a magical oasis.

What struck us most during those two days was how warmly welcomed we felt. Local sailors offered advice about the best spots to visit in Brazil. They shared weather insights with the genuine enthusiasm of one mariner helping another. We left after two nights, but felt an undeniable pull to return.

So we did. In 2018, while delivering a Chuck Paine 62 from the Caribbean to Uruguay, we made several planned stops in the Brazilian ports of Salvador, Rio, Ilhabela, and Itajaí. The kids enjoyed açaí, água de coco, savory churrascos and panquecas de tapioca. They went rock climbing in Rio and sailed optimists at the yacht club.

Our stops were relatively short, but we were figuring out the coastline and a variety of ports. We made wonderful friends with local sailors in every place we stopped. With increased miles and time, we felt completely at home. The Brazilian sailing community was remarkably welcoming, helpful and generous with local knowledge.

In 2020, on our 50-foot trimaran Thunderbird, we had five children younger than 12. Our youngest, Jade, was born in Chile. We were sailing from Cape Verde across the Atlantic to Cabedelo, Brazil. This time we would check out new places and revisit some ports we already loved.

It was a fortuitous decision, because 2020 also happened to be the year that the Covid-19 pandemic began. What started as a loose plan of about six months turned into more than two years in the country. With international borders closed, we were we given the gift of time and the freedom to explore slowly. Our biggest gift was giving birth to our last child, Atlas, in Brazil—solidifying our deep connection with the country.

Between 2020 and 2025 on Thunderbird, our exploration stretched the entire coast of Brazil, but was concentrated between Rio de Janeiro and Ilhabela. Rio provided small doses of big city life to enjoy art, culture and urban energy. The coastline between Ilha Grande Bay, Ubatuba, and Ilhabela provided nature and open spaces to connect with the elements.

The experience of raising our children in these waters was nothing short of surreal: lush green forests cascading down towering mountainsides, the ancient canopy mirrored perfectly in glassy, protected waters below. These waterways unlock a different world where waterfalls plunge from mountain heights into protected coves, and where every anchorage has its own character and beauty.

In the labyrinthine anchorages of Ilha Grande Bay, there are more than 365 islands to explore—a new island for every day of the year. The island of Ilha Grande rises from the sea like a forested fortress, reaching skyward to Pico da Pedra D’Água at nearly 3,400 feet tall. This is one of the world’s most biodiverse ecosystems, with plants and vertebrates found nowhere else on Earth. It’s an astonishing diversity of life: Ferns, mosses and epiphytes create living tapestries on every surface, while lianas, orchids and bromeliads transform trees into vertical gardens.

The surrounding mainland, from Angra dos Reis south to São Sebastião, is equally breathtaking. Watching my children scramble over colossal granite boulders, snorkel beside giant starfish, stand beneath tropical leaves bigger than their bodies, and dive into waters with colors that varied from gold to turquoise to emerald, I couldn’t shake the feeling we’d tumbled into our own wonderland. Granite peaks pierce the clouds, rising directly from beautiful beaches, dwarfing everything. It’s a layered landscape that seems like it was drawn from an artist’s imagination.

From the cockpit, we spotted colorful parrots, night herons and Brazilian tanagers calling from the canopy while dolphins surfaced near our bow and manta rays glided beneath us in crystal-clear water. Great white egrets stood motionless in the shallows, and flocks of them filled the trees. Capybaras—the world’s largest and cutest rodents—grazed along hiking trails that wound through the forest.

Perhaps most spectacular are the Blue Morpho butterflies that flash their iridescent purple-blue wings as they flutter between the forest and the water’s edge. With wingspans reaching 8 inches, they are living jewels against the green backdrop, catching sunlight like nature’s own stained glass windows.

Another thing that makes this sailing paradise remarkable is its abundance of fresh water. The towering Serra do Mar mountains that frame the bay serve as a natural watershed, capturing moisture from Atlantic clouds and transforming it into countless springs and waterfalls. With annual rainfall ranging from 1,400 to 4,000 millimeters, these peaks ensure a constant supply of crystal-clear fresh water cascading down through the forest.

Many local settlements and anchorages rely on natural spring-fed catchment systems that originate from these mountain waterfalls. Sailors can easily catch rainwater, and find freshwater streams and springs to replenish tanks, a rare blessing for off-grid cruising.

Long before modern yachts arrived, the indigenous Caiçara people mastered these protected channels in dugout canoes carved from single Guapuruvu tree trunks—some stretching 40 feet long. They understood what today’s sailing families quickly discover: This natural sanctuary provides predictable breezes across flat water, while towering peaks block ocean swells.

Especially in Ilha Grande Bay, protection comes from pure geography. It’s as if a massive breakwater shields the entire bay from South Atlantic swells and prevailing southeast winds. The Serra do Mar mountains rise directly from the water’s edge, blocking weather systems and funneling thermal winds down through valleys. This all gives sailors predictable afternoon breezes without the confused seas found on the open coast.

Sailors can choose their level of shelter here depending on conditions, with smaller islands creating a maze of channels where you’re always sailing in the lee of something. Children can learn the helm in flat water with steady winds, gaining confidence in ideal conditions. The same mountain walls that sheltered Caiçara canoes for generations now create perfect conditions for young sailors: gentle breezes, calm seas and forgiving waters where mistakes become lessons. Here, a child’s first time at the tiller is pure joy. It’s about falling in love with the wind.

And with countless anchorages scattered across its waters and relatively few boats to fill them, you always have options for finding the perfect spot to drop anchor. It’s well worth exploring the anchorages on Ilha Grande’s south side, though you must choose your weather windows carefully. The exposed southern coast includes spectacular anchorages like Aventureiro, Dois Rios, Meros, Lopes Mendes and Ilha Jorge Grego, but they all require paying attention to Atlantic swells that can become uncomfortable.

Even in these places, we were never completely cut off from civilization. In many of the most popular anchorages, we’d find someone selling ice-cold beer, refreshing caipirinhas, crispy French fries, calamari, traditional seafood moqueca or hearty feijoada, which is Brazil’s beloved national dish of slow-cooked black beans with pork and beef served over rice.

The region also supports sustainable aquaculture, and has incredibly fresh scallops, mussels and oysters. On Ilha Grande’s north side and near Pouso da Cajaíba close to the Juatinga Peninsula, artisanal producers have been cultivating these bivalves in the bay’s pristine waters. Shrimp boats operating from Paraty and Tarituba produced some of the most extraordinary shrimp we’ve ever tasted. It was sweet, plump and impossibly fresh from the bay’s rich waters.

Even ice cream boats make the rounds through the anchorages, with vendors calling out their wares of Kibon treats—perhaps classic Eskibon bars, popsicles, or premium Magnum ice creams. And while not all anchorages have internet or cell coverage, the short sailing distances make it possible to stay connected, a perfect balance between remote wilderness and modern convenience.

Most sailing adventures here begin from one of two historic gateway cities that frame the bay. Paraty is a beautifully preserved Portuguese colonial jewel, frozen in time from the 1500s to the 1800s, with cobblestone streets that lead down to businesses like Marina do Engenho. Modern yachts moor against a backdrop of centuries-old architecture, while the waterfront comes alive with colorfully painted fishing boats and charter schooners. For provisioning, sailors will find Super Carlão, which is Paraty’s well-stocked supermarket. It has international goods and local products, as well as exotic Brazilian fruits and vegetables. Marine chandleries are abundantly stocked, and anything not found on the shelf can be sourced through online retailers on Mercado Libre.

To the east lies Angra dos Reis, located 93 miles south of Rio de Janeiro and serving as the primary jumping-off point for charters. Here, there’s Piratas Shopping, which is Brazil’s innovative shopping complex where boats can dock for free while crews provision. Sailors can step directly from their boats into air-conditioned shopping comfort.

Ask any local cruiser about their favorite waters, and most will tell you Ilha Grande Bay is  where their childhood dreams of sailing adventure first took root. Now, after a total of four years in Brazil, I can say it is one of the most spectacular and rewarding places in the world to cruise. We have logged thousands of miles, explored countless anchorages, and still have barely scratched the surface. It would take several lifetimes to truly experience all the country’s waterways.

The Brazilian approach to life—with its emphasis on joy, family and connection to nature—resonated deeply with our own values as a family. For us, Brazil became not just a sailing destination, but a place where we felt truly at home. The dreams I had as a child were even better in reality, because I got to share them with my family.

The post Beyond the Amazon: Why Brazil’s Coastline Captivates Sailors appeared first on Cruising World.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a moment in every passage when the horizon stops looking like a line and starts looking like a doorway, one that has led to some of my richest, weirdest, most memorable landfalls in life.

This doorway has opened my world to a forgotten rocky cove in New England where lobster pots outnumber townspeople. There was a sunburned cay in the Caribbean where the bar ran out of ceviche before noon (tragic) but the rum kept flowing. And there was the foggy inlet in the Pacific Northwest where the water was so still, it reflected the cedar trees upside down. I half expected to meet a totem pole carver paddling out to greet us.

None of these places were on my must-see lists. None had popular marinas or cocktail menus with foamy signatures.

And yet, they’re the ones I still think about, especially now as we roll into the holiday season with its built-in nostalgia. There’s just something about those out-of-the-way places and the people who make them unforgettable.

In “The Man on the Beach” in the November/December 2025 issue, author Fabio Potenti captures the feeling perfectly. He and his crew found themselves on a speck of an island in the heart of the Pacific where a Fijian cattleman named Mua welcomed them with a sevusevu ceremony, fresh coconut milk and a dawn climb to a hilltop view that stretched forever. What stuck for Potenti wasn’t just the island’s beauty, but Mua himself: his rituals, his quiet humor, his generosity, his sense of belonging to the land and sea.

I’ve never been to Fiji, but I’ve been on enough docks, dinghies and backwater anchorages to know the magic of meeting the man on the beach, or the woman running the dockside café, or the kid who shows you the shortcut to the bakery. I imagine every sailor reading this magazine has a Mua somewhere in the logbook too.

I think back to an autumn cruise down the Eastern Seaboard. We dropped the hook in a Lowcountry gunkhole so small, the town dock was a glorified picnic table with cleats. A local crabber rowed over at sunrise (his engine had quit) and asked if we had a spark plug wrench. We did. He left us a paper bag of still-steaming blueberry muffins his wife had baked that morning.

Or the time in Sint Maarten when I misjudged a crosscurrent and managed to “park” my charter boat against the last piling on the dock, loudly, in front of an audience. A local kid hopped down, tossed my line to the right cleat and made me look like I’d meant to do it that way. He didn’t even stick around for a tip.

In the Pacific Northwest, where the rain and fog can make you feel like you’re starring in your own black-and-white film noir, I remember slipping into a cove lined with old cedar pilings, remnants of a Native American fishing village. We walked the beach at low tide, following patterns of clamshells and cedar bark. The sense of history was so strong, we could almost hear it underfoot.

These experiences all share a theme: kindness given and received, respect earned and returned. Arrive as a visitor, leave as a friend. That’s the real gift of cruising: the slow accumulation of human connections.

As sailors, we talk a lot about spare parts, reefing early, keeping a weather eye. But the best preparation for any passage might just be packing an open mind and a generous spirit. Offer the first wave. Learn a few words of the local language. Bring an extra bundle of kava roots or a bag of cookies. Share your tools. Listen more than you talk. These gestures are the cruising equivalent of good seamanship.

And remember to be good to yourself. Cruising can be as humbling as it is rewarding. Mistakes happen, gear breaks, tides surprise you. Give yourself the same patience you give others. Laughter helps. So does remembering why you went cruising in the first place.

Carry a little of Mua’s spirit with you. Slow down. Accept the coconut milk. Climb the hill for the view at sunrise. Say thank you. Leave a muffin.

Whether we’re crossing oceans or gunkholing in the local bay, we’re all in this together. One big, salty, slightly rum-spattered community of wanderers.

The post The Currency of Kindness: Why Boaters Treasure Hidden Harbors appeared first on Cruising World.

Emerging from the mist like a craggy apparition, the sheer cliffs fronting the Scottish isle of Skye dramatically revealed themselves. We were motor-sailing aboard the Swan 68 Aphrodite from the nearby island of Rum, one of the so-called Small Isles of the country’s Inner Hebrides chain, and we’d already been forewarned that the coast of Skye would be scenic and remarkable. Now, here it was, in all its noble glory. And it was clear that the coming attractions had been spot-on.

Tall granite peaks stood proudly against the sea. Rivulets of water spilled over the lofty plateaus until the spray coalesced into riveting waterfalls, one after the next. At sea level, along the weathered shore, relentless storms with accompanying seas had battered the coastline, as evidenced by the deep caves. Seabirds wheeled overhead in one direction, as a pod of dolphins trucked along in the other, their fins rising and submerging in unison. It looked like a scene from a movie.

Eventually, the hard rock began to slope off. It gave way to patches of green hills. Still high aloft, the white dots spotted among the emerald bits were slowly stirring. As always in Scotland: sheep and more sheep. 

I’d been sailing with skipper Murray Jacob for more than a month now, starting with a transatlantic voyage from Rhode Island to Ireland before we’d delivered Aphrodite north to Scotland. As usual, the captain was quick with a comment. “If there’s a sheep Olympics,” he said, “those ones win some medals.”

Scotland was proving an exceptional cruising ground. And we were exploring these enchanting waters with a rather remarkable assemblage of like-minded sailors, which made it even better. 

Four days earlier, we’d left the Scottish island of Kerrera on the so-called “Western Isles Cruise 2025,” a movable feast of 50-some yachts representing a half dozen sailing organizations: the Cruising Club of America; the Irish Cruising Club; Scotland’s Clyde Cruising Club and Royal Highland Yacht Club; the Royal Cruising Club from England; and the international Ocean Cruising Club. Aphrodite, owned by former CCA commodore Chris Otorowski and his wife, Shawn, was one of a handful of boats representing the CCA; like our seaworthy Swan, several had crossed the Atlantic to join the festivities. (Unfortunately, the Otorowskis were unable to attend, but they gave us the green light to set sail in their absence.) 

It had all commenced from the cool Kerrera Marina, a full-service, family-owned operation that’s a short hop across the water from the bustling town of Oban, a popular destination for tourists thanks to its plentiful fresh seafood, colorful Victorian architecture and never-ending fleet of ferries servicing the nearby Hebridean islands. The marina was not only an ideal headquarters for the cruise, but one with important historical significance. During World War II, it was the site of the Royal Air Force’s Oban Airfield flying-boat base, and the ramp for the marina’s current Travelift was once used to extract seaplanes for maintenance. 

Kerrara Marina also served as the host for the CCA’s meet-and-greet party, with boat sheds and support buildings transformed into dining halls for a sumptuous buffet for the dozens of participating sailors. It was there that we met our Scottish buddy boat for the cruise, skipper Ken Andrew’s 38-foot Argento representing the Clyde Cruising Club. It was a huge stroke of luck, for the Argento lads provided plenty of local knowledge in equal measure with hearty laughs and endless drams of good Scotch whiskey.

With that we were off, bound for the port town of Tobermory in what was, for most of the fleet, a 35-nautical-mile race. For Aphrodite and crew—Murray, myself, CCA members and seasoned sailors Peter and Adrianne Becker, and Spike Lobdell and Betsy Bowman—it was a rather cruisy jaunt, as we were towing a big tender to facilitate future explorations. Tobermory was a salty, pretty little place with fine pubs adorning the waterfront, and an ideal first stop. 

Thick fog engulfed the harbor the next morning as we prepared to motor to the protected waters of Loch Drambuie for one of the cruise’s signature moments: the Sunflower Raft organized by the Royal Cruising Club. As the fleet’s largest yacht, Aphrodite had been designated as one of the eight “cardinal boats” around which the raft would be assembled. Capt. Murray was—how shall we put this—less than enthusiastic about this assignment (“If it’s windy, it’ll be a cluster”) but the RCC’s vice commodore, Tim Trafford, was a pillar of organization, directing a small fleet of RIBs, and it went off without a hitch. “The sunflower is complete!” he announced over the VHF radio as the last boat slipped into place and many a dram was poured. The breeze did kick in, but not until all was disassembled. 

The next morning, we powered past the adjacent Small Isles of Muck and Eigg on our way to Rum, where we dropped the hook and had a good look around at the nature reserve, camps and general store before the swarms of biting midges had us scurrying back to the boat. From there, the next day, it was on to Skye and its jaw-dropping visuals.

What had really drawn us to Skye, however, wasn’t the arresting scenery but the Talisker Distillery on the shores of Loch Harport, with a tasting and lunch organized by the Irish Cruising Club. The distillery has been in operation, so the story goes, since 1830, wwhen the MacAskill brothers rowed in from Eigg and set up shop: “Made By the Sea” is its fitting slogan. I was never much of a Scotch drinker, but I enjoyed the tour and was definitely acquiring a taste for it. My favorite part (other than dodging the flocks of sheep meandering down the road) were the plump, incredibly tasty oysters (adorned with a “mist” of Scotch) served up in Talisker’s restaurant afterward. I put away more than a few. 

The distillery tour was one of several organized events scheduled every few days over the course of the cruise’s two-week itinerary. They were all quite social affairs. I was enjoying getting to know the CCA crew, including current Commodore Jay Gowell, who was sailing his Tayana 52, Moonstone. I’m not a CCA member but have many friends who are, and I’ve always admired their guiding motto and spirited raison d’etre: “Adventurous use of the seas.” It was fantastic sailing in company with this group, all excellent sailors and just terrific, friendly folks. 

From Skye, the next highly anticipated stop would be the Outer Hebrides chain, dead to windward. Accomplished offshore sailor Peter Becker made an astute call when he dubbed our masthead windex the DDD: the “Delivery Direction Indicator,” the maxim that states the wind always blows from the direction we wish to go. It did turn into an upwind bash, but Aphrodite is a powerful beast sailing to weather, and we crossed the Sea of Hebrides in a pretty ideal 15 to 25 knots of fluctuating southwest breeze. 

We spent our first night anchored off the isle of South Uist, just outside the very complete facilities at Lochboisdale Harbour, which is billed as “the ideal point of entry for visitors to the Hebrides.” It was a raw, wild place: barren, rocky, scrubbed. (With, of course, many sheep.) “This,” Murray said, “is what I thought Scotland would look like.”

Heading south the next day under a double-reefed main in continuing solid breeze and rather appalling weather (which is pretty much what I thought Scotland would look like), we made our way to the island of Barra, a virtual metropolis in these parts with a population of 1,300 rugged souls. The highlight here (other than the palm trees swaying in the small gale, a testament to the range and reach of the Gulf Stream) was dinner in the warm, cozy confines of the dining room at the Castlebay Hotel. More specifically, it was the steaming bowl of Cullen skink, a creamy chowder full of smoked haddock, potatoes and onions that was delicious. If ever a meal were suited to the place and the moment, it was Cullen skink.

It was a quick motor from Barra to the isle of Vatersay, the southernmost and westernmost inhabited island in the Outer Hebrides. A supper at the local community center was the day’s organized event, with a terrific, youthful band of bagpipers who infused the proceedings with a Scottish accent. The pristine twin beaches to either side of a spit of land adjacent to the community center were truly spectacular. The eastern beach was at the head of the protected bay that served as the main anchorage for the rendezvous. The western beach, just a short walk away and facing the blue Atlantic, is one I’ll not soon forget. There were wandering sheep, of course, but the big surprise were the cattle wading near the seashore. I stole away from dinner for a long, breathtaking walk. Other than the livestock, I was the only other sentient being around. 

I’d have been perfectly happy spending the summer wandering these gorgeous Outer islands, but time waits for no cruise in company. In more ways than one, Vatersay had been the apex of our travels and the real turning point: It was time to start making our way back to Kerrera. But good times were still on the horizon. Some 70 miles back to the east, so was our next destination.

Our mates on Argenta knew of a pub called the Old Forge in the small village of Knoydart on the shores of a lake called Loch Nevis that was accessible only by boat (a 7-mile trip from the nearest port) or by foot (an 18-mile hike). Off we went. We had a couple of fine hours of sailing before the passage devolved into a long motor-sail, but it was all worth it. The loch was spectacular, and the locally brewed beer at the pub was fresh as could be. The only problem? It was a Monday, and no chow was being served. So, after a couple of rounds, we retired to Aphrodite with our friends. Dinner was whipped up, and more than one Scotch bottle was opened, its cap tossed away. 

It was a fine night. The next morning? Less so. I can only speak for myself, but the day’s mission—a return sail to Tobermory—was a bit hazy, and I’d learned an important lesson. Never attempt to drink Scotch with the Scotsmen. 

The cruise itinerary had one more item on the docket before the final party back in Kerrera—the Impromptu Alfresco Pot Luck Party—with a variety of possible lochs or ports as the venue. What transpired was unexpected and outstanding: a big gathering at the secluded Inverlussa Mussel Farm.

The current was piping along at better than 3 knots as we motored through the entrance to Loch Spelve on the isle of Mull and wended our way to the northernmost finger, where a big sign on the shoreside facility—“Moules”—clearly pronounced that we’d come to the right place. In exchange for donations to the Royal Life Saving Society, the outfit that patrols the waters of the U.K. to aid distressed mariners, the farm had donated a hundred pounds of prize mussels, which were absolutely out of this world. Every boat brought a dish and grog, and it all turned into a mighty feast. There’d be one celebratory party back at the marina to wrap things up, but as far as I was concerned, those moules were the journey’s exclamation point.

It had been a fantastic cruise, and I’d been honored to be part of it. Scotland is now firmly on my list of favorite cruising grounds. Great mates, whiskey, scenery, and on and on. Nothing but wondrous memories in the bank. Heck, I’ll even miss the sheep.

The post Cruising Scotland’s Misty Isles: A Sailor’s Tale appeared first on Cruising World.

Having a few soft spots in the balsa-cored deck of your 50-plus-year-old sailboat is neither uncommon nor all that concerning. However, last season I noticed a not-to-subtle flex in the foredeck of our Newport 41 when I was retrieving the anchor from particularly sticky mud. We’d had the foredeck reinforced from below in 2008, when we’d upgraded our anchor windlass after buying Kate, but now there were spongy areas underfoot.

We decided to tackle the project ourselves. We bought an oscillating saw, a circular saw and a wet-dry vacuum. Then we booked a haul out at Penuwasa Shipyard in Kudat, Borneo, Malaysia. We took a deep breath, and we opened a proverbial can of worms.

Demo Day

Balsa wood has been the preferred material for cored deck construction for decades. It’s light, but extremely strong. It can be laid as small tiles adhered to a scrim (an open-weave material) and can serve as a sandwich between layers of fiberglass, with the grain running perpendicular to the outer skin. The 2-inch balsa tiles are flexible enough to conform to the gentle radius of the deck, and the end-grain application provides superior compression strength because forces are exerted down the length of the grain rather than across it.

The downfall of balsa-cored decks is when water finds it way below the fiberglass skin. Most commonly, this happens when deck hardware is improperly sealed, or the sealant breaks down. Balsa can absorb a lot of water before it begins to rot, resulting in a soft spot. It can be years before damage is noticed, making it difficult to pinpoint how the water ingress occurred.

We first had to determine how much of our deck was affected. We tapped on the deck with a hammer and heard a dead hollow sound, rather than a solid thud. My husband decided that most of the foredeck sounded suspicious. Our problem was larger than we’d first thought. 

To preserve enough structural strength to support the weight of two people while working, we had to open the deck in sections. We removed the anchor windlass, deck hardware and pulpit, and then we marked out our cuts.

Steve used the oscillating saw to cut through the top layer of the deck. He started with a large triangle section that extended from the bow roller to behind the windlass. Then he pulled the crust off the sandwich, removing the fiberglass with as little damage as possible;  we wanted to reuse the piece during reconstruction. Our original fiberglass had no major imperfections and fit the cutout perfectly.

With the top skin removed, we got a look not only at the balsa, but also into the history of our boat. We discovered that a piece of marine plywood ran down the middle of the foredeck under the sail track. Curiously, we found a pair of wires running through the balsa core on the starboard side of the plywood. The boat’s electrical system had been updated long before we took ownership, so we had no idea that the original wiring had been concealed within the deck. Now, the defunct wire provided a conduit for moisture to flow through the balsa. 

We needed to follow the trail, to see how far the wires and the rot went. Steve cut a larger section that covered the starboard side of the foredeck from the toe rail to the centerline, ending about 20 inches from the first cutout. Not only had the wires funneled the water ingress down the starboard side, but we also found a mass of what looked and smelled like tar. The sticky puddle had been injected through holes drilled in the deck. A shortcut solution by a previous owner that disguised the soft spot.

Next was the dirty task of removing the rotten balsa. Armed with a scrapper, a chisel and a lot of determination, Steve spent several hours filling buckets with bits of soggy wood. Some areas peeled away in chunks that resembled canned tuna, juice and all. Others crumbled into a paste and easily scraped away. A few balsa tiles on the outboard edge were dry, so we left them intact.

The injected areas were difficult to move and worrisome. We’d seen injection holes peppered across other parts of the deck when we’d had the boat painted in Fiji several years before. How much of a mess had the earlier DIYer left in his wake?

With rot removed, we sanded the areas to fair the surface, and left it open to the blistering tropical sun to dry any remaining moisture. Steve cleaned the bottom of the fiberglass skin using a flap disc grinding wheel, removing any stuck-on resin and leveling out the surface. 

The New Core

In an ideal world, we would have used end-grain balsa tiles to reconstruct the deck. That wasn’t really an option because importing balsa was difficult and costly. However, because of a nearby wooden-boat fishing fleet, good-quality marine plywood was readily available. 

Marine plywood is strong, but there are trade-offs. Because of the multilayer construction of plywood, the grain runs horizontally. This makes it prone to wicking moisture across the layers if it’s exposed to water. To achieve the correct curve across the deck, the plywood needs to be cut into several small pieces, with each piece coated in resin for waterproofing before installation. This adds time to the project. And, since plywood is heavier than balsa, there will be weight gain. 

We figured a few extra pounds and a little more work were better than a rotten deck. Using the fiberglass as a template, we patterned the plywood by tracing each skin, then divided that shape into rough 4-by-4-inch blocks. We labeled each column and row before making any cuts. I sanded the edges of each block, removing any rough spots.

Then it was time for a dry fit, which is essential. Blocks can be modified to work around any obstructions or high spots. Believe me, when working with a handlaid fiberglass boat, there will be a few irregularities. 

With the dry fit done, we marked a border with a red line that we could match up during the final installation. Some of our edge blocks fit under the existing deck, and the red line let us know exactly how far to knock the blocks into the void.

I sealed the blocks with a coat of polyester resin on all sides. Many boaters go with epoxy, but we were working on the cusp of the rainy season, when midday temperatures stretched towards 95 degrees Fahrenheit and rain clouds hung on the horizon. It is possible to slightly adjust the amount of catalyst added to extend the cure time of polyester, which is also advantageous the tropics. Epoxy, on the other hand, requires precise measuring, mixing and temperatures. Epoxy is also less UV-stable, more prone to develop hairline cracks under stress, and cannot be covered with gelcoat. 

And our boat was hand laid in 1973. It is totally constructed with polyester. We figured if the stuff endured the past 53 years, then it is strong enough to use for a few repairs. 

We dried the wet plywood blocks on sheets of baking paper, whose nonslip properties don’t just apply in galley. Dried resin lifts right off it, making it easy to clean up and move the dry, but still tacky blocks. I simply stacked the sheets like a layer cake.

Reconstruction

With more than 100 plywood blocks to organize, pots of resin to mix, and a growing pile of spent gloves and sticky brushes to keep tidy, the process of putting the deck back together was a two-person job. My role was to mix the polyester resin in batches and hand the blocks to Steve. He put them in place, making sure everything was level, sealed and properly fitted.

First, we used resin on the deck cavities and the underside of the original pieces of deck that we had removed. This sealed the surfaces and provided a sticky canvas. The “glue” we used to adhere the blocks in place was polyester resin thickened with fumed silica. It’s a food-grade fine powder that adjusts the viscosity of paints and polyester resin to prevent sagging. I mixed each batch to the consistency of a stiff peak meringue; it needed a little encouragement to plop off the brush. Working in small batches meant we avoided resin setting up before we were able to use it.

When all the blocks were in place, I mixed larger batches to act as a filler and as an adhesive for the top pieces. This layer was thick enough that it smooshed out of the seams just slightly when we laid the original fiberglass deck pieces back down. Using jerry cans and buckets filled with water, dive weights and heavy pieces of timber, we weighted down the two top pieces, making sure the cut seams were as even as possible and there was no buckling or gaps. 

All we had left to do was clean up, cross our fingers and wait. Forty-eight hours later, we removed the weights, and we were delighted that the deck felt more solid underfoot than it had in years.

The next step would be to grind down the seams and reseal the cuts with a few layers of fiberglass mat and more polyester, before a final fairing—but all of that would have to wait. Instead, over the next several weeks, we replaced almost all the balsa core in the foredeck. We also found soft spots farther aft on the starboard side deck, and repaired those as well. 

With each section, our confidence in our abilities solidified, and we thought about all those injection holes we’d seen.

As the rainy season loomed, we bought a tarp to drape over the boom, grabbed the saw and prepared to open the next can of worms.

Heather Francis is originally from Nova Scotia, Canada. She and her Aussie husband, Steve, have been living and sailing on their 1973 Newport 41, Kate, since 2008.

They’re currently in Borneo, Malaysia.

Follow their adventures at yachtkate.com.

The post Balsa Core Decks: Repair Tips for Sailboat Owners appeared first on Cruising World.

A through-hull is the plumbing component that passes through the hull. A seacock is the valve attached to the through-hull. Usually, a through-hull is visible only from the outside of the boat, while the seacock is visible only from inside the hull. 

The American Boat & Yacht Council’s standards for seacocks dictate that every through-hull fitting below the heeled waterline (everything that is “wet” when heeling to the toe rail) must be equipped with a seacock. The one exception to this rule is that fittings above the resting waterline may substitute a seacock for reinforced hose. (I use SAE J2006 exhaust hose with wire reinforcement.)   

Seacocks, like everything else on a boat, require regular inspection and service. Begin by locating every seacock and through-hull fitting aboard. Create a drawing or map, identifying each one and its application.   

Once the map is complete, inspect each seacock for signs of leakage or corrosion. Green or verdigris is normal for bronze fittings. You should expect to see that. However, if it is the result of leakage, that is concerning. 

Conversely, if any of the fittings appear to be pink, this is a sign of dezincification, a type of corrosion that is peculiar to brass. Brass is entirely unsuited to raw-water applications, and under no circumstances should it be used in this application. If you have nonmetallic seacocks, check those for cracks.

A properly installed seacock should be able to endure 500 pounds of static load for 30 seconds, applied to its most inboard rigidly attached fitting. It’s best to keep rigidly attached fittings to a minimum; ideally, this would be only a pipe-to-hose adapter, with all other fittings separated from the seacock by a section of hose. If any of yours look like they may not hold up to this test, then consider replacing them. 

In addition to inspecting seacock hardware, you should also look closely at hose clamps and backing blocks. Hose clamps should be free of all corrosion. Any brown discoloration is too much. It warrants replacement.  

While ABYC standards do not mandate dual clamps on seacock hoses, it’s prudent and cheap insurance to double up. Be sure to use the proper-length clamp. Long, excess tails are a laceration hazard. Even short tails can cause injuries in areas that are accessed regularly, such as under sinks and around engines. These tails should be bent down using needle-nose pliers, or they should be capped.

Backing blocks can be made from marine plywood (ideally, epoxy encapsulated), fiberglass flat stock known as GPO3, or epoxy stock known as G10. Backing blocks should not be made from solid timber, even if it is teak, as this is prone to cracking. They also should not be made from ultra-high molecular weight polyethylene or King StarBoard.  

Make certain that every seacock handle rotates freely through its full 90 degrees of travel, but no farther. If any are seized or especially difficult to move, they will require further attention. Some types of seacocks can be disassembled for cleaning and lubrication, while others can’t. If yours are the latter, and assuming that the vessel is hauled out, you may have success by removing the hose from the seacock, and then spraying or pouring penetrating oil into the cavity. Let it set for a few hours before you try again.  

At least one seacock manufacturer adds an extension to the handle for increased leverage.  If you have one of these, then it’s safe to use this approach. For all others, you may do so knowing that if the valve stem or handle breaks, it will need to be replaced. If the valve is seized, it would need replacement in any event.

Finally, some seacocks are designed to accept a Zerk fitting, which allows the cavity between the ball and body of the valve to be filled with grease. This prevents water from filling the space, which in turn prevents corrosion and keeps the parts moving freely. 

Steve D’Antonio offers services for boat owners and buyers through Steve D’Antonio Marine Consulting.

The post Seacock Safety: A Must-do Guide for Boat Owners appeared first on Cruising World.

It was one of those times when our world shrank to a dot, a little speck of green, impossible to find in the endless blue of the Pacific Ocean. You should know, there are moments we question our life choices. That’s when we go back and think of such times. This one, in particular, found us on a remote Fijian beach with a lone inhabitant: a man who belonged to the land and sea. The beach was pure—perfect, almost—like something that occasionally appears in dreams.

Waves slapped against the sand in their usual rhythm, timeless and familiar, yet extraordinary in the context of today’s memories. The only footprints were our own. The only sounds, save for the sea, were the lowing of cows hidden in the hills and Yoda’s frantic chase of every living critter.

He was standing at the far end of the beach, waiting. Tall and lean, brown as rich mahogany. The early sunlight highlighted his wiry muscles with sharp shadows. His hands spoke of a lifetime of work.

We later learned his name: Mua. The son of the island’s chief, he was there to tend the family’s herd of cattle. His eyes were deep-set and sharp, his demeanor that of someone who listens more than he speaks. He raised one hand in greeting. We knew then we were about to meet a notable soul.

The Ceremony of Welcome

Hospitality here is not casual. It’s carved in centuries of practiced rituals, sacred to the people. To us, they became meaningful on this beach. Mua unveiled the essence. He invited us to sit, beneath a shade made with palm fronds, and atop a plastic tarp he meticulously swept clean of sand and leaves. This was understood only after he prepared a traditional ceremony called sevusevu.

We placed a bundle of kava root before him—a gnarled shape of tangled roots wrapped in newspaper and tied with a blue ribbon. A plastic basin sat in front of his crossed legs and bony knees. Fresh rainwater filled it. He dropped in the dust of ground root, mixing the potion like he was washing his calloused hands in the murky grog. Again and again, he cupped and rubbed his palms, creating mesmerizing swirls in the brew. A small sea in its own tempest.

He spoke in words foreign to us, clapped his hands unexpectedly. The whole ritual was a mystery, yet the meaning was clear: welcome, respect, belonging.

His quiet strength and unspoken wisdom, his beautiful simplicity, his connection with nature, and his belonging to the place made the experience unforgettable. 

We drank kava—bitter and tingly on the tongue, expansive in the brain. It lifted a fog we hadn’t realized was there. We chose a “low tide,” half a cup. During the rest of our enlightened conversation, he enjoyed the entire bowl: a faded blue, plastic wash basin filled with half a gallon of the earthy liquid.

The son of the chief clapped once, twice, three times. He nodded. He smiled. We had been accepted, not merely visitors, but part of the island’s fabric, if only for a time.

Lessons from Land

Mua was a teacher in the truest sense, the island his classroom, the rhythm of his daily chores his curriculum. We floated offshore in our dinghy, watching him dig bait for sand crabs. He held a line in his hand, nylon wrapped on a gnarled and bent index finger. The reefs are depleted here, and I’m pretty sure he was speaking to someone above, asking for dinner.

We caught small reef fish. What we might have thrown back, he didn’t. In that exchange between fisherman and prey was a lesson in patience, humility and gratitude for what is given.

He showed us his gardens. Cassava and taro grew in orderly rows, their broad green leaves stark against the dark soil. He had just planted those crops. His wish: that we return in one year and enjoy the harvest with him. “The earth gives what you ask of it,” he said.

And then there were the coconuts. To Mua, they were life: tools, building material, fire, utensils. He showed us how to husk them on a sharp stick planted in the dirt, how to split them with the spine of his machete. He pressed the creamy white meat in his palms. Pure milk squirted between his bony knuckles. We drank it straight from the shell, the taste sweet and clean. A first for us. Nothing like what comes from a can. Humble sustenance.

A Feast Under the Stars

After the sun went to the other side of the globe to visit my Italian people, we shared a meal that will linger in memory. Mua had cooked some of the fish caught that morning. Not all of it, he confessed. During a moment of distraction, feral cats had gotten their sharp claws on a few. His deep laughter reflected the universal fight for survival.

We, aboard our boat, had prepared a goat curry. The fire crackled as we sat around it. The scent of coconut and spices, the salty breeze, full bellies. Mua told us of his life, of the cows he tends, of his extended family on the other side of the island, his home. He spoke of his welcome solitude and, with eyes reflecting the flames, of precious reunions with his wife and daughter, who work at a resort across the bay.

The food was shared in stories and silence, in the sound of waves and bursts of laughter. Firelight played on our faces. I wondered: How many nights like this does fortune allow us?

The Climb

Before dawn, we woke. He was already on shore when we landed the dinghy. “Come,” he said, gesturing toward a hidden path in the thick brush, to the hill that rose behind the beach. It was black against the starlit sky.

We followed. The path was steep and rough, our cruising legs aching with every step. At the summit, the backdrop was still dark, a deep indigo that hinted at the coming day. Then light came, and the world opened up. The sea stretched to the horizon. As the first rays touched its surface, the shimmering became glorious. We witnessed an eruption of color—pink, gold, violet. All we could do was hold our breath and watch.

Looking at Mua, seated on a bare rock, we saw immense pride. We stood there, breathless, as the sun rose higher, its warmth pushing away the night’s chill. We said nothing. We were part of this place, just like the small bushes around us, clinging to the volcanic rock.

He had taken us here, into the heart of the island, into its beauty, its blessings and its burdens.

What We Left Behind

When the time came to weigh anchor, Mua was standing on the tallest hill, on his way to his father’s village. It was early, still dark. We flashed our torch. He flashed his. We saw his silhouette against the sky, hand raised in farewell, as we pulled away.

The island grew smaller in the distance. Once again, it was a green dot, impossible to find in the endless Pacific. But now vivid in our minds.

The man had shown us a way of being. Through the parables of fishing, farming and opening coconuts, he had spoken of balance, of respect for the world around us. That solitude can be a kind of richness. The island was beautiful, but its lone dweller made the experience unforgettable. His quiet strength and unspoken wisdom. His beautiful simplicity. His connection with nature. His belonging to the place.

We are on board and cruising to chase harbors unknown, our gaze on the horizon, our hearts seeking the next adventure, the next port. We haven’t learned much. But one thing we know: Some places stay with you, not because of their beauty, but because of the people who inhabit them.

The post The Man on the Beach: Lessons in Fijian Wisdom appeared first on Cruising World.

It’s not often that an obituary in The New York Times recalls the life of a sailor or waterman, which is why a headline late last spring (and the array of colorful images that accompanied it) caught my immediate attention. It read: “Orien McNeill, Artist Who Made Mischief on the Water, Dies at 45.” 

The opening lines were real grabbers: “Orien McNeill, an artist and impresario of New York City’s DIY and participatory art community, whose work was experiential, theatrical and ephemeral and took place mostly on the water—think ‘Burning Man, but with the possibility of drowning,’ as one friend put it—died on May 15 at his home, a 52-foot-long ferryboat docked on a Brooklyn creek. He was 45. … He was the pied piper of a loose community of DIY artists homesteading on New York City’s waterways, which he used as his canvas and stage.”

There was also this tidbit: His godfather was the Beat Generation writer William S. Burroughs, who “baptized Orien with a dab of vodka from his afternoon drink.” If that wasn’t enough, quoted therein was one of McNeill’s good friends, who just happens to be a mate of mine: author Porter Fox (whose latest book, Category Five: Superstorms and the Warming Oceans That Feed Them, is a must-read for sailors). After reading about McNeill’s rare, singular life’s journey, I had to call Porter, who’d done some sailing with his old pal, one he called his “best friend.”

“He was a quick learner,” Porter said. “He really understood mechanics and engineering. He could fix a winch with his eyes closed, and he’d never done that before. I love him to death, but he never did learn how to dock a boat. He just aimed straight at it. When it hit, you jumped off.”

Porter and McNeill met by happenstance in a New York bar and later reconnected (by chance again) on Pete Seeger’s celebrated Hudson River sloop, Clearwater. That led to an 800-mile trip down the Mississippi River “on a homemade sculptural boat,” Porter said. “Another had a Ferris wheel on it. They were all at least two stories high. But they were all meant to be beautiful objects. He’d gone to art school and was an incredible draftsman. He created beautiful things.”

Most of McNeill’s adventures were based in Manhattan, his hometown. “He lived that life on the water because he was one of the very few people that realized he’d grown up on an island,” Porter said. But his most outlandish trips, financed by fundraisers “selling beers to hipsters,” were far afield: Building and sailing a fleet of “fantastical craft” from Slovenia to Venice. Fabricating a quintet of metal pontoon boats that he captained on a 500-mile trip along the Ganges River to Northern India. The stories are truly endless.

The obituary, however, did not address the cause of death. I suspected he took his own life (one of several men that I’m sadly aware of who ended it on a boat), and Porter confirmed that grim fact. 

“I’ve seen this in people where the light burns so bright, but there’s something opposite of that which is equally dark,” he said. “His life was not easy. Everything he did was with no money, barely any tools, no support. He had a brilliant smile and was the person who lifted everyone up, but there was a counterbalance to that, some really difficult times. 

“You know what the hardest part was for him? Living a normal life. The older we got, the more normal we became. We got cars, mortgages, whatever. Orien’s 20s and 30s? That was it, man. That was the peak. That vivacious energy of our group started to dissipate. I feel in some ways he got left behind. He wasn’t doing another big trip. There wasn’t going to be another India. I think that was tough for him. He was happiest working on an impossible project with his friends. That was the highlight of his life. And he came through every single time.”

Considering I’d never met the man (and truly wish I had), McNeill’s story hit me hard. But consider his legacy. What better than to be a pied piper beloved by many, who was followed literally everywhere by artists and mariners? Who wouldn’t want to be remembered as a dependable, honest soul who comes through every single time? 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post The Last Pied Piper: How Artist Orien McNeill Redefined Waterways appeared first on Cruising World.

When I bought my Down East 45, the shower in the aft stateroom’s head drained directly into the bilge, where the boat’s regular bilge pump removed it. This is not a good setup, because even with the boat’s powerful automatic bilge pump that discharged the soapy water out of the side of the boat into the sea, there was always a small amount of residue left over. It soon began to smell. 

I considered fitting an automatic self-draining shower system at a cost of $200 or more. Then I thought about making one myself.

These types of automatic shower drains are pretty simple. A small bilge pump is mounted inside a watertight container, along with a float switch. As the shower water runs into the container, the switch activates the pump, which removes the water through a seacock. There is no overspill or leakage into the boat’s bilge. 

I had an old bilge pump I could use, but it needed a container that had at least 6 inches of clearance inside its lid. I found a plastic container with a tight-fitting lid at a big-box store for the vast sum of $7.95. I also bought a float switch for $9.50. 

The container needed an inlet and outlet pipe. I found a nylon fitting at my local hardware store. The fitting had a ¾-inch barbed pipe on one end that matched the shower drain pipe, and a 1-inch pipe thread on the other. The thread just happened to be a nice, tight fit into the 1¼-inch holes I cut in the side of the container with a hole cutter. 

I was not able to find a nylon nut to fit the 1-inch pipe thread to secure the fitting to the box, and I didn’t want to use steel or stainless steel in a water-filled box, so I bought a cheap PVC pipe coupling with the same threads as the fittings in both ends. I then sawed a half inch of each end with a hacksaw to give me two round nuts to secure the fittings. 

For good measure on waterproofing the seal, I also fitted a 1¼-inch internal diameter plastic sink drain washer. All these items cost less than $22.

A short length of rubber pipe from my spare pipes locker pushed snugly into the pump outlet, and equally well into the outlet fitting through the container. There was no need for any pipe on the inlet fitting because the shower water would run freely into the container. I also didn’t see any need for the internal filter that is fitted to shower drains, because only soapy water would flow into the box, and the bilge pump had a filter base. 

I did buy a ¾-inch diameter, one-way check valve that fitted exactly inside the discharge pipe from the pump. This little rubber valve prevents water from running back into the container from the uphill passage of the discharge pipe over the side. 

Next, I drilled tiny holes in the side of the container for the four wires from the bilge pump and float switch. I sealed them with Goop glue. 

My pump was quite heavy on a 4-inch circular flat base. When I connected it to the outlet fitting, it stayed firmly in place with no need to fasten it to the bottom of the box. 

The float switch needed fastening, but I didn’t want to risk a leak by drilling a hole in the base of the box and screwing it in place. Instead, I fastened it with Goop glue, which is superb for waterproof applications. 

I connected one of the float switch wires to the black positive wire from the pump. The other wire from the float switch went to a single pole switch that I mounted near the shower so the pump could be activated at the time of a shower. The switch was powered from a 12-volt contact breaker on the electrical distribution board. 

In the end, I mounted the complete box on a shelf in the engine room adjacent to the shower floor, but a little bit lower so water would drain directly into the box by way of gravity, then pump out through an existing hull fitting. 

Even if I’d had to buy a new pump, which is about $60, I still would’ve saved money by building this myself. Sure, you can spend $200 to $350, but if you are a DIY cruiser, there is always a way to save money.

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