Outbound Yachts has announced a new collaboration with renowned marine author and systems expert Nigel Calder, who has joined the builder with the purchase of an Outbound 44. Known across the cruising world for his technical manuals and hands-on approach to engineering aboard, Calder will work directly with the yard’s design and build teams to refine the yacht’s electrical and mechanical systems.

Calder, author of Boatowner’s Mechanical and Electrical Manual and Marine Diesel Engines, is widely regarded as one of the most influential voices in modern cruising systems. His new project with Outbound will integrate advances in energy management, automation, and long-range reliability into a proven bluewater hull.

“Outbound Yachts has earned a reputation for building solid, well-engineered, comfortable and fast offshore cruising sailboats,” Calder said. “Working with the team on my new Outbound 44 has been a rare opportunity to integrate advanced electrical and mechanical concepts into a proven bluewater platform. This boat will serve both as a personal cruiser and a testbed for ongoing systems research.”

Under the partnership, Calder will also act as a brand ambassador, documenting the build and sharing results from his real-world testing once the boat launches. Outbound says his involvement aligns with the company’s mission to continuously improve its yachts for sailors who prize safety, performance and self-sufficiency offshore.

“Having Nigel involved in building an Outbound 44 is both an honor and an exciting opportunity,” said Michael Relyea, managing partner of Outbound Yachts. “His unmatched expertise in marine systems and practical, real-world approach align perfectly with our mission to build yachts that go anywhere, safely and comfortably.”

The collaboration underscores Outbound’s focus on craftsmanship and bluewater capability, longstanding hallmarks of the builder’s reputation among serious passagemakers.

For updates on the project, the builder encourages sailors to follow along at OutboundYachts.com.

The post Nigel Calder to Develop Advanced Systems on New Outbound 44 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.

There are three types of boats. The first includes every possible spare and piece of gear that might be used. The second has hardly anything at all. The third has essential spares and gear, but is not overstocked.  

I like to sail on the third kind of boat, with the essentials. I recently completed a safety-at-sea course whose list of gear was so exhaustive that its cost was depressing, and the equipment would overwhelm the stowage areas on any yacht. I thought about that list and the three long-distance ocean races that I competed in over the summer. I was amazed by how many pieces of equipment we used to solve small and large problems. 

All of this got me to thinking about which equipment is considered essential, and why. Boats seem to gather an ever-increasing amount of gear. Once each year, I take every item off the boat and retain what’s useful while eliminating things that will not be used. It’s a good opportunity to review the inventory and make sailing more efficient.

Aboard my 32-foot day sailor, Whirlwind, I make sure to have the essentials: a paper navigation chart, life jackets appropriately sized for all crew, a sturdy anchor, a toolkit, a medical kit, spare lines, a VHF radio, a cellphone, fenders, dock lines, sunscreen and adequate drinking water. I ask each crewmember to bring a foul-weather jacket, sunglasses, a hat and boat shoes. 

On board, I include a boat hook, several buckets for bailing, an electric pump, hand-operated pumps, and a small box with fittings, shackles, clamps and various pieces that might be of use. My inventory fits easily in two lazarette boxes on either side of the boat and in the bow. 

After 10 years of sailing, I have fine-tuned the necessary equipment, along with instructions for each member of the crew. The essentials get more complicated for larger boats, but here is my list of essentials.

Boat Handling

Have an anchor, chain and line that are adequate for the size of the boat. If you need to anchor, you want it to hold. Have extra lines, including small stuff that can be used when something needs fastening. 

Keep all sails folded and ready to set. Make sure every crewmember understands how to start, run and stop the engine. Most important, take a moment to demonstrate how to operate the head. 

Before going out for a sail, hold a brief crew meeting to explain where the life jackets are located, and where the important safety equipment is stowed. Also assign specific tasks in case of an emergency. 

Comfort

Bring proper foul-weather gear. Even on warm days, a spray jacket is helpful. Insist that the crew wear boat shoes. Toes and feet are particularly susceptible to injury. No bare feet.  

Sun glare is tough on eyes. Sunglasses are a must. A wide-brim hat reduces sunburn.  

On cold or windy days, a pair of gloves is helpful. Find a dry place to store the crewmembers’ gear.

Communications

Carry a charged VHS radio, a cellphone and signal items (whistle, flares, horn, flags and a mirror).  Subscribe to at least one weather service to keep track of the forecast.

Engine

Keep a fire extinguisher near the engine in case of a fire, and make sure that extinguisher is up-to-date. 

Instruct the crew on how to operate the engine. An instructional manual is an essential item that has helped me many times when I’ve had engine troubles, which regular maintenance can help to avoid.

Medical

Carry a complete first-aid kit and enough drinking water for all hands. Dehydration is a common problem for many sailors. Also keep a good supply of sunscreen available, and ask the crew to reapply periodically. 

For people prone to seasickness, a scopolamine patch is an effective remedy available by prescription. 

Navigation

I believe boats should carry paper (or waterproof) charts of the area. Electronic aids are useful, but paper charts are the most reliable. I like when you can spread the chart on a table and visualize the sailing area.  

A GPS is also an important tool. Stow extra batteries for a handheld unit. I also always carry a copy of the Eldridge Tide and Pilot Book, which provides detailed information on tides and currents for the East Coast. 

I also keep a hand bearing compass, and test the running lights to make sure they will be on at night. A pair of binoculars is also useful.

Repair Kit

Carry a rustproof toolbox with a hammer, pliers, a wrench set, a screwdriver set, vice grips, a wire cutter, duct tape and a good knife. A hand pump, buckets and sponges augment an electric bilge pump.  

Also carry a collection of shackles, shock cord, fuses, fittings, blocks, cotter pins, equipment that can be used to jury rig something that breaks, and silicone spray.

Safety Gear

A properly sized life jacket is necessary for each member of the crew. For weak swimmers and in rough weather, PFD use should be mandatory. 

Carry a horn and a whistle in case you need to draw another boat’s attention. I also carry a package of flares. 

Have a flotation device ready to throw to anyone who might fall overboard. Post a list of the location of safety equipment.

 Larger boats carry life rafts. Respect the expiration date, and periodically get the raft renewed. Post of a list of all your safety equipment and where it is located. 

Sustainability

Carry all garbage ashore. Instruct the crew on proper use of the head.  

The post Essential Boat Gear: What Every Sailor Needs appeared first on Cruising World.

As every cruiser knows, your engine might not be the heart of your boat, but it’s definitely the lifeline. That’s especially true when the wind dies or you need to punch through a tricky inlet.

With fall haul-out season approaching, it’s a good time to revisit the basics of diesel engine care: clean fuel, proper lubrication and smart layup strategies that help prevent problems offshore or dockside.  

To dig into some of the most common questions sailors have about fuel and oil systems, Cruising World spoke with Bill McDonald, a longtime pro angler and Lucas Oil ambassador whose marine experience extends to fishing and cruising vessels. From stabilizing fuel to catching wear issues early, here’s what he recommends for keeping your engine healthy, whether the boat is on passage or on the hard.

CW: Contaminants in diesel fuel and engine oil are a constant concern aboard cruising boats. What practical steps can sailors take to minimize contamination, and what role can additives play?

BM: Fuel contamination is one of the most common culprits behind engine problems offshore. Regular maintenance—changing fuel filters, draining water separators and keeping tanks full to minimize condensation—is your first line of defense. Additives designed for marine fuel systems can help disperse water, clean injectors and reduce buildup over time. I’ve used Lucas Marine Fuel Treatment for years in both gas and diesel engines. It’s made a noticeable difference in how clean my injectors stay. In the crankcase, oil stabilizers can provide an extra layer of protection by improving lubricity and reducing wear, which is especially useful when cruising far from shore-based repair options.

CW: Marine engines often sit idle for long periods. How can sailors preserve fuel and oil health during layups or long crossings?

BM: Fuel starts degrading the moment it’s stored. Using a stabilizer when you fill your tanks—ideally just before a long idle period—can help prevent oxidation and gumming. Once it’s added, run the engine briefly so the treated fuel circulates fully through the system. The same idea applies to oil stabilizers: Adding them before a layup helps coat internal components and protect against corrosion and dry starts when it’s time to fire up again.

CW: For sailors using ultra-low-sulfur diesel, what’s the risk of reduced lubricity, and how can that be addressed?

BM: ULSD lacks the lubricating properties of older diesel fuels, a characteristic that can lead to premature wear in injectors and pumps. Many cruisers now use upper-cylinder lubricants or fuel conditioners that restore some of that lost protection. They often include detergents too, which can be helpful for keeping older systems clean.

CW: Why is it important to use marine-specific lubricants instead of automotive products?

BM: Marine engines operate under tougher conditions: long hours at high rpm, and exposure to moisture and salt. Marine-grade oils are formulated to resist corrosion and foaming, and to maintain their properties under heavy load. Using automotive oil may not provide the protection your engine needs in these conditions. 

CW: When should sailors consider using oil additives, and what are the signs that it might help?

BM: Additives shouldn’t be used to mask a real issue, but they can help reduce wear, lower operating temperatures and extend engine life, especially in older engines. If your engine feels sluggish, runs rough or is harder to start than usual, it may be worth looking into oil treatment as part of a broader diagnostic and maintenance approach. 

CW: What’s your advice for diagnosing fuel system issues at sea, and how can sailors prepare?

BM: If your engine starts stumbling or loses power, it’s often a fuel problem: clogged filters, moisture or dirty fuel. Prevention is key. Treat fuel consistently, carry spare filters, and know how to change them underway. Having the right tools and basic familiarity with your fuel system goes a long way. 

CW: Some sailors still encounter ethanol-blended gasoline when fueling dinghy outboards or generators. What’s the risk, and how can it be managed? 

BM: Ethanol absorbs water and can lead to corrosion, phase separation, and damage to seals and hoses in small engines. If you can’t avoid ethanol-blended gas, then use a conditioner designed to counteract those effects. It’s a simple step that can prevent a lot of headaches, especially when fueling at unfamiliar docks.

CW: Do you have any advice for boats operating in tropical or high-humidity environments where corrosion is accelerated?

BM: Salt air and humidity are relentless. Rinse thoroughly with fresh water after outings, check electrical terminals for corrosion, and use anti-corrosion sprays where needed. Good airflow in the engine room or lazarette can also help reduce trapped moisture. Regular inspection is the best prevention.

CW: With more cruisers doing their own oil analysis, what should they be looking for? And can additives affect the results?

BM: Watch for signs like elevated wear metals, thinning viscosity or contamination. Additives can help reduce wear particles and maintain viscosity, especially under load. When I started adding Lucas Oil Stabilizer to my maintenance routine, I saw a drop in wear metals on my reports. But if analysis shows recurring problems, that’s your cue to adjust service intervals or investigate further.

CW: How often should fuel and oil systems be treated during extended cruising, and how does usage affect your maintenance schedule?

BM: Your maintenance rhythm should match your usage. Liveaboards and long-range cruisers may need to treat fuel and change oil every few hundred hours; seasonal sailors might only do this once or twice a year. What matters most is consistency and prepping properly before layup. If you’re using additives, follow the recommended ratios and make sure they’re mixed thoroughly and circulated through the system.

Our final takeaway? Marine engine health is about more than just oil changes. A full-system approach includes clean fuel, good airflow, and protection from corrosion and wear. Additives can help extend engine life, but only when they’re used alongside routine maintenance and thoughtful operation. 

It’s work, yes. But when the wind dies, you’ll be glad you put in the time.

The post Extend Your Marine Engine Life With These Tips appeared first on Cruising World.

Our Stevens 47, Totem, is anchored with 370 feet of chain in 90 feet of water off Majuro Atoll. Around us lie the rusting hulks of cargo ships. We are also amid the coral reefs, aquaculture pens, and a mooring area with a half-dozen cruising boats. Squalls are frequent here, just 7 degrees north of the equator, in the capital of the Marshall Islands. 

Between downpours, my husband, Jamie, and I dinghy in to collect a package at the post office. It’s filled with pure convenience. Two weeks earlier, our portable gas generator wouldn’t start. This isn’t a problem in mostly sunny places, where Totem’s 1,215 watts of solar typically exceed our power needs, but here in the Intertropical Convergence Zone, thick cloud cover blots out the sun for days at a time. 

Without solar power, the suitcase-size generator is essential for charging our batteries. Jamie tried everything to diagnose and fix the issue: carburetor, fuel pump, spark plug, coil, oil sensor. No luck.

There was no suitable replacement available locally, but a shipping agent in Honolulu, for a nominal fee, helped us purchase and deliver a new Honda EU2200i. We might have squeaked by without it, but with more remote islands ahead and a desire to avoid running engine hours just to charge batteries, this felt like a worthy investment. 

Since then, we’ve found the generator’s portability to be vitally useful. At a remote atoll, we once hauled it ashore to power our tools for repairing a rudder on a boat that had struck a coral reef.

Back aboard Totem, Jamie marinized this new generator. A single hour spent adding protective coatings will make future maintenance far easier. Jamie started by removing the exposed fasteners one at a time to apply Tef-Gel to the threads. Once reinstalled, the exposed heads got a coat of CRC Heavy Duty Corrosion Inhibitor or Boeshield T-9.

Next, Jamie marinized the rubber feet that help dampen vibration and sound. Each foot is held on with a bolt—one that tends to rust, stain the deck, and eventually fail. In the past, Jamie tried protective coatings, but none lasted. This time, he filled the inside of the rubber feet with silicone to create a water barrier. If you try this, keep the generator upright if there’s any oil or gas inside.

For the exhaust muffler, Jamie removed the plastic cover and the muffler itself, then sprayed the muffler with high-heat paint for protection. Covering the generator when not in use also helps keep internal components protected from rain and spray.

Once this was all done, and after the engine oil and gas were added, there was one final step before putting the generator into service: installing an hour meter. Ours is activated by engine vibration, giving us a quick visual cue for tracking run time and performing scheduled maintenance. No guesswork. No forgotten log entries. Just change the oil, clean the air filter, and stay on top of maintenance based on real hours run.

With electrical convenience restored, we’re able to top up the batteries and water tanks once again. We’d be catching up on laundry too—but the generator doesn’t keep squalls away, and we’ll need a little more sun to dry our clothes.

The post Why A Marinized Generator is a Must for Cruisers 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.

Gusting winds drive clouds of spray right across the bay. Deluges of rain blast across the long jetty that leads past the workshop and out to Sahula’sberth. I watch through my office window as the boatsurges against its mooring lines. Tropical Storm Tam has moved south to cover our part of New Zealand and is now officially a cyclone, one that is forecast to linger for another two or three days.

I am making little progress on the article I am trying to write. Yes, the window-shaking gusts of wind are a distraction. But the real culprit? A sheet of paper titled “Sahula’s Work List.”It lies right next to my computer.

It has been 16 months since we last made an ocean passage, south from a season in New Caledonia to my home base in New Zealand. Earlier this year, we decided to set sail and cross the Tasman Sea. Our goal: a leisurely meander through the islands and waterways of Australia’s Great Barrier Reef. Now we are just five weeks away from our planned departure, and Sahula’s work list still has 27 items on it. Most of them require relatively calm weather.

Yesterday, I printed out a ­copy and showed it to my partner, David. “Here’s what I need to get done before we set sail,” I told him.

“Need to or want to?” he queried.

His words echo through my mind as I try to work on an article about one of the yachts that my husband, Larry, and I delivered to finance our early cruising days. 

Back then, much of the cruising fleet was made up of smaller boats sailed by cruisers who looked for ways to earn as they wandered. Thus, there was a lot of competition for ­delivery jobs. When the owner of a big US-flagged ketch put the word out in Mallorca, Spain, that he needed someone to sail his boat back to New Orleans, a half-dozen cruisers wanted the job. The owner asked for a fixed price quote, one that would include the time and ­expenses of getting the boat seaworthy enough to set sail ­after ­having been sitting unused and neglected for two years. 

We really wanted the job. Our cruising kitty was getting low, and we welcomed the chance for an affordable visit to friends and family back home. We worked hard to come up with a competitive bid. We did a careful survey of the boat. The potential work list kept expanding: Haul the boat to remove a 2-inch mat of barnacles and growth, renew the upper shrouds that had broken strands just above the lower swages, repair two of the three bilge pumps, create a temporary whisker pole (the original had been lost in a blow). There was almost a whole page filled with faulty electrical items. The engine needed attention. By the time we sat down to work out our quote, the list was three pages long.

“OK, let’s be logical,” Larry said.  “We need to ensure that the boat stays afloat, the water stays out of the boat, the mast stays up, the sails go up and down, the rudder works, the stove works, and we can get fresh water out of the water tanks. Everything else is either a convenience or a luxury.” 

Then Larry began circling the items that fell into his “essential” category. With his cutback list, we figured it would take us about 15 days to get the boat underway, and 65 days to make the passage. The results: Our quote won. We got the boat to its owner within the time frame he’d requested. We had to do some jury-rigging along the way. We did put up with some inconveniences. But a few months later, we returned to where Seraffyn lay waiting near Mallorca, with enough “freedom chips” to cruise onward for another year.

I often think of that delivery trip when I meet people who have had their cruising dreams delayed or missed weather windows or even abandoned their plans because of “the work list.” That is why, when Larry and I presented seminars called “Priorities for Successful Cruising,” we would end the day by saying: “Two weeks before your planned departure, sit down and write out a complete work list. Add every job you think you should do. Then, go out on deck and let the wind blow the list away.  Rush below and write down the first six things you remember. Those are probably the most important ones. Get them done and go.”

That is the reality of caring for a boat, which is both your home and your adventure machine. There will always be things that could be done to make the boat easier to use or prettier. Things that might make life afloat “better.” 

The truth is, during all my voyaging life—which has ­included 100 or more ocean passages, included sailing with Larry on two different boats, ­doing delivery trips and, more recently, sailing with my current partner, David, on Sahula—there was only one time when every item was crossed off the predeparture work list. That was only when I agreed to sail with Larry on board 29-foot, engine-free Taleisin from the Atlantic to the Pacific around Cape Horn. The one condition I had: Everything had to be checked off the list when we made our attempt.

This was important to me for several reasons. It was highly likely we would face extreme weather. We might have to stay at sea for up to a month at a time. Our gear, our stamina would be severely tested. Crossing the very last item off the list just before we left Mar del Plata in Argentina and headed for The Horn helped ease the last concerns I had. (That last item? Put two changes of clothes plus a clean towel in vacuum-packed bags for emergencies.)

But the voyage I am now contemplating is not a bash around a great southern cape. It is the sixth time I will be sailing across the 1,300-mile width of the Tasman Sea. Even with unfavorable winds, it is unlikely we will be at sea for more than 10 or 12 days. With these thoughts in mind, I ­become determined to get something useful done despite the stormy weather.

I pull up my electronic copy of the Sahula work list. I put a check mark next to the items I know are essential to having a safer voyage: Add nonslip and paint the deck; sort the port vang line block; set up and test the Iridium Go for at-sea weather forecasts. 

An “M” (for “maybe”) goes next to a few other items that I really would like to get done if possible: Put trim over the new wiring in the loo, paint the compass, strip and varnish the companionway surrounds. 

I reluctantly put an “X” next to items that I realize might never get off the work list: Make a cover for the panel next to the companionway; add trim at the far end of galley. The list ends up with only seven check-marked must-do items and five marked “M.”  

As I am obviously not in the mood to write, I decide to brave the wind and rain, and head down toward the jetty. Though the wild weather precludes working on any of the check-marked jobs, there are two on the “M” list that I can do in the workshop.

As I begin cutting the first piece of foam which will ensure that my wineglasses and porcelain teacups will survive even the roughest sea, I think of David’s words. 

He was right. I was letting myself feel trapped by a work list cluttered with want-to’s.  Cutting back to the need-to’s set me free. 

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 folks to go simple, go small, and go now.

The post Boat Work Lists Made Simple: Lessons from Lin Pardey appeared first on Cruising World.

There’s nothing quite like the first sip of rum at anchor, the light dimming on the sea, the scent of salt and sugarcane in the air. For me, the daily craving started with a gallon jug of punch on a bareboat charter back in 1979. Since then, Caribbean rum and I have had a long, spirited relationship—one sip at a time, one island at a time.

The seventh-annual Caribbean Rum Awards were held this past fall on St. Barts. This competition is all about ­sipping rums, not the more-pedestrian versions used for mixing evening cocktails, where most any good rum will do. Out of 60 rums entered, Martinique’s Trois Rivières Triple Millésime was crowned world ­champion. Kudos to the French.

One of the great joys of sailing the Eastern Caribbean is sampling various island rums as you go. I’ve been doing this for 46 years, ever since a two-week bareboat charter in the Virgin Islands. The boat, a Morgan Out Island, was wide-beamed, lumbering, and about as elegant as a camper van in a cocktail dress. But tucked beside the chart table sat a complimentary gallon jug of rum punch, sweating in the tropical heat.  

That did it. It’s been rum ever since.

Rum is the Caribbean in a glass: sun-warmed sugarcane, salt-laced breezes, and the echo of steel drums somewhere ­onshore. Made from local sugarcane or molasses, rum reflects its birthplace in flavor and color, from crystal clear to ­molasses black. West Indian rum is available in clear or in shades from gold to amber to black. Mix the amber fluid with pineapple and orange juice, add a splash of grenadine, and the drink takes on all the colors of a West Indian sunset.

In the early days, it was always Mount Gay and orange juice for me: simple, cheap, and potent enough to cut through the heat after a long sail. That was in the 1980s, when I could buy a bottle on St. Barts, duty-­free, for $2. And while my rum locker still contains a few bottles of select sipping rums, in more recent times, Cruzan Aged Dark has supplied my daily ration. This reasonably priced amber rum is distilled on St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands. 

I start with a 24-ounce insulated Yeti coffee mug—it keeps the morning coffee hot and the evening rum chilled, both for hours. Drop in four cubes of ice and 4 ounces of rum, and top it off with 18 ounces of tonic water. A squeeze of lime is ­optional, and dash of nutmeg is nice. 

Each island down here has a distillery or two. Some of these island rums are excellent, most are good, and a few should come with a fire-hazard warning. I once tried a bottle from a roadside shack in Dominica that could’ve doubled as outboard fuel. 

On Grenada, Clarke’s Court and River Antoine produce their own rums. On Bequia, I found Sparrow’s, a rum from St. Vincent. It was just right for mixing my evening libation. On Bermuda, Goslings makes a dark rum that, when combined with ginger beer, becomes a Dark ’n Stormy. Guadeloupe and Martinique have their own distilleries, producing robust French-style rums. On Sint Maarten, Guavaberry and Topper’s offer a dozen spiced and gussied-up varieties. Callwood Rum Distillery in Cane Garden Bay on Tortola has been making rum for more than 200 years. The stone buildings, scorched copper stills and weathered casks feel frozen in time. Callwood’s signature 80-proof cane-based rum—named Panty Dropper—is as famous for its label as its lingering kick.

Rum is the ­Caribbean in a glass: sun-warmed sugarcane, salt-laced breezes, and the echo of steel drums somewhere onshore.

Antigua Distillery Limited offers a variety of sipping rums. Its Cavalier Gold is a fine choice for any West Indian rum punch. If you’re lucky—or persistent—you might find yourself invited to join the Royal Navy Tot Club of Antigua and Barbuda. Under the glow of nautical lanterns in a dockside pub, a band of expats gathers nightly to toast the Crown and history itself. A Royal Navy tale is read aloud, and a full tot of rum—2.4 ounces, not a drop less—is downed in one steady gulp. Saturdays come with the toast: “To our wives and ­sweethearts, may they never meet.”

In 1999, I made my way to Cuba and found myself a few blocks behind El Capitolio in Central Havana, at a place called El Floridita, which Ernest Hemingway once haunted like a regular spirit. This pink, one-story restaurant and bar is eight blocks in a straight line down Obispo Street from the Hotel Ambos Mundos, where Hemingway lived for a while. He would drink a dozen daiquiris in one sitting while chatting with fellow writers such as Ezra Pound, John Dos Passos, Graham Greene, Jean-Paul Sartre, Gabriel García Márquez and Tennessee Williams. The photographs on the walls tell a more complete story from the 1930s to 1950s.

My red-aproned bartender—sleeves rolled, a practiced flick of the shaker—lined up daiquiris like a gunslinger. Rum, lime, grapefruit juice, sugar syrup. Shake. Pour. Repeat. According to William Grimes’ book Straight Up or On the Rocks: The Story of the American Cocktail, this traditional drink is made with Bacardi white rum, fresh lime, grapefruit juice and sugar syrup. It’s shaken, not stirred, with ice, and is served in large goblets. Add six drops of maraschino liqueur for more color. If the bartender skips the sugar, it’s the Hemingway Daiquiri: stripped down, no-nonsense and a little dangerous. Where the classic version is limey and sweet, this one doubles the rum, earning the nickname “Papa doble.” It’s a drink that doesn’t smile back, and after two, neither will you.

Bacardi rum is not available in Cuba now, yet the name is still in Havana, carved into a granite facade—the family’s former headquarters. Today, the rum in Cuba is Havana Club. The Bacardi family set up shop in nearby Puerto Rico and is doing just fine.

Puerto Rico’s piña colada is a sweet, slushy anthem to ­vacation-­mode excess. It’s served in ­hurricane glasses taller than your forearm, usually with a cherry and a paper umbrella. It tastes like sunblock and joy. I once ordered one that came in a hollowed-out pineapple—and briefly considered renting a ­cabana and staying forever. 

For sailors, there’s Navy Grog, made with Pusser’s Rum, water and lime juice. This daily tot was first doled out to British crews in 1655 and then stopped in 1970. The Royal New Zealand Navy still continues the tradition. 

The Painkiller is the BVI’s answer to the mainland’s ibuprofen and acetaminophen—a creamy, coconut-laced concoction that masks its potency behind pineapple sweetness and a dusting of nutmeg. I had my first Painkiller at the Soggy Dollar Bar, slumped in a hammock after a beach landing that required no shoes and one waterproof dry bag. The drink originated at White Bay on Jost Van Dyke, where there’s no dock. Sailors swim ashore with dollar bills stuffed in their swimsuits. The Painkiller goes down really easy. By the second round, the name starts to make perfect sense. It comes in grades: one, two, three—and the fourth should be outlawed. 

On the other hand, rum punch is the Caribbean’s catchall cure: orange juice, pineapple juice, grenadine, a dash of lime and whatever rum’s on hand, often two or three kinds. I’ve had versions so smooth that they sipped like juice, and others that lit up my sinuses like wasabi. The only ­constant? You don’t stop at one. The recipe starts with ice in a tall glass, ­followed by white or amber rum, then tropical citrus fruit juices such as lime, lemon, papaya, mango, pomegranate and orange. I prefer pineapple and ­orange juice with a splash of grenadine syrup for color.

On Bequia, a variation of rum punch goes like this: one of sour, two of sweet, three of strong and four of weak. That’s lime juice, sugar syrup, rum and tonic water.

The mojito is Cuba’s contribution to the rum drinker’s delight. In my opinion, having done the Hemingway Pub Crawl, Hotel Ambos Mundos makes the best one. Hemingway wrote 1932’s Death in the Afternoon here, about Spanish bullfights. He also started writing Green Hills of Africa here, and worked on To Have and Have Not. The mojitos at this bar come with a sprig of mint so fresh, it still holds the scent of the garden. That mint goes into a tall glass with a lime wedge and a spoonful of sugar, to be mashed into a fragrant pulp by a mallet worn smooth from good use. Then it’s ice, Havana Club rum, soda water, a straw, and a nod from the bartender. The mojito is a refreshing drink with the fiery taste of rum tamed by sugar, lime and grass. One usually leads to two. 
Of course, not every rum drink comes in a frosted glass. Sometimes it’s a tin mug of grog—rum, water, lime and not much else—passed around at anchor as the sun drops. No umbrellas, no fanfare. Just sailors, stories, and a slow burn in the chest.

As I sail among the islands this winter, I’ll be hunting cocktails as much as coves. It’s a ritual now. As the hook sets and the light fades, I head below, reach for the rum, and pour my daily ration. The sea sighs against the hull, and the scent of lime is on my hands as I raise a glass to the islands, to Hemingway, and to another day well-lived under sail. 

For more than 20 years, author and ­photojournalist David H. Lyman has sailed the Eastern Caribbean islands. His Hemingway Pub Crawl is detailed in his forthcoming book, A Maine Yankee in Castro’s Cuba. Find more of his writing and photographs at dhlyman.com. 

The post Caribbean Rum: A Sailor’s Spirited Journey appeared first on Cruising World.

Our Atlantic 70 cutter, Stressbuster, had just arrived in Paroikia, Paros, in Greece’s Cyclades Islands. My husband, Kostas, and I, along with five charter guests, had spent the previous two weeks island-hopping across the Aegean Sea from our base near Athens. The October weather was sublime: The Greeks call it “little summer.” It was a perfect end to the season.

This was our last charter of the year, and our guests would disembark here. Having said our goodbyes, we decided to take a lay day to clean the boat, reprovision, and visit with friends on Paros. Wind and weather in October can be erratic, so we’d allowed a week or more to deliver the boat lazily back to our dock in Salamina instead of doing a straight 100-mile shot. 

During the night, the wind picked up. By daylight, it was partly cloudy. The temperature had dropped considerably. We checked the updated forecast for the next days: winds increasing in strength from 25 knots to 30, then 35, with higher gusts possible, and seas 6 to 9 feet. 

Situated smack in the middle of the Aegean, the Cyclades are surrounded by open sea. Distances between islands are not short, and seas between them can build in a surprisingly short time. 

Our dock, on the outer pier at Paroikia’s public marina, was becoming uncomfortable. Along with a couple of other yachts, we arranged with the harbormaster to move to an inside space.

By the second morning, we had a steady 30-knot wind, north-northeast, with higher gusts. Beyond the harbor, seas were building. Out in the anchorage, there was a nasty chop. 

As the wind rose, the temperature dropped further. Lazing abovedecks was out of the question. That afternoon, a couple of stray bareboats limped in seeking shelter, their headsails shredded. 

We and other sailors wore heavy jackets for walks ashore. In town, late-season tourists in shorts and T-shirts scoured local shops for warm clothing. Freestanding taverna menu boards and trash bins did cartwheels. 

Late summer had suddenly become early winter. The Old Town was nearly deserted. Locals, wisely, stayed home. 

Later that day, forecasts began mentioning an omega block phenomenon. After 25 years of sailing the islands and studying Greek weather forecasts, I’d never heard of it, but I had learned one thing: When Greek meteorologists use the word “phenomenon,” pay attention. 

Conveniently, I had a Greek captain with a lifetime of ­experience sitting next to me.

“What’s an omega block?” I asked Kostas, scrolling through the forecast details. 

“A what?” he asked. 

An online search told us that an omega block is caused by disturbances in the jet stream. The omega block stops the normal progression of weather systems, sandwiching a high-pressure area ­between two low-pressure areas. On weather maps, the shape of the jet stream resembles the ­upper-case Greek letter ­omega: Ω. 

On the low-pressure sides, there is rain. In the squeezed high-pressure middle, the prevalent weather is fair, though sometimes cool and windy. Omega blocks can ­remain stationary for days. 

We were in the lower end of the high-pressure area, and we now know this: When you’re stuck in an omega block, the weather repeats itself daily like an annoying broken record. Down below on the boat, it was chilly. Our hatch faced north, so cold air wafted in. Wearing fleece and sweat pants, we hunkered down, worked a bit, read, and relaxed. Occasionally, other charter crew stopped by for coffee and to commiserate.

As dinnertime approached one night, I realized that my appetite had also switched seasons. Suddenly and desperately, I craved a heaping hot bowl of spicy homemade chili topped with gooey cheese—winter comfort food. 

We had everything we needed aboard except ground beef. We did have half a roasted chicken tucked in the fridge, a leftover from the previous night’s dinner that was earmarked for soup. Roasted-chicken chili? Getting beef meant a cold, windy walk to the supermarket. The chicken was ready to deploy.

An hour later, with the delicious aroma of slow-­simmered chili permeating and warming the cabin, we set the salon table, lit a battery-­operated candle (the illusion of warmth would do), and dug in. Soon, the hot meal and spices worked their magic. We were warm, content and, with full bellies, growing sleepy. 

The boat was secure. A cozy bunk and good books awaited. On a day when “little ­summer” had turned into “the big chill,” it was a perfect ­ending. Tomorrow was ­another day. 

Easy Roasted-Chicken Chili (serves 2)

• ¼ cup olive oil
• 1  medium onion, diced
• 2-3  garlic cloves, peeled and minced
• 1 12-ounce can chopped tomatoes
• 1 12-ounce can kidney beans (or black beans) 
• 1 7-ounce can Old El Paso Chopped Green Chiles
• 1 cube chicken bouillon 
• 1  tsp. chili powder
• ¼  tsp. ground cumin
• ¼ tsp. ground coriander
• red chili flakes, pinch (optional)
• salt and pepper, to taste*
• 3  cups cooked chicken breast meat, shredded 
• shredded cheddar, Gouda or Monterey Jack cheese, to taste
• chopped coriander, chives or green onions to garnish (optional)

* Bouillon may contain salt, so taste before adding more.

Add olive oil to a large stew pot over ­medium heat. Add onion. Sauté until onion begins to soften. Add garlic, sauté for about 1 minute. Add tomatoes, beans and green chiles, along with can juices. Add bouillon cube, chili powder, cumin and coriander. Stir. Simmer a few minutes to let flavors blend. Add salt and pepper to taste. 

Stir again, bring to a simmer, and then ­reduce heat to low or medium-low. ­Slow-simmer, partially covered, for about 30 minutes or until chili begins to thicken and flavors blend. If it gets too thick, add a splash of water. 

While it cooks: With your hands, shred chicken breast into bite-size chunks. Add to pot, stir, and simmer 10 to 15 minutes more. 

To serve, ladle hot chili into bowls. Top with shredded cheese and garnish if desired. 

Cook’s Note: If you don’t have leftover ­roasted chicken, then place a boneless chicken breast in a large, deep sauté pan with a lid. Add water to cover chicken. Poach for 10 to 15 minutes or until internal temperature reads 165 degrees ­Fahrenheit. Cool slightly before shredding. Add to ­simmering chili as above. 

Prep time: 1 hour
Difficulty: easy
Can be made: at anchor

Editor’s note: Got a favorite boat meal you’d like to share? Email us at editor@cruisingworld.com.

The post The Big Chill: Sailing Adventure & Comfort Food appeared first on Cruising World.

A squadron of pelicans skims the sun-sparkled water. A bevy of black swans waddles across the ­exposed mudflats just to windward of us—no sight nor sound of city life, no other boats, nothing but us and the birds.

We’d sailed from New Zealand to meet my cruising companion David Haigh’s first grandchild near Melbourne, Australia, and to partake in family holiday madness. Westernport Marina, just a dozen miles from his daughter’s home, proved the only useful option for our time here. Being ­secured in the marina let us head off to lunches and evening entertainments without hesitation. But after three weeks of being tied cheek by jowl with 200 ­other boats and partaking of an overflowing ­social life, we needed a break, and this felt like utter bliss.

It would have been difficult finding this isolated anchorage without the aid of a chart plotter. Called Chicory Cut, it is just that—an unmarked cut in a vast area of mudflats. The nearest visible land is almost a mile away. Earlier in the day, when David got on his paddleboard at high tide, he found solid ground unreachable unless he was willing to wade for half a mile through knee-deep gooey mud. 

We’d chosen Chicory Cut because it’s one of the few places in the huge expanse of Western Port Bay that offers protection from southwesterly winds. We knew we could stay only two days. After that, northerly gales would make this anchorage untenable.

“Sure looking forward to sailing north to Queensland and the Barrier Reef in a few months,” I commented when David set out snacks for sundowners. “Great cruising up there.” He nodded in agreement, and then added, “Can’t see much to recommend this area.” As we watched the sunset, memories of our favorite cruising destinations filled our conversation. David spoke of his time exploring southern Turkey. I started with my love of Baja California, then moved on to the fun of western Ireland. 

Two days later, just ahead of the forecast gales, we returned to the marina. That evening, we met up with the Metheralls, who had a home nearby. I had become friends with these fun Aussies when my husband, Larry, and I anchored near their Salar 40 in French Polynesia 28 years ago. Our friendship had grown as we meandered farther along the “South Pacific Milk Run.” Their children, ages 8, 9 and 12 at that time, now had teenagers of their own. “Glad you found Chicory Cut. It’s our favorite anchorage,” Jan Metherall said. “Our kids loved getting covered from head to toe in mud, fishing, swimming, exploring all the cuts.” 

She described family excursions, first on a trailer-sailor, then on the small keelboat they sailed from one end of the notoriously windy Bass Strait to the other. The fun that the whole family shared led them to fit out the offshore cruiser that eventually took them right around the world. “Never found a more perfect cruising ground than right here,” Jan said. 

The Metheralls’ enthusiasm made me take another look at the photos I’d snapped during the four weeks it took us to navigate from southern Tasmania through the islands of the Bass Strait to Melbourne. We’d been frustrated by the ever-changing weather and the strong tides and currents. Only when we were stymied by foul winds did we relax for a few days at a time.

First there was Flinders Island: windswept, vastly underpopulated, not terribly inviting at first glance. My photos show another view of this story. Trapped by westerly gales at Lady Barron Island, we spent the first evening at the local pub. Its hilltop position provided a fine view of the myriad islands and channels around us. We were provided with long, hot showers. One of the locals offered us a pint, plus an invitation to join in for quiz night—if we were brave enough. Hanging on the bulletin board were two hand-drawn maps showing potential walks to a dozen ­viewpoints around Lady Barron and other good anchorages throughout this small ­archipelago. We might have found a dozen places to explore had we not been so goal-oriented.

Then there was our weather-enforced stop on the River Derwent. We’d ­motored 20 miles up the river to Launceston and secured the boat in the center of this humming little city. High above us, the clouds scurried before storm-force ­westerlies. But the bluffs along the river sheltered us as we walked through the Gorge, a ­dramatic jumble of rocks and river, and found a Victorian garden wonderland. We ­rented a car and explored the mountains of ­northern Tasmania. There, we encountered a snowstorm in midsummer, warmhearted rural people and spectacular English-style gardens. 

When the gales subsided, we day-hopped along the top of Tasmania, timing our departure to coincide with the west-going tide, arriving at a new anchorage each night, and never launching the dinghy—just eating, climbing into the bunk, and then getting underway each morning. Fortunately, when the next major blow was forecast, we were within easy reach of Port Stanley.

We motored slowly through the 50-foot-wide entrance to the tiny, stone-rimmed basin, then along the 600-foot length of the harbor toward the quiet fish factory at its head. There wasn’t a yacht in sight, only rugged fishing boats. Just when we began preparing mooring lines to go into one of the empty wood-lined pens, a call rang out from a bright-red trawler: “Go alongside that white workboat on the wharf. It’s not moving for the next week. You won’t have to put out fender boards that way. Harbor master? Gone fishing. No charges here. This is our harbor.”

A five-minute walk brought us to a ­tiny, picturesque downtown, where we were welcomed by friendly people who truly did want to know where we came from. Just feet from the boat, there was a track leading up a steep bluff and into the native forest restored by the local community. Wallabies hopped and birdsong filled the air. 

We sailed into Grassy Bay on King Island just an hour ahead of another westerly blow. Minutes later, a fisherman offered us the use of a car to get to a launderette. “And while you are at it, better take in a few of the sights,” we were told as he handed us the keys. 

Only about 1,400 people live here, ­farming and fishing. Tourism is almost nonexistent because transport from the mainland is limited. Yet there is an art gallery set on the rocky shore of Currie Harbour, a crayfish center. Colorful paintings adorned the outside of the old house. Windows revealed a cornucopia of colors inside. The door, closed but not locked, had a sign: Bring Your Own Lunch Cafe. There was no proprietor, just a handsome dining table set amid art and handcraft work from around the island. Another sign asked that washing up be done at the outside sink and the table reset as found. “Please put money for purchases in the box and write down what you took in the guest book.”

In hindsight, I can see why Jan and her family call this area a perfect cruising ground. How different our memories might have been had we approached this area like they did—not as an obstacle in our rush to get somewhere else, but as our destination. 

Reviewing my photos from the Bass Strait has reminded me once again that perfect cruising grounds are a state of mind, one that can be achieved only when you set aside the desire to keep moving on and learn to enjoy just being. 

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 folks to go simple, go small, and go now.

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