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.

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The Blue Water Sailing Club’s (BWSC) Atlantic Canada Cruise 2024-2025 (ACC) was an unprecedented undertaking, a first of its kind in the club’s history. Four vessels—Going Merry (a Hallberg-Rassy 42), Grayling (Sabre 38), Truant (Southern Cross 31), and Avocet (Oyster 41)—set out from Boothbay Harbor, Maine, on August 15, 2024, immediately following the annual “Maine Cruise.” Despite the varying capabilities of the boats and the diverse experience levels of their captains and crews, not one captain had previously sailed their boat north of Halifax. The fleet was later joined by a fifth boat, Walkabout (a Sabre 38), in Baddeck, Nova Scotia, in June 2025. The expedition eventually concluded for Avocet in Boothbay Harbor on August 17, 2025, after a 49-hour sail from Halifax (Rogue’s Roost).

Truant was single-handed, more often double-handed and occasionally had three onboard. With a 25-foot waterline, Truant proved that many of our smaller BWSC boats, if sailed by inspired skippers, can manage this trip. Typical daily mileage was limited to usually not more than 25 nautical miles—and often considerably less daily mileage than previous Club trips to Nova Scotia and the Bay of Fundy. Alternating lay days and short legs appealed to many participants.

A number of things made the trip unique for the Club. The cruise was long. We sailed 2,200 nautical miles. We were at sea for 83 days. We saw 47 harbors. It spanned two summers. We went to three countries.

The Atlantic Canada Cruise (ACC) was an expedition-type club cruise. There were three overnight passages. The last passage (284 nautical miles) had two back-to-back overnights. Matinicus to Shelburne, N.S., St. Pierre to Sydney and Halifax to our various homeports. These passages made possible a detailed exploration of the Atlantic Coast of Nova Scotia, the Bras d’Or Lakes, the southern coast of Newfoundland including many of its magnificent fjords, several of the islands along Newfoundland’s southern coast including Burgeo and Ramea, and the French islands of Miquelon-St. Pierre.

Days off the boats were spent exploring these harbors and hiking in some really spectacular places. We were greeted warmly and with much curiosity everywhere—though many places were without a population or road access.

One fellow in Rose Blanche, eager to show us his way of life, took a few of us jigging for cod. The catch fed the entire group. These were fish you hook as soon as you drop the hook. So, we got equipped. In the fjords, birds perched high in the surrounding cliffs were answering my son’s cellphone bird-identification app. It was acoustically as impressive as listening to a concert in Carnegie Hall. And very remote. Our hiking teams, often exploring simultaneously different ridges, took handheld radios as help could only come from the anchored boats. Much of this was captured by Homer, which was our squadron’s only drone after the loss of its sister drone.

Nature was front and center. A small group of pilot whales repeatedly crossed within feet of our bows in 5- to 6-foot swells en route from Piccaire (Pink Bottom) to Brunette Island, Newfoundland. This was a different behavior than what I have seen crossing Georges Bank where larger groups of whales have flanked Avocet on both sides as if in a convoy. This was purposeful and playful activity by very large mammals. To finish that day at anchor at Brunette Island (en route to Fortune, Newfoundland), locals came over in their skiff, chatted it up, asked where we were from and gave us a bag of their freshly harvested scallops. They were the best scallops I have ever eaten. Caribou were grazing unperturbed on a hill in front of us at this spot. No roads. No bridges. No light pollution. Virtually no people. A few fishing huts. Elsewhere others in our group were given jars of moose meat and moose sausage. A delicious and unexpected appetizer for the group. Tasted like flank steak. Coming off the sea we were not quite tourists nor were we mere transients. The relationship was one of mutual interest and respect; we shared the sea. They were as curious about us as we were of them.

The composition of participants was another somewhat unique feature. For only five boats, there was an extraordinary number and mix of people of various ages, occupations and familial relation. By one estimate, 50 folks sailed various parts of the trip. Nine married couples. Three sets of brothers. Two sets of brother-sister pairs. A son. Cousins. Uncles. High school buddies. College buddies. New BWSC members. Old sailing friends. New relationships were made and old relationships were nourished. The different types of sailing permitted (and sometimes required) different sets of crew along the route. The number of participants coupled with the remoteness of many of our crew points in Newfoundland and parts of Nova Scotia added complexity to our crew changes and fresh faces to different legs. There was also continuity in the group. For three of our original four boats, many who crewed in 2024 returned to crew in 2025. One returning non-member crew sailed on two different boats.

The trip was organizationally unique. We were graciously given a pass by local Customs authorities in advance in regard to the statutory importation tax in Canada and departure requirements when overwintering. Canadian Customs officials have wide discretion. We also scheduled a departure from Canada and into France (St. Pierre) so as to re-new the one-year limitation period for Canada on re-entry. As it turned out, Customs would have granted us more than a year to clear out had we needed it. We were apparently deemed to be trustworthy guests.

The trip required a broader set of seamanship skills than our Club’s typical two-week cruises. These skills applied mostly to mechanical issues. One boat’s windlass fell through the deck and had to be re-bolted. Another boat’s windlass had electrical corrosion issues. An AIS transmit function required electrical work to get functioning.

The AIS transmit is an important safety capability when traveling at night and/or in the fog and especially in a group of boats. It is also handy when port authorities are trying to locate and manage your approach in no visibility conditions such as what we had going toward Port aux Basques. With lots of other traffic, there is not a lot of time for the traffic control officers to be plotting your exact position by digesting lengthy lat/long numbers given verbally over the radio.

Three engines had oil changes, which, in turn, unveiled a potentially serious issue relating to the exhaust system and decomposing air filter in one of our boats. A toilet pump in one of our boats required a call for tech support and an on the spot rebuild. In Burgeo, a boat’s anchor got stuck on a submerged pipe. To jimmy it free, a secondary trip line was secured and then winched from another boat’s primary. One boat developed engine starting issues relating to fuel intake. This was addressed eventually at Baddeck Marine as was another boat’s complete repower. There was also a transmission issue that was addressed on the fly.

Baddeck Marine is a wonderful place to winter over if you do the decommissioning work yourself. The yard forgot to winterize Avocet’s fresh water system. All plumbing fixtures, hoses and filters were replaced at the yard’s expense and without discussion. They are honest, friendly and hard working folks. Every yard makes mistakes. Not every yard covers the costs of those mistakes. Their rates were extremely reasonable. The town of Baddeck is on the Cabot Trail and is therefore a great place to spend the time necessary when hauling or launching.

The greatest perceived challenges turned out to be largely overblown. Anchoring was not a problem though heavy ground tackle was necessary. One boat upgraded their gear for 2025. Another boat passed on a few anchorages. Rafting up, splitting up, and/or tying stern to shore resolved matters in the few places that were tight. In Pink Bottom, three boats rafted up with a stern line and the other two boats moved on to alternate anchorages. More boats could have easily joined this trip.

Katabatic winds and fouled anchor rodes, referenced by Paul Trammell in his book, Sailing to Newfoundland: A Solo Exploration of the South Coast Fjords (2023), were never a problem—however Mr. Trammell, a newcomer to sailing, deserves all the credit for undertaking such a remote trip solo. Brave man. And without a windlass! He used an InReach device for tracking when he hiked.

Our group did have to hold position an extra night at anchor in Yankee Cove, Nova Scotia, in 2024 as we were in an extended small gale. In Francois, Newfoundland we tied to a dock for the night in winds which a local told me were gusting 60 to 65 knots. The wind was greater than I have previously experienced. This local fellow correctly advised before the wind hit that it would be pushed from the North to the Northwest by the cliffs—and he was correct.

Along the fjord coastline and in front of all the cliffs, this was a dangerous lee shore very close alongside and on our rhumb line heading east. On the most egregious day, only Truant (with my son aboard) took the conservative action and gained significant sea room. It would have been difficult to impossible to sail out of trouble had there been engine failure. Anchoring was not an option as water depth close to shore was too deep. This was an instance where sailing in a group actually added a measure of hope if not real safety since we had Going Merry and her 60-horsepower engine in close proximity for a tow.

There were similarities between the Nova Scotia and Newfoundland trips. Both areas are thinly populated and are stunning in physical beauty. Both summers had extraordinarily good weather: sun, little fog and almost no rain. There was so little rain in 2025 that Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, was under a no-campfire ban. At Liscombe Lodge in Nova Scotia folks were not permitted on the hiking trails. Warm air (cool nights) and warm water (in places). Bugs were not as bad as predicted. Provisioning was a snap. Canadians freely drove us around or lent their cars and trucks.

Differences between our Nova Scotia and Newfoundland trips were not immediately apparent in advance. We sailed Nova Scotia over 70% of the time. This sailing to motoring ratio was reversed in Newfoundland because of short, steep and confused swell in the Cabot Strait and along the southern coast. The Labrador Current, the Gulf Stream Current, the Atlantic Ocean Current and enormous fetch coming up against the cliffy fjord sections of Newfoundland created convergence, blocking, gap and funneling effects. Truly a bad combo. Leaving mid-August for Nova Scotia from Maine proved to be correct for better wind and less fog. Sailing west to east along the southern coast of Newfoundland (from Port aux Basques and Squid Hole to the Lampidoes Passage) was critical. Waves, wind and current were all against us if going the other way.

Entering and exiting Dingwall, Nova Scotia, was uneventful at high tide for Avocet. She draws 8 feet. Exiting Ingonish, Nova Scotia, was not so good. A narrow channel blocked by a lobster buoy in the middle offered a 50-50 choice—she bumped the bottom but got kudos for taking one for the team following astern. Another advantage to sailing in a group.

In two of the Newfoundland fjords (Hare Bay and Facheux Bay), fish farms combined with unrelated, very long, singular, and haphazardly placed floating lines made navigation sufficiently difficult to require assistance from the boats tending these farms. At night or in fog, these areas would be arguably non-navigable. Our group relayed this information to those behind. We closed quarters and filed through in a single row.

Our group of four boats sailed as a group in Nova Scotia in 2024. Our group of five boats in 2025 sailed as a group in Newfoundland. On the return from St. Pierre, France (8 nautical miles southwest of Newfoundland), decisions had to be made sailing against prevailing southwesterly winds and the group split. One group headed to Sydney two days ahead of schedule to catch favorable conditions on that overnight passage. One boat in the other group had a schedule to meet in Sydney; and, joined by another boat, departed St. Pierre on schedule but two days after the first group. This second group subsequently departed Sydney three days after the first group. One boat hauled for the winter in Baddeck. Another boat chose an accelerated route and schedule home. In Halifax, where three boats were joined, captains read the weather differently, as they did in St. Pierre, and made departure decisions accordingly.

It is essential in sailing passages that weather windows are paramount and that each captain makes his or her own departure choices. Crew meetings in both St. Pierre and Halifax were structured to ensure that this protocol was followed. This is not what happens in organized ocean races where a race committee makes the starting gun decision for the fleet. Although it is true that our group saw different things in terms of the forecasting, it is equally true to note that this was essentially a near coastal return where safe harbors are relatively close at hand. For this reason, a weather router, like Chris Parker, was not used though he did speak for us in a 2023 seminar on the trip.

For the Blue Water Sailing Club’s “CCC” (the Caribbean Challenge Cruise 2026-2027), the stakes are higher sailing Newport to Bermuda in November. Using Chris Parker will be helpful to everyone regardless of experience levels.

Although our captains could have called in their own weather router, they relied on their own resources, heard from all other captains and learned from the experience. Weather models do not always agree with each other. Without hands-on experience doing the weather routing part and sailing a few overnight passages, one has a disadvantage relying solely on another person’s opinions and advice.

What did I learn as trip leader? It is more fun to sail in a group.

If I were to do the trip again with the same northerly winds some of us enjoyed sailing south from St. Pierre, I would sail straight to Louisbourg and skip Sydney. Sailing home in prevailing southwesterly winds requires one to be opportunistic whenever there is a northerly component. Chris Parker, prior to this trip, put it starkly. It is easier to sail from Newfoundland to Bermuda than it is to sail Newfoundland to New England.

Louisbourg gets you farther south and is more direct than going through the Bras d’Or Lakes and St. Peter’s Canal. Sydney has about an 8-mile slog up the harbor which is long, out of the way; and it comes after an overnight passage. Baddeck is not a port of entry. Sailing to Louisbourg does mean that your crew skips the Bras d’Or Lakes, but our group of boats sailed the lakes in 2024 going to Newfoundland. The lakes are a thing of beauty—not to be missed. As awesome in their solitary splendor as the fjords in Newfoundland.

On the return along the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia, Avocet adopted several strategies. Sail early before the southwesterlies pick up, go short and stop early, and make more stops. Sail the rivers and inland bays on a beam reach like Country Harbor, Tor Bay (Webber Cove) and the beautiful and navigationally entertaining inner passages like Dover Island Passage. No rush.

The key to my kind of sailing is to find a way to do it all in cool, new places with the right mix of gunkholing, offshore passages and local exploration and to do it slowly, often with significant breaks in the action, with the right crew, friends and family. This trip has now introduced me to club cruising and it has elevated the experience. Those who join are like-minded folks who are excited about going. Hopefully, they have chosen the parts of the trip they will like. It is more rewarding to share it than it is to go solo.

About the Author: John Slingerland sails out of Boothbay Harbor, Maine on his Oyster 41, Avocet. A graduate of Middlebury College and a retired lawyer, he is presently Commodore of the Blue Water Sailing Club. John has recently completed a four-year circumnavigation of the North Atlantic Ocean and Western Mediterranean Sea. He has since led Blue Water Sailing Club members to Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. Click here for information on joining the Blue Water Sailing Club or participating in its upcoming sailing adventure to the Caribbean. The Caribbean Challenge Cruise leaves Newport, Rhode Island, in November 2026 and returns from Grenada, via Sint Maarten and Bermuda, in April 2027. Review the short form itinerary and register for the trip here.

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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.

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.

Our 1969 Cross 46 trimaran, Migration, was assigned an extra-wide guest dock at Fukuoka’s Odo Marina on the island of Kyushu. Strong northwest winds were in the forecast, so we began tying lines together to reach 65 feet across to the opposite finger.

That’s when Choichi-san wandered over. He’s a classic salt we’d met months earlier in Yakushima, where we shared a quay while waiting out a gale. He’d wasted no time showing us tricks for mooring to the barnacle-crusted walls of Japanese fishing harbors. And now, here he was again, appearing as if by magic to lend a hand—this time with a brand-new, ¾-inch braided line, long enough to keep Migration clear of the dock. 

When the blow had passed and we offered to return the line, Choichi-san declined, saying, “No, no. For you.” We think of him every time we use it.

That mooring line was the first of many gifts we received with no expectation of anything in return. In fact, we soon discovered the difficulty of giving thank-you gifts in Japan, often finding ourselves on the receiving end of a thank-you-for-the-thank-you gift.

But it was the friendships, not the gifts, that made our time in Japan so memorable. We’ve met all kinds of people during 20 years of cruising in 28 countries, but the Japanese were the epitome of hospitality. Their friendship, generosity and excitement for our visit overwhelmed us.

Both of us had dreamed of sailing to Japan, especially because Migration was built there 56 years ago. She was shipped to her first owner in California, where she was berthed in Alamitos Bay Marina—on the same bay where a 12-year-old Bruce was learning to sail dinghies. During a two-year refit in Thailand, we stripped away her delaminating fiberglass (polyester resin doesn’t age well on plywood). Underneath, we found handwritten kanji, a system of Japanese writing that uses Chinese characters. Photos of this delighted nearly everyone we met in Japan. A boat like Migration was a rare sight, and the idea that she was a product of decades-old Japanese craftsmanship fascinated many people we encountered.

In early June, we arrived in Ishigaki, at the southern end of the Ryukyu Islands, after a 28-hour sail from Taiwan. Eleven officials from six departments processed our arrival, a long but impeccably polite affair. We spent the next 10 days getting our bearings: securing a SIM card (a multiday challenge), completing paperwork, diving with manta rays, visiting nearby islands and savoring our first exceptional Japanese meal.

Eventually, we set sail for Teramajima, 35 nautical miles to the northeast, where we met our first tomodachi, or friend. The island has just 1,000 residents, and the sun was blistering as we walked through farmlands toward the village. We spotted a man with a group of children and asked in basic Japanese where we might find ice cream. To our surprise, he replied in English. Yoshi-san, from Kobe, turned out to be the only other tourist on the island.

His warmth and enthusiasm were instant. When he told us he was taking the ferry to Miyako-jima in two days—the same day we planned to sail there—we invited him to join us. “Sugoi!” he shouted, jumping up and down and making the kids giggle. It was, indeed, amazing. We’d never seen such unfiltered excitement after an invitation to sail aboard our boat.

The 30-mile sail was lively, with 25 knots on the quarter. Yoshi-san patiently answered our endless grammar questions until, mid-sentence, he leaned over the coaming, threw up and turned back to finish his answer. A true trouper.

We moored in Miyako-jima’s fishing harbor, and Yoshi headed to his friends’ guesthouse, promising to return later. When we arrived that evening, we were greeted by birthday decorations, food, new friends and a cake—a celebration in honor of Alene’s recent birthday. The beer and awamori flowed late into the night. It was an unforgettable (and slightly soused) introduction to Okinawan hospitality.

As we sailed north through the Ryukyu Islands, the snorkeling proved superb. Tokashiki and Zamami had stunning coral, colorful fish and tranquil anchorages. At Kakeromajima, after snorkeling a small reef, we swam ashore to a beach that was deserted, except for three people lounging on a blanket. They waved us over, and though our Japanese faltered, we understood they wanted us to wait. Soon, the fourth of their party arrived. 

Nob-san is a tall man who carries himself with an almost regal elegance. Thankfully, he also speaks English. His wife, Keichan, was born on the island, and they often returned from Yokohama with their friends, Kiyoshi-san and Mieko-san. We were invited to a picnic, which turned into a sail and snorkeling trip aboard Migration. That first meeting blossomed into a decade-long friendship full of rich political and philosophical conversations through email exchanges.

We continued into the Seto Inland Sea via the narrow, bustling Kanmon Strait, just as the Setouchi Triennale art festival was underway. The chance to sail from island to island, taking in installations both quirky and profound, felt like a stroke of luck.

New friends marked nearly every port. One of the most surreal encounters occurred in Hiroshima. We’d met Mitsugi-san, a surgeon, in Fukuoka. He told us to call if we ever sailed to Matsuyama, his hometown. When we did, he hosted us for a tour of a historic mountain village and told us he hadn’t sailed in years. Naturally, we invited him for our next leg: a 35-mile hop to Hiroshima.

It was a brisk, cold sail, but Mitsugi-san relished every moment, especially steering between islands. Upon arrival at Hiroshima’s Kanon Marina, we assumed we were off to enjoy local okonomiyaki. Instead, we sat in a dentist’s waiting room for an hour. Enter Misato-san, a whirlwind of energy and conversation who whisked us away on a series of cryptic errands in her enormous Cadillac, music blaring. Eventually, we got our okonomiyaki. Then, after dropping off Mitsugi-san, we picked up her husband and a stack of towels. Off we sped into the mountains to a beautiful onsen.

These public baths fed by hot springs are a cornerstone of Japanese life. We adored them. That night, Alene received an enthusiastic, nonstop tutorial on bathing etiquette from Misato-san. Bruce, meanwhile, enjoyed quiet soaking time with her husband.

By the time we returned to Migration, well past midnight, we were exhausted and dazed. What began as a routine day sail had become a full-blown, unforgettable adventure.

Japan is breathtaking. But more than anything, the friendships shaped our experience and made each moment feel dreamlike.

Every port held surprises: In Kobe, we reunited with Yoshi-san and spent nights in his favorite bar, playing music and making friends. In Shōdoshima, we sang Christmas carols with Maya, Yuki and her rabbit, which was dressed as Santa Claus. In Nagasaki, Tatsuo-san and Keiko-san insisted we join them for a beach day the moment we tied up.

Japan is breathtaking: misty cedar forests, turquoise seas, snowy pine-covered peaks. Its architecture is graceful, its food sublime, and its culture intricate and endearing. But more than anything, the friendships shaped our experience. They lifted us, carried us and made each moment feel dreamlike.

Migration was welcomed back to her birthplace. And we were embraced by friends who touched our hearts and continue to call us back. 

Bruce Balan and Alene D. Rice have been sailing full time aboard Migration since 2005 and are the creators of TheChartLocker.com. They are in New Zealand and plan to return to Japan in 2027. Follow them at svMigration.com.

Tips for Cruising in Japan

Respect the CultureJapan has many social nuances. One example is chotto muzukashii, which means “a little difficult.” Usually, if someone says something is a little difficult, my response is, “Well, let’s figure out how to do it.” But in Japan, the phrase means “it cannot be done,” as it’s considered rude to say a direct no. § Being considerate, polite and respectful will take you much farther than being loud or pushy. We cannot stress enough how important this is. Already, several marina operators are considering excluding foreign boats because of bad behavior. In Japanese society, you must avoid inconveniencing others, even unintentionally. Your actions will affect how all future cruisers are received.

Language

It can seem an insurmountable challenge to learn a language as different from English as Japanese. But since many Japanese people are shy, learning a little will help break the ice. Everyone we met was extremely grateful for our attempts to speak the language. § There are three alphabets used in Japan. We recommend learning Katakana first, as that is the alphabet used for many foreign words that have been assimilated. It’s pleasing to be able to sound out 掇讹肪非峨恶非尔 (gasorin sutando) and know that it means gas station.

Bureaucracy

Though bureaucracy can be exasperating, we actually enjoy navigating the paperwork ourselves. It offers the opportunity to immerse oneself in the culture and meet locals. Thankfully, the antiquated closed-port rules that required visiting yachts to receive permission for all but a handful of harbors were eliminated in 2018. But there is still plenty of paperwork, plus visits with local officials. If you are in a hurry or don’t want to deal with the red tape, Konpira Consulting is happy to help. Remember, patience and politeness are essential.

Assistance

No gaijin, or foreigner, has done more to promote cruising in Japan than Kirk Patterson of Konpira Consulting, which you can find at konpira-consulting.com. After sailing to Japan in 2013, he became the first gaijin to circumnavigate the country. Realizing what an unusual destination Japan is, he created Konpira Consulting to assist cruisers and encourage cruising in Japan.

Weather

One reason many boats don’t visit Japan is a fear of hurricanes, which are called typhoons in this part of the world. It is not an unsubstantiated fear. West Pacific typhoons are powerful and plentiful.
The good news is there is excellent tropical storm tracking available from the Joint Typhoon Warning Center, a division of the US Navy with a solid interest in protecting its regional bases. Also, there are thousands of fortified harbors. This country has been dealing with destructive typhoons for centuries. § That said, a direct hit from a Category 5 storm is always a risk. Monitoring the weather daily and having a typhoon preparation plan is essential. West Pacific typhoons are rare in the winter months, but they can occur at any time, with August seeing the most frequent occurrences.

When to Go

Japan is affected by monsoon winds: northwesterly in winter and southeasterly in summer. If you are planning to sail through Japan and onward to Alaska in one season, it’s best to arrive with the first of the spring southerlies. You’ll want to depart for Alaska in early June, when the North Pacific gales weaken but before the typhoon season gains momentum. If Alaska isn’t on your itinerary, you can use the monsoon winds to visit Japan from the south, sailing north in spring and returning in winter.

Navigation

There is a remarkable amount of shipping in Japanese waters, and it’s dangerous to sail at night in some areas because of aquaculture farms. § There are many options for good electronic charts. TheChartLocker.com offers free coverage of the entire country with three satellite views in MBTiles format. For phones and tablets, the navigation app New Pec Smart is available. It’s in Japanese, but Konpira Consulting can help with the licensing and provide an English-language guide. The major charting companies all offer coverage as well. As always, the prudent sailor will have multiple charting sources and not rely on a single company’s products.

Moorage

Marinas can be expensive, while the concrete walls of fishing harbors are usually free if you ask permission. Tying up to walls is a skill one must develop quickly. Fender boards are useful, but sometimes ride up over the fenders. Konpira Consulting recommends using Polyform A5 fenders. Short loops of chain that hang over a wall’s rough edge help to avoid chafing your mooring lines. Tides can vary between 1 and 20 feet; a 3- to 4-meter collapsible ladder is extremely useful in some harbors.

Go Soon

In 2016–17, there were perhaps 15 to 20 foreign boats actively cruising Japan. Except at the check-in and check-out ports of Ishigaki and Hakodate, we met only three of them. If you have a social cruising style, you may want to join one of the rallies that are increasingly popular. Remember, though, that setting out on your own can lead to wonderful encounters with locals. Sadly, YouTubers and bloggers are discovering Japan. Misinformation and hyperbole seem to go hand in hand with social media, and that is bad for everyone’s reputations. If Japan is on your horizon, we recommend going sooner rather than later. —BB/ADR

The post Sailing Japan: A Voyage of Friendship and Discovery appeared first on Cruising World.

We cleared through the Panama Canal and sailed back into Pacific waters for the first time in a decade—but I looked west from our 50-footer, Atea, with a sense of despondency. All of our sailing friends had worked hard to get to this stage. They looked at the Pacific as the beginning of an epic adventure. I, however, looked at it as the ending of ours. This would be the final year of an 11-year circumnavigation. I was reluctant to conclude our cruising lifestyle.

Yet, it was hard to be sullen when so much beauty lay ahead of us. The Pacific is the largest ocean in the world, and we would be sailing through one of the most enviable cruising destinations: French Polynesia. We would spend the next three months playing hopscotch across 2,000 miles of ocean, tossing our stone from tropical paradise to tropical paradise in a game that required no more effort than to follow the breeze and our desire. With 130 islands to choose from, the only challenge was selection. 

There are five archipelagos within French Polynesia. We decided to focus on one: the Tuamotus. With the Marquesas and Gambier islands to the east and the Society and Astral islands to the west, this central group is a part of French Polynesia that I had bypassed on my previous trip across the Pacific. Tahiti and Bora Bora caught my attention on my first trip, but this time, I was drawn toward names I had never heard: Makemo, Tahanea, Fakarava. We skipped the high peaks and lush greenery of the popular volcanic islands and headed for the Tuamotus’ string of six-dozen near-submerged rings that form the largest chain of coral atolls in the world. 

We departed from the west coast of Costa Rica and sailed 4,000 miles through a continuous sea to reach our first atoll. As we watched a thin cluster of wispy palm trees slowly materialize from the blue seascape, it was like setting our sights on a midocean mirage. Amanu is an outer-­lying atoll on the southeastern edge of the group, quiet and sparsely populated with few visitors. We found crabs, coconut trees and a small group of Polynesians in a sleepy village. We wandered the tidy streets and passed orderly rows of houses with tricycles parked outside property fences and gravestones set inside the gates. Other than a single resident who quietly strolled past us in the midday heat, the little township had an air of abandonment. After a month at sea without any outside contact, the lack of solitude suited us perfectly. 

Slowly, we cruised around the inner rim of the atoll, enjoying the peaceful beauty. Long, rolling waves that transited hundreds of miles crashed onto the outer reef, washing over to settle like still pond water in the inner lagoon. The tops of palm trees waved gently in the breeze, offering perches for the terns, boobies and frigate birds resting after their long-haul flights.

We would spend the next three months playing hopscotch across 2,000 miles of ocean, tossing our stone from tropical paradise to tropical paradise.

We collected seashells and made driftwood rafts for our 8-year-old pirate and ­10-year-old brigadier, stick weapons sheathed as they battled for imagined bullion and lost treasure. We snorkeled with the colorful bommies and healthy population of reef fish, and paddleboarded the drop-off with oceanic manta rays gliding by underneath. We built bonfires on the beach out of coconut fronds, pulled down as we dislodged coconuts from the cluster above our heads. We enjoyed a slow gin to the slip of the setting sun and gazed up at the fantastic spray of fairy lights sparkling in the darkness of an unpolluted night sky. For any recluse, Amanu is the place to be. 

The next few atolls offered similar isolation. On Makemo and Tahanea, coconut trees provide the only means of generating an income. For most of the locals, this business is a multigenerational family activity. Outside of that, they were doing what we were doing: using those same trees as shade in the midday heat, wallowing in the shallow waters for an easy catch for the evening meal, and shooing away giggling children. 

We rarely saw anyone. We usually chose anchorages away from the villages. When you have the independence and means to truly get away from society, you might as well go whole hog. By fully immersing ourselves in isolation, we were able to pick up on the nuances. Each atoll had its distinctions: Amanu felt totally remote, Makemo had aquatic purity, and Tahanea was unspoiled beauty.

Tahanea was our golden gem. It is a nature reserve whose only residents are feathered, shelled or scaled. The lack of hunting and fishing results in an abundance of wildlife ­completely unfazed by the odd human guest. A few islets within the lagoon provide ­hatcheries for three species of booby birds: red-footed, brown and masked. To hear the abrasive warning squawk of a protective hen and to see the curious eye of a newborn chick was a joy, and the frenzied swarm of the disturbed flock swooping and diving overhead was a curious intimidation. In the shallows was another nursery, with foot-long predators ­skirting around your ankles, the tip of their fin barely breaking the surface. 

Our timing for Tahanea was specific. We wanted to witness the grouper spawning. During the week preceding the full moon in July, the marbled grouper usually perform their mating ritual: a spiraling whirlpool of fish that create rippling currents of metallic color. This year, however, the spawning occurred in June, so we’d missed it. But the ­grouper were still around, all resting on the ocean floor. 

We did get to watch red snapper spawn in an equally impressive courtship dance. We came upon a large school just inside the pass and followed them for a while, unaware of the performance that was about to commence. They started grouping and regrouping, circling one another, one chasing another out of the pack. As the school grew and compressed into a tight ball, a female would break out in an ascending dash. A string of suitors would chase tail in a long spiral, a pearlescent flash of color ripping down their sides. At one point, a lemon shark swam through the group. The entire school turned on it and chased it away. To hear it, I wouldn’t have believed it, but that day, I watched the many defeat the mighty.

Next, we sailed for Fakarava to watch the competitions and performances of the Heiva, French Polynesia’s version of the Olympic Games. The Heiva is a monthlong festival in July that honors Polynesian history—the oldest festival in the Pacific with initial performances dating to 1881. Fakarava, the most populated atoll in the Tuamotus, holds the best example of a traditional Heiva (Tahiti’s are more commercialized). Encouraging locals pulled us from our seats to participate in the fruit-carrying race, javelin toss and coconut-husking competition. Fortunately, we were not invited to join the ‘ōte’a, a powerful and seductive Polynesian dance that would only humiliate any ­nonnative performer. We even walked off with a few cash prizes—a token for participation rather than achievement.

Fakarava is the second-largest atoll in the Tuamotus, with the second-largest lagoon in all of French Polynesia. Pelagic species crowd its two inland passes. (A whale shark guided us through the lagoon.) The northern pass is the largest, with a rich biodiversity of rays, turtles and dolphins. The southern pass is a protected sanctuary for gray reef sharks with the highest global concentration: about 700. We were side by side with these apex predators and they acted like docile goldfish. We were able to dive the outer wall and inside the pass without a local group, and the freedom of swimming within the school was an experience like no other.

Leaving Tahanea and Fakarava was like pulling teeth—none of us wanted to depart. But we were midseason and only halfway through the atolls. We received a warm welcome in Toau, where our arrival instigated a spontaneous lobster feast. In Apataki, we quickly made friends with two young bachelors who wanted a life simpler than in the faster-paced Tahiti. A stone set just off their homestead laid claim to the hopes, dreams and protections of mariners who had traveled through Apataki centuries before us. Following suit, we dressed up in palm-leaved hats and did a ceremony for our continued safe journey and protection at sea, then spent the next several days with our hosts sharing bonfires on the beach, fish from their daily catch, and lobster ­freely delivered to our boat. To be so openly accepted, befriended and included, with no gain in return, is the ultimate ­human experience. 

To be so openly accepted, befriended and included, with no gain in return, is the ultimate human experience.

For us, the Tuamotus offered a rare glimpse into French Polynesia’s beauty. Nature is allowed to flourish. The inner lagoons are healthy with marine life. Humpbacks spray their steamy breath into the air, and the occasional whale shark sidles in for a curious peek. The locals are welcoming, but they’re also willing to leave visitors in peace. 

I had started this season by looking at the Pacific as an ending, but with hindsight, I now see it as an opening. It is a reminder of all the beauty this world holds, and a promise that there is always an adventure in the path ahead.

The post Exploring the Tuamotu Atolls in French Polynesia appeared first on Cruising World.

The last time my husband and I met friends to sail out of La Paz, Mexico, all hell broke loose. A decade ago, Rob and I arrived in Baja with one giant backpack each, ready to hitchhike across the Pacific for a year. We began by spending two weeks with our good friends Mark and Katie, who were at the end of a yearlong cruise in the Sea of Cortez aboard a 28-foot Pearson Triton. On a star-filled March night, after copious fish tacos and rounds of margaritas, we lit a Chinese lantern and sent it to the heavens to commemorate the beginning and end of our journeys. We each made a wish as we watched the lantern lift high and ride the offshore breeze out to sea.

The lantern backfired. That night, Katie and Mark were puking with food poisoning. The day pack containing my brand-new laptop and iPhone and Rob’s new camera equipment was stolen as we slept on the beach. Katie and Mark’s car was stolen too, along with most of their worldly goods packed inside for their return trip to the United States.

Bleary and shocked, we stumbled across the remains of the lantern. Somehow, it had circled back and landed in a heap right where we’d launched it. We dubbed this dramatic spate of bad luck the Curse of the Chinese Lantern.

I thought the curse had been broken a few days later when we spotted a red lantern floating by while sailing. Red is a symbol of good luck in China, after all. The following day, Mexican police found Katie and Mark’s car, along with Rob’s fishing rod and my beach towel and flip-flops (the important things). We enjoyed a lovely few days cruising around the turquoise coves of Espiritu Santo before parting ways with our friends.

Now, a decade later—as our flight was ­delayed for a sixth time en route to our chartered catamaran in La Paz—I glanced at our children running sprints in an empty corner, then whispered to Rob, “Do you think it’s the Curse of the Chinese Lantern?” 

“Shhh!” He shook his head, eyes wide. “Don’t say it aloud.”

We’d chartered a 47-foot Fountaine Pajot with Dream Yacht Worldwide and invited friends who lived near us in Missoula, Montana, to join our crew. We’d planned a jam-packed week of hiking, snorkeling, and sailing lessons for the five kids and five adults. Because Rob and I were the ­co-captains, none of this could happen unless we got there. I crossed all my fingers and toes, and pictured cheerful, festive, benign red lanterns. 

Finally, at 9 p.m., we arrived at Marina CostaBaja, north of La Paz. The boat was fully stocked with food, and the rest of the crew had already unpacked. Kim, the other mom, greeted me with a hug: “You’ll be happy to know we bought a dozen Chinese lanterns,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Should we light one now?” 

The kids traipsed around the boat to ­inspect their quarters. A small berth tucked beside the cockpit was perfect for a couple of tween boys, while bunks beckoned the first-grade girls. Rob and I shared a nervous glance when we learned that the boat had six heads (otherwise known as six headaches). I laid down the most important law of sailing: “Anyone who flushes toilet paper will walk the plank.”

The next morning dawned sunny and bright—and very, very windy. Baja is known for its el nortes—strong north winds that funnel fast and furious down the length of the peninsula. I’d hoped we could leave the marina by late morning before the predicted 30-knot gusts hit. 

We grabbed a cappuccino at the cute marina coffee shop and hightailed it to the Dream Yacht office. Our chart briefing made it clear that La Paz was different from most other charter destinations: Bareboat captains need to be prepared to sail in the wilderness rather than bop between beachside bars. Once we left the base, there would be no cell service, no grocery stores and no marinas.

For Rob and me, this was a huge selling point of cruising in Baja. As the Dream Yacht sales pitch promised, this is the aquarium of the world. Nothing else compares to this unique landscape.

For the other adults, sailing off ­into a desert wilderness was a little more nerve-wracking. They ran to the marina store to grab extra snacks as the Dream Yacht staff prepared us well for the remote anchorages north of La Paz. They pointed out extra water stowed in the forward locker in case our tanks ran dry. They went over best practices for anchoring, and made sure we had handy color-coded information about the length of each mark on the 200-foot anchor chain. We also reviewed basic diesel maintenance, such as checking the strainers and oil levels.

Our plan was to keep longer sailing stints to a minimum. We figured we would make short hops between protected anchorages on the west side of Isla Espiritu Santo, a UNESCO World Natural Heritage Site and a national park 15 miles north of the marina. But then I stopped to chat with a captain on the docks. He recommended that we head farther north to islands along the Canal de San Jose, where he’d recently spotted five blue whales and hundreds of dolphins.

I pulled up my Windy and Navionics apps to calculate possibilities. We could tuck into the southernmost cove on Espiritu Santo that afternoon to wait out el norte, then take advantage of the next day’s calm to motor 25 miles to Isla San Francisco. It looked like we could ride the coattails of the next el norte back south at the end of the week. The new itinerary involved a lot more movement, but the crew gave an excited thumbs-up.

Before casting off dock lines, we gathered for a safety chat. I passed out Dramamine and instructed everyone to stay outside, in life jackets, to keep nausea to a minimum during our crossing to Espiritu Santo. With 25 knots of wind on the nose, we’d be ­slamming directly into the swells.

No one puked on the bouncy ride north, though everyone was relieved to reach the flat water inside Ensenada de la Dispensa’s cove. We shuttled crew to shore and taught the kids the “stingray shuffle”—dragging your feet through the shallows to scare away buried stingrays. The girls asked for ­piggyback rides after Kim shuffled into a crab that left a claw mark in her bare foot. We made a note to wear shoes on our next shore run. 

Once everyone was happily building sandcastles and combing for seashells, Rob and I donned wetsuits and braved the 66-degree water to snorkel. We anchored the dinghy beneath sheer pink cliffs and dived overboard. Enormous grouper darted into hollows, and schools of goatfish and sergeant majors carpeted the healthy coral.

By sunset, ours was the only boat left in the bay. We feasted on pasta and sipped tequila cocktails while the kids performed death-defying rope swings on the halyard. A Mobula ray jumped on the horizon, flipping twice as if to applaud the sherbet clouds streaking the sky. We cheered its performance. 

Everyone enjoyed smooth seas and ­desert sightseeing on the way north the next morning. Isla San Francisco’s rocky shores came into sight. So did a pod of dolphins. Our son and daughter sprinted forward to watch the bottlenose ride the bow wave, and drummed on the hull with their hands. Rob slowed the boat as I donned fins and a mask, and prepared to jump off the stern. 

“What’s going on?” Kim asked. 

“We’re kind of obsessed with dolphins,” I said. 

When Rob gave me the high sign, I dived overboard. Usually, my attempts to swim with dolphins are fruitless, but this time I was rewarded with glimpses of a few pairs swimming 20 feet below, as well as one ­curious bottlenose on the surface that came to check me out.

Just a few minutes after I climbed back aboard, we were ready to drop anchor. Ours was once again the only boat in a beautiful bay. After a lunch of ceviche, the kids collected agates on the beach while the grownups took turns hiking a loop over the rocky mountains to a lovely crescent beach on the opposite side of the island. 

The next morning, we circumnavigated Isla San Francisco to go whale-watching, stopping first at Isla Los Coyotes. This ­tiny rock, dotted with colorful homes, has a village of 15 people, the families of three brothers. We arrived just in time to buy a 20-pound yellowtail amberjack for $25 before the men took a boatload of fish to sell in La Paz. The kids bought necklaces and bracelets made in the village. Friendly ­locals pointed us toward a half-moon of ­guano-stained rocks nearby, ­recommending we snorkel there. We swam with ­parrotfish and triggerfish, and even coaxed the ­6-year-old girls into their masks to see the underwater wonders.

Just as we picked up the anchor, the wind started to build. Within minutes, it was gusting over 30 knots. Whitecaps formed in the bay, lowering the odds of us spotting whales from slim to none. Instead, we sailed to the protected side of Isla San Francisco and anchored beside a gorgeous crescent of white sand with a half-dozen other sailboats. We let out plenty of scope and backed down hard to set the anchor. Then we jumped into the water to swim through thousands of baitfish. Later that evening, the kids turned on the boat’s underwater blue lights and spent an hour casting into the cloud of fish swirling beneath our stern.

The next day dawned clear as a bell but even windier than the day before. We made good use of our layover day by exploring Isla San Francisco’s canyons and peaks. The boys scrambled over truck-size boulders and tucked into deep caves, then played stickball in the island’s low-lying salt flat. The girls enjoyed a dance party, pedicures and watercolors on the boat. We grilled more yellowtail for dinner because there’s no such thing as too many fish tacos.

The wind dropped into the low 20s by the following morning—perfect for a sporty downwind sail south to Isla Partida just north of Espiritu Santo. We practiced a few (very) controlled jibes and taught the crew how to hold a course while 5-foot swells pushed against the rudders. Our Fountaine Pajot cruised at a speedy 10 knots and ­handled like a dream. 

In the otherworldly green waters of Ensenada Cardonal, orange cliffs and a spit of mangroves surrounded us. We hiked to the windward side of Partida, where a few people snorkeled and others read or napped in the sun. The winds petered out by sunset, letting us stargaze from hammocks on the bow. In the morning, we took turns paddleboarding over the calm shallows. The kids spotted a fever of 50 Mobula rays gliding like birds through the gin-clear water, along with porcupinefish, jacks and two turtles.  

For our last night, we stayed at Ensenada Dispensa again. Everyone agreed that the solitude and scenery were worth the pain of a dawn departure back to the Dream Yacht base. The grownups finished the last bottle of wine while watching the kids’ wild rope swings. We snapped photos of their ­flying silhouettes against another ­spectacular sunset.

After dinner, I hosted an impromptu awards ceremony. Each member of the crew was given a luminous oyster shell to commemorate their sailing superpower: best provisioner, most improved snorkeler, best anchor mate, most valuable dishwasher.

Just before we entered the marina the following morning, Rob yelled, “Whale!” Everyone scampered up on deck, gasping in delight at a baby humpback’s spout a hundred yards off our bow. 

I put my arm around my husband. “Well, I’d say that curse is ancient history.”

“Agreed,” he said. “I’m back in love with Baja. But I’m still never touching a Chinese lantern again.”

Montana-based travel writer Brianna Randall is a frequent CW contributor. Follow her sailing adventures at briannarandall.com.

The post Sailing Baja: Second Chances in the Sea of Cortez appeared first on Cruising World.

Come to our canoe house, and we’ll have kapetalwa.

We’re being invited, but in Micronesia, kapetalwa can also be an expectation. It describes the ritual practiced by traditional voyagers upon landfall: to bring news of their voyages and gifts for goodwill to the island chief. 

Gifts in hand, my husband, Jamie, and I wiggle our toes in the sand in the shade of a palm-thatched, open-air canoe house. We reflect on the journey that brought us here.

Micronesia was distantly on our radar as the kind of region we’d like to explore. What little we knew seemed appealing: ­tropical islands, turquoise water, vibrant marine life, interesting culture and minimal tourism. Like most sailors traversing the Pacific, our first crossing was a route from the Americas to French Polynesia, and then west through the islands. Landfalls are entirely in the Southern Hemisphere. Micronesia, north of the equator, is a detour. But that detour had the rewards we’d dreamed about, even if getting there would involve intricate routing, weather complexity and resource scarcity.

Our path to Micronesia started in Mexico, where Jamie and I lingered for several years after completing a circumnavigation. A trifecta of the pandemic, eldercare and the launching of our boat-raised kids postponed offshore voyaging for a while. Sailing away from Baja in 2024 was the beginning of a new chapter. Our Stevens 47, Totem, felt nearly new after our refit. The makeup of our crew was new—just a couple of empty-nest cruisers instead of a family of five. Might as well carve a new path too. 

And Micronesia offered an additional appeal: We’d never been there before. As a family aboard, we had prioritized the company of other boats with kids. This time, we’re keen for more ­off-the-track cruising grounds.

One reason fewer cruisers reach the region could be that it’s hard to place geographically. Until Jamie and I developed concrete plans to sail there, Micronesia was a fuzzy shape on our mental map. It looks like a limp kidney bean in the western North Pacific, yet it includes the Commonwealth of the Northern Marianas, the Federated States of Micronesia, Guam, Kiribati, Nauru, Palau and the Republic of the Marshall Islands. This region has an east-west span of nearly 2,500 nautical miles, with millions of square miles of ocean to cruise.

There are two main reasons that cruisers route through Micronesia: to escape cyclone season in the South Pacific and to find a route back to North America via Japan. The region is dominated by easterly trade winds, favorable for sailing a mostly north-south route from Fiji to the Marshall Islands and back, or north and then west toward Japan.

For cyclone-season escapees, that means arriving in Micronesia near the end of the calendar year. For boats heading to North America, a good time to arrive in Japan and track north to the Aleutians is around March. Both scenarios let cruisers pass through Micronesia during the Northern Hemisphere’s winter, a period of moderate volatility as the Intertropical Convergence Zone creates squally conditions during its seasonal migration north. Although it’s not cyclone season, it also is not, in fact, the better time of year to be there.

Traditional navigators that we connected with in Micronesia said they recognize two primary seasons, each starting at an equinox. The favorable sailing season aligns with spring through fall in North America, encompassing hurricane season. It begins when they see the star Altair rise above the horizon near dawn. Systems do percolate here, but comparably few storms track through the islands. It is a time of generally gentler winds and seas, a much kinder time for outrigger canoes. And, unfortunately, it is the opposite timing for cruisers on those typical itineraries described.

Our route was neither of those two typical scenarios, coming west across the Pacific entirely in the Northern Hemisphere. Determined to take a different path through the Pacific than we had 15 years ago, Jamie and I arrived in Majuro, Marshall Islands, after spending the summer in Hawaii. Arriving at the eastern end of Micronesia sounded like a great way to ride easterly trade winds west through the islands. What we hadn’t counted on was how much of our time would be influenced by the Intertropical Convergence Zone.

Our late-September arrival meant that weather windows for moving between atolls were limited by volatility as the ITCZ rose and lingered. No wonder sailors heading north from Fiji during cyclone season tend to stay put in the archipelagoes. Cruising is possible, but squally conditions add risk and discomfort. In addition to volatile conditions, the currents that funnel near atolls can create steep, rough seas. The combination of these features, especially if wind and current are in opposition, can create dangerous conditions. Instead of ample opportunities to move about the archipelago, we found ourselves waiting weeks for weather to clear.

For boats returning south to Fiji at the end of the season, it’s an upwind battle to check out of the Marshall Islands from Majuro. We were glad to be continuing west instead, with clearance ­possible at the western atoll of Kwajalein. The ITCZ raised up its dragon breath again; we still waited several weeks for weather to continue west.

Visas offered in Micronesian countries are generous by most standards. For US nationals, there’s a distinct advantage: All countries but Kiribati are independent republics in special relationships with the United States, or are overseas territories of the United States. US nationals can stay indefinitely without visa requirements. Suddenly, the seasonal timing constraints are simplified for many cruisers: It’s easy to stay longer and enjoy stunning cruising grounds when conditions are best. 

Inside individual countries or territories, formalities can be more complicated. Much of the draw for Kiribati, the Marshall Islands and the Federated States of Micronesia is in visiting the outer atolls. Some are entirely uninhabited. Others have a settlement on just one or two islands, and then a string of islands that host birds and palms around the fringing reef.

In these remote atolls, beaches offer uninterrupted miles to ­explore, pristine coral reefs, thriving traditional island cultures—all of which you must obtain permission from the capital to visit. In the Marshall Islands, this is a formal process where the elected official and the hereditary chief must sign off on your application. A fee is levied, sometimes paid in Majuro and at other times paid upon arrival in the atolls. In the Federated States of Micronesia, the application to visit outer atolls is made at the capital for the state you’re in (there are four: Kosrae, Pohnpei, Chuuk and Yap) and are relatively informal. In some cases, there’s no form at all, just finding the right person to ask.

Navigating these atolls can complicate routing. In the Marshall Islands especially, sailors might need to beat into trade winds to reach a port where clearing out of the country is possible. There are nuances between countries and island groups. For some cruisers, this is a real deterrent.

We waited six weeks in Majuro while officials processed our applications, regularly visiting the ministry office, and we still did not have sign-offs for all the atolls we’d hoped to visit. We trimmed our plans based on permissions that we were able to acquire. 

Minimal tourism is a hallmark for many of our favorite ­places. Visit Micronesia, and you’ll be in some of the least-visited ­countries in the world. Want to have a beach all to yourself? Take your pick. 

Raw natural beauty aside, destinations with less tourism foster opportunities for connecting one-on-one with people. Encounters ashore are based on mutual interest instead of the transactional relationship that characterizes popular destinations. People are more likely to be curious here. Conversations have depth: about war history, about depopulation as islanders migrate in search of opportunities, or about the impacts of climate change for future generations. The world has plenty of beautiful places, but few come as unpretentiously as Micronesia or leave as lasting a mark on the memory.

The connection sneaks up on you, because the cultural ­differences, at first, are stark. Hereditary kings are considered to be gods. These king-chiefs are male, but the heredity lines are matrilineal. Society has a caste system, with chiefs, nobles and workers. It can be easy to miss, then hard to forget, once the slices of humanity become apparent.

The remote nature of the atoll also presents some practical challenges for basic needs. In Majuro, the capital of the Marshall Islands, we wanted to refill an empty propane tank. But upon visiting the depot (there’s only one), we learned that they were out of propane. A fresh supply was not expected for at least a couple of weeks. One cruiser in our company switched to butane canisters and purchased a cooktop to use them because the first island group in the next country apparently would not have propane either.

Provisioning was also trickier than anticipated. Food is flown in to the capitals, and then sent to outer atolls in a supply ship. The selection of shelf-stable goods, from rice to soy sauce, was better than expected, but the availability of fresh produce was extremely limited. One low point: staring at a bag of romaine lettuce, already rotting inside its plastic wrap, and contemplating paying $10 for the privilege of purchasing slimy greens. 

Medical care is basic too. Even in most of the capitals, patients with complex cases are usually flown to Hawaii for care. Life expectancy here is in the mid-60s, with 75 percent of Marshallese older than 50 suffering from diet-induced Type 2 diabetes, and no access to insulin unless they live in a capital.

While we were in the Marshall Islands, I was diagnosed with ­hypertension. Overnight, I went from being smug about my ­excellent health to having a prescription to take for the rest of my life. The care provided was good, but my new prescription could be sourced in only two of the 29 atolls.

Scarcity shapes daily life in many ways. Although remote ­islanders are well-adapted to subsistence fishing and farming of coconut, bananas, seasonal breadfruit and taro, they rely on the supply ship for rice and meat—and the supply ship might come through only every few months.

Totem became a floating Santa’s sleigh for these people, arriving on December 23 laden with around 1,000 pounds of cargo. Our load was mainly frozen meat in a refrigerator case strapped to our aft deck, plus around 400 pounds of rice and another 200 pounds of flour, in bags stashed belowdecks. It was deeply gratifying to help meet local needs and then enjoy the meals with them during a community feast for Christmas.

For all the scarcity, there is wealth of another kind. In Micronesia, despite centuries of colonial influence from faraway countries, traditional practices and knowledge are proudly retained. It was from here that, in the 1970s, the Polynesian Voyaging Society in Hawaii found navigators skilled in the art that they had long since lost. Bringing them to Hawaii was key to the successful launch of the Hōkūle’a voyaging canoe and fueling a resurgence of native pride. We met islanders who had left small atolls for education and employment but then returned to choose the traditional existence. One islander related leaving his home country for training and working as a tour guide. It left him wanting, and he returned instead to swing a hammock on an atoll, forage from the island and sea, and cook on a coconut-­husk fire.

Near our anchorage in Guam’s Apra harbor, there’s a canoe house that the ­outrigger carved, at Lamotrek. Bringing supplies for the canoe engendered a welcome with tones of a homecoming from our newfound family, our brothers of the sea. They invited us for kapetalwa, and I offer it here for you—the news from our voyage through Micronesia.

Know Before You Go

Currency: US dollar (with the exception of Nauru and Kiribati, which use the Australian dollar). Language: English is the official language, or one of two official languages. Guides: Pacific Crossing Guide, published by Adlard Coles, covers Micronesia. The website Noforeignland is increasingly populated with useful waypoints. There are WhatsApp groups for each country. Clearance fees: They’re inconsistent but nominal, each less than $100, with the exception of Palau. There are additional fees for outer atolls.

A Complicated History 

Austronesian seafarers settled Micronesia beginning around the second millennia B.C.E. The modern history is more convoluted. Colonial interest began with Spain, including Ferdinand Magellan’s arrivals in 1521. Missionaries followed. In the 19th century, Germany expanded in the region, seeking copra exports. In the aftermath of World War I, Germany lost its authority. Japan stepped in, setting the stage for the Pacific theater in World War II. At the end of that war, all of what today is Micronesia, except Kiribati, shifted to be administered by the United States as a trust territory. Independence followed for Palau, the Federated States of Micronesia and the Marshall Islands. Guam and the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands remain US holdings.

The legacy of World War II is plain to see. Many of the islands we visited had crumbling battlements, the rusty hulks of gun fortifications, broken remains of tanks and airplanes, and other detritus from the war. For some visitors, it’s a draw. The array of famous underwater wrecks is especially attractive for divers. There’s the USS Saratoga aircraft carrier in Bikini Atoll, as well as more than 60 ships at the bottom of Chuuk Lagoon.

One heartbreaking inheritance is the history of nuclear testing in the region. Beginning in the 1940s and extending into the 1950s, 67 nuclear tests were conducted here, to devastating effects. Atolls are uninhabited ­because the United States made them toxic, and populations were forcibly removed. Other islands are overcrowded to slum-level circumstances because they are crammed with the dispossessed.

One islander related to us how his home atoll was first carpeted with bombs during World War II, and then taken over by the US military to create a relaxation spot for American troops. Warships lined the harbor. Those who called it home were forced out.

These stories are told as simple facts. As a visitor, I felt like it was an opportunity to learn the painful parts of this history, to grow our empathy and understanding for people there today, and to remember why war is never the answer.

The post <i>Kapetalwa</i>: A Cruiser’s Journey Through the Blue Frontier appeared first on Cruising World.

Pushy islanders circling the boat in their canoes. Drunken rascals harassing or assaulting crews. The constant threat of being attacked by saltwater crocodiles. Reading reports about Papua New Guinea, we weren’t sure if it was a wise idea to even dare a brief stopover.

But Papua New Guinea does have the advantage that it lies outside the cyclone belt (at least the northern part). So, we went, but we kept to a route far from the main islands. In the remote little islands, we found beautiful nature and hospitable people wherever we stopped.

While occupying only 1 percent of the world’s landmass, Papua New Guinea has an incredible 7 percent of Earth’s biodiversity. It is the world’s third-largest island country and the most populous among Pacific island nations—even though nobody’s quite certain how many people really live there. Calculations vary from 12 million to 17 million inhabitants. It is culturally diverse too, with traditional customs and lifestyles still practiced in remote areas. More than 800 languages are spoken, and the English-based Tok Pisin gives them—and us—a common means of communication.

To really experience the country, it is necessary to travel inland and up into the mountainous interior. In 2005, we did just that, taking a series of trucks up the one and only “highland’s highway.” It’s a dirt road, really, with lots of tire-­repair stations along the way. As locals would, we traveled into the rainforest, past mining camps, and through towns that were quite basic. Everywhere we went, we received a friendly welcome—sometimes from people with rotten teeth that were bright red from spitting the juice of betel nuts, which can be a bit unsettling at first. 

We vowed to return, but it took us 20 years. Cruising through Papua New Guinea is a different experience. Even the oldest, most basically equipped sailboat is luxurious compared with some dwellings here, which can attract the wrong kind of attention. 

We came up from Vanuatu and continued to Kavieng at the northern tip of New Ireland, a pleasant little town with a great vegetable market and surprisingly well-stocked ­supermarkets. Stalled in place by a lack of wind, we explored the many islands around the tip of New Ireland and around New Hanover; went up to the Saint Matthias group; island-hopped back to the Solomons via Tabar, Lihir and the Tanga group; and sailed on to Nuguria and the Mortlock group far out to the east. We then did another round of the most remote ­islands and atolls.

Due to reports of crime we’d heard from other cruising boats in the area, we’d installed ­metal bars across all of our boat’s hatches so that we could leave them safely open at night. We’d also mounted motion sensors to activate our lights if anybody tried to board our boat ­uninvited. We stowed everything that couldn’t be locked belowdecks, to avoid attracting thieves.

Because of all the reports, we went on high alert the day we anchored next to a reef with no land in sight and, suddenly, saw an open boat full of men approaching us at high speed. As it turned out, they slowed down, waved, and stopped to offer us some fish they’d had just caught. For free. Ashamed of our paranoia, we sheepishly looked for something to give them as a thank-you.

We’d also read that it’s crucial to visit the chief of each island right after anchoring to bring presents, ask for permission to stay, and be under his protection. On many of the little islands, we were directed to the “chairmen” (like mayors) for informal welcomes, with neither anchoring fees nor presents expected. We brought small gifts anyway. 

Wherever we anchored, we soon had canoes paddling ­toward us: curious kids or adults coming to trade. The first day was usually the busiest, with everyone eager to meet the strangers and check out their weird floating home. We sometimes had a fleet of 10 canoes circling us and couldn’t get any work (or rest) done, as we felt obliged to give one group after the other a tour of the boat.

The trick is to stay longer in a place. Once the excitement has worn off, visitors are occasional. On most islands, we were told that we were the first boat to call in 10 or even 15 years. It’s a shame, really, because the islanders would be happy to have more visitors, tell stories and barter, especially where supply ships have stopped calling altogether. They need clothes, school supplies, sunglasses, reading glasses, staples such as rice, sugar and instant noodles, and household equipment including frying pans and towels. Spinnaker material for the sailing canoes is a perfect gift, but please don’t encourage spearfishing along the reefs by giving away snorkeling gear—the damaged reefs ­desperately need herbivores such as ­parrotfish and surgeonfish to keep algae at bay. It’s better to give out hooks and lines, which target less-vital species.

After watching coral bleach and die during previous summers in French Polynesia and Fiji, we didn’t expect healthy reefs in Papua New Guinea due to its closer proximity to the equator, so we were surprised to find super-resilient corals. We had also expected the northwest monsoon, which is supposed to bring strong winds and rain, to set in during December, but it didn’t arrive at all (and locals told us it had skipped the previous years as well). We enjoyed the hot, calm weather, but it sadly resulted in a serious bleaching event. The lack of wind also meant that we had a hard time making our way back southeast, but we managed, eventually, with lots of patience and light-wind sailing.

Around towns and densely populated areas, many reefs are hopelessly overfished, but in remote areas, the traditional subsistence fishing is sustainable. Many communities have created marine protected areas, which are breeding grounds for many species that will—hopefully—populate neighboring reefs, and the fishermen profit from the overflow around the no-fishing zones. We tried to encourage such projects by doing reef checks together with the locals, including schoolchildren. You can too: When you anchor off an island, ask whether the village has an MPA. Then, respect the no-fishing policy and ask whether you’re allowed to snorkel. Bring locals with you to hang out with big fish. Make sure to leave a donation to encourage people to continue their efforts.

While you’re down there, you’ll likely see the anemones that come in an astounding variety of colors and shapes, with clownfish in various patterns. We were surprised to find many reefs teeming with turtles, giant clams and lobsters. Apparently, many islanders converted to Seventh Day Adventism, and their religion forbids them to eat such animals. We were also happy to encounter big groups of manta rays, dolphins, and even dugongs in the lagoons.

Since the export of saltwater crocodile products was banned in 1980, the number of these dangerous reptiles has steadily increased. Incidents are on the rise: swimming children, women doing their laundry in the river, dogs roaming the village at night—nobody is safe when the crocs go hunting. Our first anxious question in each anchorage was whether there were saltwater crocodiles: Igat pukpuk? We made sure to ask several reliable-looking people before we dared to venture into the water. Meeting a hungry croc face-to-face was definitely not on our to-do list.

In the island maze off Kavieng, people assured us that the outlying islands without mangroves were perfectly safe for snorkeling. On more-­remote islands, the people just shook their heads and laughed. They had never seen one themselves. 

So, that’s another good reason to stay away from the mainland. During a hot, equatorial summer, having to stay out of the water would be unpleasant, but of course, not nearly as unpleasant as ending up as a saltie’s dinner.

Birgit and Christian Hackl have been cruising aboard their S&S 41, Pitufa, since 2011. Visit pitufa.at for pictures and information, and check out their books: Sailing Towards the Horizon, Cruising Know-How and On Velvet Paws Towards the Horizon, an homage to their ship’s cat.

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Safe Harbor Marinas, the world’s largest owner and operator of marinas, has added a new jewel to its Caribbean crown: the renowned Christophe Harbour Marina on the island of St. Kitts.

The move marks a strategic expansion for Safe Harbor into one of the Eastern Caribbean’s most sought-after yachting regions. With naturally protected waters, top-tier superyacht infrastructure, and the capacity to host vessels up to 115 meters, the facility is poised to become a premier waypoint for yachts cruising between hotspots like St. Barths, Nevis, and Antigua.

“We’re extremely pleased to be able to serve the global fleet in this important region with an offering of such high quality,” said Baxter Underwood, CEO of Safe Harbor Marinas.

Positioned just 30 nautical miles from St. Barths and a short hop from Nevis, Christophe Harbour’s deep-water basin and refined amenities offer a smart, central hub for yachts exploring the Leeward Islands. Designed with captains and crew in mind, the marina combines convenience, luxury, and technical support in equal measure.

“We are excited to offer our captains and crew another location that provides the amenities and service they have come to expect at our facilities,” added Christian Denhard, Senior Vice President at Safe Harbor. “Now in the heart of the Caribbean, we can’t wait to see the fleet in St. Kitts.”

The new location joins Safe Harbor Puerto Del Rey—the largest marina in the Caribbean—and Safe Harbor San Juan, bringing the company’s regional slip total to more than 1,000. For cruising sailors and superyachts alike, Safe Harbor’s growing footprint underscores the company’s commitment to delivering world-class experiences in the world’s most iconic cruising grounds.

Learn more at shmarinas.com.

The post Safe Harbor Acquires Christophe Harbour Marina in St. Kitts appeared first on Cruising World.