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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ceremony of Welcome

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons from Land

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

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

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

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

A Feast Under the Stars

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

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

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

The Climb

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

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

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

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

What We Left Behind

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

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

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

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

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

It was a Thursday night in July at the Fifth Ward Bar in the tidy Irish seaport of Kinsale, and the joint was hopping. The day before, aboard the Swan 68 Aphrodite, we’d sailed past the lighthouse and golf course on Old Head of Kinsale, swung a left in the winding channel just before the regal Charles Fort, and eased alongside a dock at the Kinsale Yacht Club in the protected harbor. That evening, the band was playing a raucous set of Irish rock interspersed with tunes that included, of all things, John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” No matter: I sipped my Jameson’s and sang right along with the rest of the crowd.

Kinsale was a great place to conclude a transatlantic voyage, but it was especially appropriate for this trip, which had commenced from Newport, Rhode Island, some 16 days before. That’s because Newport and Kinsale have been “sister cities” since formally “twinning up” in 1999. And the Fifth Ward Bar, adjacent to the White House Restaurant, was a perfect place to slake one’s thirst. This bar was established in 2018, named after a Newport neighborhood that’s been an Irish-American enclave since the mid-1800s, when many an Irish family immigrated to the States and became local fixtures, firemen and tradesmen who built the famed Bellevue Avenue mansions. Since the bar opened for business, many a Newporter has paid a pilgrimage, signed the guestbook and perhaps left souvenirs, including the Rhode Island “Ocean State” license plates hanging on the walls.

Kinsale is a fraction of the size of Newport, but the sisters share a similar vibe. Both are resort towns situated on a historic waterfront that attracts plenty of tourists and day-trippers. History runs deep in each locale, both of which are guarded by a stout fort (Fort Adams in Newport) at the mouth of their harbors. Kinsale is probably better known than Newport for its excellent restaurants and gourmet food festivals, but it’s easy to find a drink in both places. 

The maritime link may be the strongest. Like Newport, Kinsale is a sailor’s town. The bustling Kinsale Yacht Club couldn’t have been more welcoming or hospitable. The restaurant serves tasty food, and the bar has a dozen beers on tap. I couldn’t resist that first Guinness (though I was admonished for failing to order a Murphy’s or Beamish, as I was in County Cork). The showers are excellent, and there’s a handy side room with a washer and dryer. And there’s plenty of sailing going on, with the parking lot out front teeming with junior sailors rigging up their dinghies every morning, and big-boat racing underway on some weeknights. The yacht-club marina is filled with well-kept production cruising boats, mostly in the 30- to 40-foot range, and a few salty classics. One thing the club is not, and the same can be said of Kinsale proper, is ostentatious (alas, the same can’t be said of pockets of Newport). It’s wholesome, in the best ways imaginable. 

Calling on Kinsale had been on my bucket list. My Newport firefighter cousin and his mates come often, and raved about it. Just a year ago, I sailed right past it on the nonstop Round Ireland Race, and vowed to make a visit sometime soon. When I was offered a slot last winter to sail there on Aphrodite, it was like a dream come true. And it totally exceeded my expectations.

After all, I’ve got some Irish history of my own. My ancestors, Roger and Bridget McCormick, departed the Emerald Isle from County Roscommon in the mid-1800s and traveled by sea to Newport, becoming the first in a long line of McCormicks to take up residence in the so-called “City by the Sea.” Nearly two centuries later, it seemed pretty fitting to travel back across the same waters they’d negotiated. And while it may sound a bit sappy, it must be said: Sailing to Ireland sort of felt like sailing home.

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

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I  Books and Dreams

The bars in Seattle were busy. Heading out for a drink with friends. Took a detour for a smoke. The gates of a cemetery slammed shut. A cop strolled past, asked what was up. Suddenly walking along the sidewalk of a small-town neighborhood. Christmas lights. Snowing. The street turned into a river. A happy kid floated past. Looked like fun. I jumped in.

Which is when I woke up.

Five days earlier, with seven crewmates, I had set sail from Newport, Rhode Island, bound for Kinsale, Ireland, aboard a rock-solid, Germán Frers-designed Swan 68 called Aphrodite, on which I was now snugly wedged into an aft bunk. At sea, in moments like this, crazy, colorful, lifelike dreams often pay me a visit. But as I slowly regained my wits, I understood that reality was much more vivid.

We were certainly enjoying a solid (if lumpy) ride. Aphrodite was a husky, surefooted, well-traveled Swan built in 1993 and owned by former Cruising Club of America Commodore Chris Otorowski and his wife, Shawn. This transatlantic jaunt was essentially a delivery trip. After a quick layover in Kinsale, we’d be bound for the shores of Scotland, site of this year’s annual CCA cruise, where the couple would come aboard. Engine woes had delayed our departure, and it had been a bumpy, upwind start to the proceedings. Happily, Aphrodite was now settling into a nice groove, and we were stacking ocean miles with pace. 

However, that was only a piece of the story. The crew was also getting into a smooth rhythm. And quite the crew it was. 

As the ostensible “first mate,” I was swapping six-hour watches with Capt. Murray Jacob, a seaman I’d heard much about but never sailed with before. We were the senior members of this team: I was pushing 70, and Murray 80. Kids no more. But neither was the rest of the group—paired up and rotating through a three-hour-on, three-off watch schedule—several of whom were retirees with varying levels of sailing experience, though a few had already crossed oceans with the skipper on previous voyages.

Aphrodite might’ve been better named AARP.

As the voyage continued, I burned through the two books I’d brought with me, and scoured the yacht’s bookshelf for another. And there was Ernest Hemingway’s all-time classic The Sun Also Rises, which I last tackled in college in a previous century. It’s still great, and I started thinking in short bursts, like Hemingway writes: The coffee was hot, sweet and good. The ocean thick, cold and daunting. And so on.

One of my shipmates took note, and said it was too bad The Old Man and the Sea wasn’t on board. I had to chuckle. In that moment, I didn’t need to read that one again. We old men were literally living that book. 

II Old Timers

Apart from the captain and myself, Aphrodite ’s six other crewmen had lived full, varied lives of families and careers. But they all shared some common bonds. Each was a member of Offshore Passage Opportunities, the crew-networking service founded by Hank Schmitt, and they’d each paid a not-inconsiderable fee for their berth on the voyage. This transatlantic adventure was something special they were doing for themselves. A group of sincerely good dudes, they were committed to making the passage a success. And to picking up a few tricks along the way.

A native of Poland, Andrew Biernat was now living in Texas and was the proud owner of a Catalina 30. Christ Economos was also a boat owner who kept his Jeanneau 440 in Annapolis, Maryland; from a Greek family of restaurateurs, he quickly became a welcome fixture in the galley, whipping up glorious meals. Canadian Phil Dennis owned an engineering company in his native Nova Scotia and was an inshore racing sailor acting on a longtime dream of sailing across the Atlantic. 

The other trio were OPO vets who’d logged plenty of offshore miles. Bill Carpenter sailed his Newport 27 in Northern California and already had a transatlantic behind him. So, too, did Brad Nurkin, now happily kicking back on the Florida coast after a career in hospital administration. But Marc Sherman had them both beat: After graduating from the US Naval Academy and serving aboard submarines before pivoting to hedge-fund management, he’d already crossed the Atlantic five times.

As I got to know these veteran ocean-crossers, a common denominator emerged. Clearly, these repeat transoceanic customers were lured back by the same no-nonsense attraction, with whom they’d all previously gone to sea: Capt. Murray. 

Oh, man. Where to begin?

With a trim white beard, a stocky build and a gait like Popeye’s, the skipper had the appearance of a master seaman straight from central casting for a Hollywood pirate flick. He was raised on a farm on the southern Aussie state of Victoria, where hard work and mechanical know-how were lifelong attributes instilled at an early age. A library’s worth of reading had forged a keen intellect that trumped the lack of a formal education. He built a national transport business hauling freight on tractor-trailers all over the continent. His love of fishing segued into offshore sailing, much of it in the challenging waters along the rugged coast of Oz and remote, gorgeous Tasmania. Among his early exploits was the ridiculous Melbourne-Osaka Race, a double-handed 5,500-nautical-mile odyssey from Australia to Japan on a 36-footer that just whet his appetite for more. Much more.

At 50, he left his trucks and the road behind once and for all, launching a new career as a delivery skipper. Around the turn of the century, he delivered a Tayana 55 into Newport, which became his base of operations. Altogether, he’s put more than 300,000 sea miles behind him, a couple of hundred grand of which were exclusively aboard Swans. His mastery of complex systems and machinery—not to mention his precise seamanship and affable Aussie demeanor—were highly sought after.

Sailing with him, as I was learning, means being assailed with a nearly nonstop monologue on a wide variety of topics, which I jotted down in my notebook under the heading “The Tao of Murray.” 

On charging into life: “Bite off more than you can chew. And chew a lot.” 

On a thrifty friend: “He’s tighter than a fish’s ass, and they’re watertight.”

On confirming facts: “If you want a second opinion, ask me again.”

On nautical acumen: “If you don’t know the basics, you’re as handy as an ashtray on a motorbike.”

On stating the obvious: “Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?”

In any event, aboard Aphrodite,Capt. Murray’s command was unquestioned, our faith in his judgment unwavering. If he posed the figurative order to “Jump!” at any particular task, the crew’s collective response was always the same: “How high?”

III  All at Sea

The word “heinous” does not appear even once in The Sun Also Rises—it’s a bit ritzy for Hemingway’s prose—but it’s an apt description of the first 48 hours following our departure from Newport. There are many places in the world I’d have liked to have been, and Aphrodite was not one of them.

The problem was the cold northeasterly coursing in, of course, from the general direction of our ultimate destination. When we set out on June 15, thanks to addressing a balky heat exchanger and head gasket, we were roughly five days behind the trip’s original itinerary. Later, the skipper acknowledged that under ordinary circumstances we’d have patiently sat tight and waited for more favorable conditions. Instead, we sheeted everything home and set out. Pleasant, it was not. 

We spent a long night pounding upwind on port tack heading south, clawing our way off the coast; it would’ve been a fine first night on a Newport Bermuda Race, which this unfortunately wasn’t. My notebook entry for 0530 the next morning: “Close-hauled all night. Slate-gray sea and sky. No stars. No sunrise. No joy.” A few hours later, we flopped onto starboard. The Navionics course line had us pointing into the Gulf of Maine and distressingly close to Cape Cod, Massachusetts. It occurred to me that I could’ve avoided some misery by staying overnight in a Hyannis hotel and swimming out to the boat as it passed by. 

As it almost always does, however, the breeze eventually shifted … and to a much more favorable angle. A southerly flow spinning off a ridge of North Atlantic high pressure was locked in, and so was Aphrodite, trucking along at roughly 9 knots as sweetly as could be. By day six, we’d shortened down to the second reef as the wind rose into the high teens and veered from southeast to southwest, and life on starboard tack firmly settled in. We were receiving consistently excellent forecasts every few days from Commanders’ Weather that had us trucking along on Highway 42—the 42nd parallel—to avoid persistent fog and a nasty low off Newfoundland to our north. It finally felt like we were getting somewhere.

We threw in our first jibe on day 10, just before a figurative and literal change in the weather. A front pushing ahead of the remnants of a brief tropical disturbance called Andrea would soon be upon us, along with the strongest winds of the passage, upward of 30 knots. With that, Murray had us strike the main altogether, so we could run before the breeze on a deep downwind angle under jib alone. “You sail the boat according to your crew,” he told me. “You don’t want to do anything to put yourself or them into trouble.” It was the smart call and the correct one. For the next three days, Aphrodite creamed forth in the staunch southerly, sometimes at 10 or 11 knots, always under control. We were absolutely hauling the mail. Riders on the storm. 

IV  Landfall

Yet in sailing, as in life, nothing lasts forever. Aphrodite began the passage in a cold northerly, so it was perhaps fitting that it concluded in one as well. Phil, Marc and I were on watch when the wind abruptly spun from south to north, a shift of nearly 120 degrees, in about the time it took to write this sentence. Chaos briefly ensued, but after we jibed and the drama ceased, it was all good and well worth the frantic effort. Once we’d settled back in, we were on the final lay line to Ireland. 

Murray set a waypoint off Fastnet Rock, just so we could get a glimpse of the iconic lighthouse, even if it would be in the dark. On our approach, however, the AIS targets on the plotter began to light up, and the boats had names that I recognized from the last Vendée Globe race. We were arriving at the same time as the big IMOCA 60s that were rounding the Fastnet in the Solo Round the Rock Race. Converging with a posse of French single-handed sailors on questionable sleep seemed imprudent. We bore off for Kinsale.

The actual landfall was special, with the sun spectacularly rising over the low profile of the Emerald Isle. We’d been at sea almost exactly 16 and a half days, sailing nearly 3,600 nautical miles to attain the rhumb-line distance of 2,900 miles, with a slew of 200-milers thrown in. The sight of it all—and the accomplishment, too—was almost poetic in its beauty. It damn near led me to tears. 

Hours later, tied up at the Kinsale Yacht Club, the 12-pack of Narragansett lager that had been chilled down for the occasion was busted out, and Aphrodite was a dry ship no longer. (I considered these “practice beers”; the “game beers” would be enjoyed later in Kinsale’s pubs.) As we gathered around in the cockpit, still at last, Murray asked each crewmember to share something we’d learned along the way. And everyone did. 

Andrew hadn’t said a whole lot during the trip, but he was downright eloquent at its conclusion. “Everyone is equal on a boat,” he said. “It’s not that way sometimes in life. But on a boat, it is. I love that.”

Phil (the sole member of the crew who didn’t qualify as an oldie) had been an excellent shipmate, a thoughtful, smart dude who’d clearly enjoyed the entire process. Unsurprisingly, his comments were insightful: “When I was driving, steering by compass, I realized you just needed to make small adjustments, not to oversteer. Like life. Steering is like life. You make small adjustments and you’ll get where you want to go.”

Then it was Murray’s turn. Over the course of the journey, he’d dealt with several issues, including a blocked bilge pump and clogged fuel lines, the latter a recurring issue from a bad batch of fuel in the Azores a year earlier. Indeed, one of the lasting images I’ll have of the trip is the captain splayed out on all fours with a headlamp on and the floorboards off. I started to wonder if “Murray” was Australian for “MacGyver.” But he didn’t mention any of that. 

“This is something like my 25th transatlantic voyage,” he said. “And this was one of the best sails ever. You all came together and did an excellent job. What I learned is something I already knew. I’m under a lot of pressure at times to come ashore and be at home, be with the grandkids. But I love my job. Sailing still excites me. It’s given me the opportunity to go all over the world. I still love the sailing.”

If ever there was a sailor to aspire to, in both years and wisdom, it would be Murray Jacob. Someone should write a book about the salty old dog. Honestly, though, it would take a Hemingway to do it justice. 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

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Gearing Up

On my voyage across the Atlantic, I had the opportunity to test some excellent gear in offshore conditions. I highly recommend all of it (full disclosure: the items were provided by the manufacturers).

Imelda Marcos’ fetish was shoes; mine is sunglasses. I’m extremely sensitive to light, and I spend an inordinate amount of time on the water, so good, polarized shades are paramount. The Greenland pair from Bajío Sunglasses is available in three frame colors and 14 lens options (mine were matte gray frames and gray lenses). The optics are terrific. Best of all was the generous sizing, which fit my wide mug perfectly.

My feet are also problematic, and I’ve always had a hard time finding comfortable sea boots. No longer. The slip-on Rogue Wave boots from Huk are extremely grippy, easy to pull on, and oh so comfy. Huk’s Grip-X Slice soles provide a lot of traction and sure-footedness on wet decks, and a breathable mesh liner keeps the tootsies warm and dry. Huk is primarily a fishing brand, and the Rogue Waves fit just above the ankle, not up the calf like my previous boots. I like the low fit a lot better. Why do sea boots come up to your knee?

Last, I’ve been a big fan of Helly Hansen for decades and have happily worn its gear around Cape Horn and through the Northwest Passage. For this trip, I had two HH garments: the Pier 4.0 jacket and the HP Hybrid Stretch Insulator, the latter of which is my favorite new bit of kit. The insulated shell and fleece lining are cozy, and the water-repellent treatment beats back the spray. It’s an excellent midlayer at sea, and doubles up as a good-looking jacket when it’s pub time. —HM

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