Sahula is kicking up her heels. Driven by a fresh westerly breeze, she eagerly surges through the cresting seas. With the yankee and staysail well eased, and two reefs in the mainsail, the speedometer shows 7.5 knots with frequent surges to 8. Occasional spray flies across the foredeck, turned to sparkling diamonds by the morning sun.

It is not often you get a 25-knot offshore breeze along Australia’s north Queensland coast. Normally the trade winds blow from the southeast, which means there can be up to a hundred miles of fetch to build up a sea. Combined with tidal currents that are often strong, the fresh southeast trade wind seas can be quite boisterous.

But today, with this offshore wind, the limited fetch between us and shore means easy sailing. There is one small downside to this: A line of large hills lies just a few miles inshore of us. The steep-sided valleys and ridges channel the wind, so it is not from a steady direction. Instead of putting the windvane in charge, one of us has to take the helm.

Ever since we lifted our anchor, my partner, David, has been steering. For three hours, he has been seated in his favorite position on the windward coaming, gently easing the wheel a few inches one way or the other to keep the 40-foot Van de Stadt cutter Sahula perfectly on course. He is grinning from ear to ear as he feels Sahula power through another gust. I am nestled happily onto the leeward cockpit bench, savoring every minute of this rare treat.

The miles tick off as the looming cliffs of Cape Cleveland grow ever closer. We only have 40 miles to go to reach today’s goal. We’ve got a fine wind, a good boat.

Only once did I move from where I have been comfortably watching the bow wave hissing by. That was when, halfway across the Bowling Green bight, I climbed below and boiled water for mid-morning tea. I cut two slices of David’s favorite fruitcake. As this fine morning flowed easily by, I was reminded of my first offshore sailing experience, one that my husband, Larry, carefully engineered exactly six decades ago.

On that early November evening, a warm, caressing offshore breeze soothed the ever-present northwest swells off the coast of Morro Bay in Southern California. The sweep of gaff sails outlined against sparkling skies competed for my attention with the green glow of bioluminescence in our wake.

Larry urged me to try my hand at the wheel. This was the first time I’d been more than 20 miles from shore. Agamemnon, a 36-foot Murray Peterson schooner, beam-reached along, creaming through the seas as only a schooner can, her blocks creaking, her bowsprit trying to kiss the waves.

At that time, Larry was working as a professional charter and delivery skipper while building his first cruising boat. We had known each other for six months. We’d spent more than five of those months living together. I’d been asking him to take me along when he delivered boats. Until this night, Larry had made excuses, limiting my sailing experiences to afternoons on various friends’ boats, or in the 7-foot sailing dinghy he’d helped me acquire as we worked together to build Seraffyn.

While we shared the midnight watch on board Agamemnon, Larry began showing me the finer points of steering with a wheel. Guided by him, I fought to keep my eyes on a star instead of constantly staring at the swinging compass card. When, only a short time later, I began to anticipate the schooner’s needs so I only had to make fine adjustments on the wheel, I began to wax poetical about the moment. Larry put his arm around me and said, “An old friend told me, you’ll go out 10 times and then it happens—a perfect sail—and you’ll keep going out nine times more to recapture that magic.”

It was a half dozen years and halfway around the world before I learned how carefully Larry had planned my introduction to his world.

We had just sailed into Poole, a town on the southern coast of England, and secured the boat at the quay. The main street in this small town runs right along the quay, so we’d become a bit  of a local attraction. A young man came by and struck up a conversation. Larry invited him on board, and soon, our visitor said, “I’m dead keen on going off to the Med. Wife’s willing to give it a try. It’s a long weekend and we’re headed out tomorrow for a test run across the channel to France. The forecast is pretty bleak—Force 5 or 6 headwinds.”

“I’d can that idea,” Larry said. “That’s how I ruined sailing for my first girlfriend. Got her wet, scared. Why don’t you just reach over to Cowes? Take your wife out somewhere special for dinner, spend a day exploring Cowes, then the next day, reach back home. Try to make it a fun holiday. That’s how I eased Lin into this life.”

I listened as Larry described not only my first overnighter on board Agamemnon, but also the other small ruses he used to lure me into his dream and keep me there until it metamorphosed into mine. The local sailor listened, too. He changed his weekend plans.

His wife came by a few days later. Her eyes twinkled as she told us of their “grand adventure” up the Solent to Cowes, a prelude to what became several years of successful cruising.

Today, as Sahula rushes northward toward Townsville, I realize that Larry was right. For every day like this one, many will be far more challenging, and some downright uncomfortable and difficult. Right now, we are enjoying dream sailing, but in the back of my mind is the awareness that in two or three months, when cyclones become a real threat, we will have to beat south away from the tropics. Then, there are bound to be days when I wonder why I willingly go to sea in small sailboats.

But at this moment, a moment of sailing perfection, I silently thank the man who eased me into what became a sailing addiction.  Then I turn to David and say, “My turn on the wheel. You need a break.”

He reluctantly changes places with me. I settle in behind the wheel and gradually begin to feel the rhythm that keeps Sahula moving at top speed.

Yes, this is a 1-in-10 day. And it is more than enough to keep me coming back for more.

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

The post A 1-in-10 Sailing Day: When Wind, Sea and Sun Align Offshore appeared first on Cruising World.

Ready to tack,” Chris said, nodding to our nephew Truman, who sat cross-legged in front of me, his eyes wide with anticipation.

At just 10 years old, Truman was now the same age Chris had been when he started racing in the High Sierra Regatta with his father. I was witnessing the proverbial tiller pass from one generation to the next as Truman scrambled into the cabin of our Victory 21, Geronimo. Moments later, with the maneuver complete, he popped back up like a seasoned crewman and found his place on the rail, just as Chris had instructed him. The transition was almost second nature.

“He’s good blood ballast,” I quipped, chuckling as our sensitive little boat responded favorably to the added 80 or so pounds. Every bit of weight and inch of adjustment makes a noticeable difference, as the elders of our fleet have been telling us for years.

This race was special for many reasons. Chris and I have been sailing together for 10 years, but this was our first regatta with a third crewmember. Let’s just say that in years past, the way we conducted ourselves was not exactly conducive to having little ears aboard. This year, though, something had changed. Maybe we were still riding the high of our second-place finish aboard Avocet in the Banderas Bay Regatta in Mexico, or maybe we were ready for a new chapter. Either way, we were thrilled to have Tru on the water with us—and after two solid fourth-place finishes, we were certain it wouldn’t be our last regatta as a crew.

After our final race (which ended in a photo finish), Chris handed over skipper responsibilities to Truman, who navigated us back to the marina. Watching him, you could see the subtle shifts in his focus—the way his small hands guided the tiller with growing confidence, his eyes locked on the telltales as he read the wind’s subtle shifts. His voice, though young, rang out with the command we’d taught him—“ready about”—both timid and confident in equal measure.

Chris and I were in awe of his raw talent, but there was no real surprise that he was a natural. After all, he has Neely blood in him. It’s about 80 percent salt water and 20 percent  wanderlust. Chris spent his formative years sailing with his family on Sea Castle, a Mason 43, navigating San Francisco Bay. His older brother Jon later bought his own bluewater cruiser, the Hans Christian 33 Prism. Sailing was more than a pastime—it was a family tradition, a bond forged through wind and waves.

Back in 2021, when Chris and I cast off for cruising adventures on Avocet, our Cheoy Lee 41, we promised ourselves that summers would always be spent back home, anchored in family. Part of that promise meant making lasting memories with our nephews before they grew up. During those sun-soaked summers, we noticed Truman’s natural affinity for sailing. His comfort with the elements came so easily that Chris and I offered to foster that talent.

After securing approval from Truman’s parents, we set out to find a boat that he and his brothers could call their own. Something small but capable where the boys could learn and grow as sailors. Our search led us to an International 14—a classic choice.

I’ll never forget the sheer excitement in Truman’s eyes on Christmas morning when we unveiled it. The boys christened it with a splash of soda on the bow and the name Bluey on the stern. Since then, the whole family has enjoyed countless sails on California’s Huntington Lake. Truman’s love for sailing has only grown, fueled in part by his time at Gold Arrow Camp, which holds its own legacy of sailing on those same waters.

I often look at old photos of Chris at that same camp, stretched out on a Sunfish with the unmistakable Neely grin and zest for spending time on the water. I see the same sparkle in Truman’s eyes.

“And in fifth place, the crew of Geronimo!”

The sound of applause brought me back to the present. Chris was off helping friends load their boat onto a trailer, so Truman and I made our way to the front of the crowd. The trophy wasn’t for first place, but the sense of accomplishment glimmered all the same.

I held the microphone and thanked the fleet for nurturing our love of sailing as well as the budding passion of our new crew. I said that I hoped to see Truman on the water again next year, continuing the family tradition.

This regatta marked the beginning of something new. Our journey now had a third crewmember to share in the adventure—someone to help carry the legacy forward.

Who knows? Maybe someday Truman will help our future kids, his cousins, learn to sail, passing on the same knowledge and love for the water that we’ve shared with him. Sometimes, you just have to pass the tiller.

The post How To Inspire Young Sailors: Pass the Tiller appeared first on Cruising World.

The week after the Annapolis Sailboat Show, I found myself at the helm of a brand spanking new Balance 580 with a stiff northerly breeze pumping the sails full on a glimmering Chesapeake Bay. I had a feeling that never gets old: that surge of excitement when everything aboard is new, clean and working exactly as it should. After years of sailing older, well-worn boats, it reminded me why our Cruising World team does what we do, continuing our Boat of the Year program every year.

I know what you’re thinking. Nice, buddy. But that boat costs more than a house. And you’re right. For most of us, new boats, especially some of the million-dollar stratosphere models in this year’s contest, aren’t exactly practical purchases. They’re aspirational, and maybe a little intimidating.

But that doesn’t mean they’re irrelevant. Far from it.

Here’s the thing: Watching and sailing these boats gives every boat owner a yardstick. Whether we’re buying used or dreaming of someday upgrading, we can see what’s working in design. We can tell which innovations are genuinely improving life aboard. We can identify the systems that will eventually filter down to the wider market. When you see a hybrid drive quietly charging batteries while under sail, or a well-planned deck layout that makes single-handing a breeze, it’s a glimpse into the future of cruising.

During our week of sea trials with the Boat of the Year judges, including sailing and systems experts Herb McCormick, Tim Murphy and Ralph Naranjo, we sailed a fleet built all over the world: France, Denmark, Slovenia, South Africa, Thailand. And yes, the prices made me blink more than once. The least-expensive new boat in the fleet was a spry Beneteau First 30 at $200,000. At the other extreme, the Balance 580 came in at $3.6 million. Yet even within that diversity of sizes, rigs and designs, there were lessons for everyone.

I learned a lot about myself too. Sitting at the helm of the Dragonfly 36 trimaran, zipping along in low teens of wind, I couldn’t help but grin as the boat’s designer, Jens Quorning, leaned in with that infectious energy sailors know well. He shouted: “You feel alive on this boat!” He spoke for all of us.

For the rest of the week, I toggled between 14 nominee boats, from the minimalistic, tiller-driven thrill of the Beneteau First 30 planing under a screecher, to the sprawling, technically sophisticated Pegasus 50’s tandem keel, triple-headsail rig and twin rudders. Each boat, in its own way, reminded me that cruising is about choices: sometimes subtle, sometimes monumental. Design matters as much as the dream.

The best new designs do more than dazzle. They influence everything we buy tomorrow. Builders are competing with used boats more than ever. Systems, ergonomics, hull shapes, sail-handling innovations—they start here, and over time, they appear on brokerage docks around the country. In a practical sense, knowing what’s coming lets you evaluate older boats with a sharper eye. You start to see why a certain rig choice matters, or how a particular electrical arrangement can save headaches down the line.

But beyond the tech and the specs, there’s another reason to celebrate new boats: inspiration. You don’t have to write a million-dollar check to appreciate ingenuity. The thrill of seeing what’s possible is contagious. Even a small tweak, a smarter layout or a cleaner power system can transform life aboard.

And then there’s the communal aspect. How many dockside friendships have started with, “Hey, I noticed your solar panel setup…” or “How are you liking that mast furling so far?” Whether it’s sharing knowledge, lending a hand or swapping stories over sundowners, the community we love is built on curiosity and collaboration. And seeing the next generation of designs keeps that conversation alive.

So yes, I spent a week sailing some of the priciest, flashiest boats on the market. And yes, it was exhilarating. But here’s the takeaway for every Cruising World reader: You don’t need a million-dollar yacht to get something out of this. You can look, you can learn, you can be inspired. And when you return to your own boat, you’ll do so with fresh eyes and maybe a few ideas to make your time aboard even better.

So step aboard and take the helm, and save the math for another day.

The post Eyeing What’s Possible: New Boats, Fresh Ideas appeared first on Cruising World.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

With one week to go before the fleet sets off across the Atlantic, sailors in the 40th Atlantic Rally for Cruisers filled the Las Palmas waterfront with flags, music and celebration during the ARC 2025 Opening Ceremony.

More than 30 nations are represented in this year’s edition of the 2700 mile rally to Saint Lucia. The parade marked an important milestone in the lead-up to departure as crews complete final preparations for their offshore passage.

Participants gathered at the north end of the marina before processing along the promenade, carrying their national flags past cheering crowds. Local percussion groups added to the atmosphere, and officials from the City Council and Port Authority welcomed the sailors to Las Palmas.

A distinct Caribbean presence also colored the event. Representatives from the Saint Lucia Tourism Authority and members of the Saint Lucian diaspora joined the parade in traditional dress, offering crews a preview of the warm hospitality waiting on the other side of the ocean.

“The opening ceremony was amazing. I loved how there were all the flags and everyone was in great spirits,” said Marley Tonkin of Aurelia T. “Crossing the Atlantic always felt like that next stage, but now it’s getting close I’m starting to get a little bit apprehensive. That said, I’m so excited for it. I think it’s going to be a once in a lifetime opportunity and I can’t wait.”

After the parade, the ARC Dinghy Race returned to the program for the first time in several years. Crews and local teams paddled a variety of small craft around the marina in a lighthearted competition that drew enthusiastic support from the waterfront. A short ceremony followed, with prizes for first across the line, best dressed crews and best spirit.

Throughout the coming week, participants will join safety demonstrations, ocean cruising seminars and social events that make the ARC a community as much as a passage. Most boats are expected to take 18 to 21 days to reach Saint Lucia once they depart on November 23.

For many sailors, the ARC represents a bucket list crossing, and the sense of achievement at landfall will be as memorable as the miles made along the way.

The post ARC 2025 Opens With Colorful Parade in Las Palmas appeared first on Cruising World.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

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

Randy D. Podolsky, founder and developer of Navy Pier Marina, has been named the 2025 Yachtsperson of the Year by the Chicago Yachting Association. The award recognizes exceptional contributions to recreational boating on Lake Michigan, honoring individuals whose efforts enhance the local boating community.

“Through his vision and dedication, Randy has created an accessible, premier tourist attraction in Navy Pier Marina, where visitors can experience Chicago’s lively city, beautiful lakefront, and rich culture,” said James Caldwell, CYA Commodore.

Podolsky, an entrepreneur, avid boater, and U.S. Coast Guard Auxiliary member, has long championed the project. “I could not be more humbled and honored to be recognized by the Chicago Yachting Association for this prestigious award,” he said. “Their selection is very meaningful to me.”

Since opening, Navy Pier Marina has established Chicago as a major stopover for transient vessels and Loopers. The marina accommodates 10-50 boats at once, offering flexible docking, 5-star amenities, and close access to entertainment, dining, and lodging. It also serves as a hub for yacht clubs, family groups, and other boating organizations seeking an urban waterfront experience.

Podolsky’s contributions to the boating community extend beyond Navy Pier Marina. A longtime member of the U.S. Coast Guard Auxiliary, he has served in leadership roles and supported local water safety initiatives.

The Chicago Yachting Association has honored leaders in the local marine community for more than 50 years, fostering public-private partnerships and promoting recreational boating throughout the greater Chicago area.For more on Navy Pier Marina, visit navypiermarina.com. To learn more about the Chicago Yachting Association, visit chicagoyachtingassociation.org.

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