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.

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.

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

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

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

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

“Need to or want to?” he queried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The post Tangling with Reality in Australia’s Bass Strait appeared first on Cruising World.

Whatever it is you’re doing down there, forget it!” David shouted. “Be quick. You need to see this!”

Though we’ve voyaged together for less than a year, I now know my Aussie partner David Haigh well enough to realize that this is not an emergency. Still, I quickly turn off the burner under the soup, tighten the clamps holding the pot on the gimbled stove, and put the hot loaf of fresh bread on a nonslip mat atop the counter. 

The sight that awaits me is breathtaking. A quarter-mile ahead, a half-dozen huge dolphins dash about in a frenzy, leaping into the air, twisting, churning the sea around them into a white froth. “Did you grab your camera?” David yells as he begins climbing out of the cockpit to get a closer look.

My first thought: What a perfect ending to a wonderful cruise.

I don’t have time for a second thought. A fierce wind knocks our 40-foot Van de Stadt, Sahula, almost flat. 

Laying on its beam ends, it still slices forward, held on course by the self-steering vane. Dollops of salt water begin lapping over the cockpit coaming. 

“Run her off!” David yells over the roar of wind and the crash of rushing water. He scrambles back into the cockpit and slides across to the leeward sheet winch. I climb past the steering pedestal, grab the wheel, and struggle to fight the leverage of the windvane rudder.

Welcome to Tasmania

Tasmania, situated well into the Roaring Forties, is subject to challenging weather. No matter the season, low-pressure systems march around the bottom of the world unhindered by any land. They intensify when they run into the mountains of this rugged island. Because the lows move slower during the summer season, we could keep a flexible schedule and enjoy almost two months of sailing as we meandered south through the D’Entrecasteaux Channel on the eastern shore of Tasmania. As autumn approached, we’d grabbed a light weather patch to head around the southern tip of Tasmania and reach the splendid isolation of Port Davey on the wild west coast.  

My husband, Larry, and I had sailed here several years before, bound westward ­toward the Indian Ocean. During this ­second visit on Sahula, I had a sense of ­déjà vu as David and I made our way along the shoreline where wombat tracks were the only way to get through the dense undergrowth. We took dinghy forays up river gorges. I enjoyed the solitude on board in a perfect keyhole anchorage while David scrambled over jumbles of rocks to climb Mount Rugby, the highest local peak. Little had changed in Port Davey; Larry and I had encountered only one other visiting yacht and three commercial fishermen who shared weather information with us. Now, almost 25 years later, David and I encountered two other yachts in two weeks’ time, and no fishermen.

As the autumn days grew ever shorter, David began to monitor the approaching weather systems using his ham radio. Just when we were feeling sated, the forecast promised a 15- to 20-knot northeasterly, slowly backing all day long. If the report was correct, it meant we’d have a beam reach for each of the three legs of the 55-mile trip around the bottom of and back into the ­shelter of the east coast.

We were underway at daybreak on a fresh northeaster. Sahula is at its best with winds of 15 knots. The windvane self-steering works wonderfully if it has two reefs in the mainsail and the large yankee set. (That’s what David calls it, and it’s his boat. I call it a high-cut jib.)

When we cleared Port Davey, we found only a hint of the southwesterly swell that is normally a constant on this coastline. Sailing couldn’t have been better. Once we were settled in for the first 17-mile reach toward South West Cape, I decided to cook up a hearty soup and bake some bread. 

The wind soon began to back, as forecast. By the time we had to alter course to head due east around the tip of South West Cape, the wind was out of the north. We’d allowed for a comfortable offing. We didn’t want to be too close to shore, where the steep chain of mountains lining Tasmania’s west coast might ­blanket our wind and leave us becalmed. 

We hadn’t considered the alternative. But now, as the wind screamed and Sahula dragged its topsides through the water, David seemed to take forever to reach the leeward side of the cockpit, though in reality it was seconds. 

“Grab hold of the sheet!” he yelled as he pulled it out of the self-tailer. 

Before I could steady myself enough to reach over and grab the sheet, it pulled loose from the winch. The sail began to flog ­madly. The sound was almost overwhelming. The boat’s shaking transmitted through my arms as I struggled to steer it off. 

The wind continued to scream at gale force. But now, without the pressure of the headsail, I was able to overcome the power of Sahula’s self-steering rudder. The boat slowly bore away and came more onto an even keel, rushing downwind at 7 knots with only the double-reefed mainsail.

David scrambled to the windward side of the cockpit and grabbed the headsail furling line, got it around the sheet winch, and began cranking. Forgotten were the dolphins, which now leaped and gallivanted just feet away from us. All that filled my mind was the terrible sound of the flailing headsail.

It felt like a horrendously long time until David was able to furl the yankee. Seconds after it furled, the gale-force wind, the noise, the white water and the dolphins left us. 

The Aftermath

We sat shaken and immobile. Neither of us moved or said anything for several minutes, even after the wind settled back into a 15-knot northerly. 

As David once again unfurled the ­yankee and got it pulling, I went below to pick up the loaf of bread that had leaped off the ­counter, and to relight the fire under the soup. Then we began dissecting the mistakes we’d made.  

We’d both spent time sailing close to steep mountains, in the fjords of Norway, in Patagonia and in New Zealand’s Fjordland. There, we’d constantly been on watch for the sudden, violent gusts known as williwaws. South West Cape is sheer-sided, just like the mountains of those fjords, yet we never considered the possibility of williwaws here.

When the williwaw hit, I hadn’t thought to let the headsail fly. 

I could have. I should have. I was right next to the winch when we got knocked almost flat. 

The list kept growing.

Then, as we began to sail onward, we both looked back to where the dolphins still cavorted. Our real mistake became obvious. 

In our delight at the dolphins’ antics, we’d missed the information that nature was providing. The churning whitecaps had nothing to do with the playful animals. That white water was the warning of a ­full-fledged williwaw. 

We may have been out in the cockpit looking around, but we definitely were not on watch. 

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

The post On Watch: Don’t Blame the Dolphins appeared first on Cruising World.

Want to hear some cruising advice and tips straight from the expert’s mouth? Check out the new podcast from The Boat Galley. Three experienced cruising women share their best stories in weekly episodes, each with their own individual flair. If you’ve ever had questions about this whole cruising lifestyle, this is the podcast for you! Episodes cover a wide range of topics from boat selection to gear organization and cruising with a pet.

Lin Pardey, along with her husband, Larry, has sailed over 200,000 nautical miles with 3 circumnavigations under her belt. Most of those miles were done on boats under 30 feet, that she and Larry built together. Her stories are glimpses into the timeless nature of cruising, and her practical advice is well-honed for life aboard.

Carolyn Shearlock, best known for her must-have-aboard book The Boat Galley Cookbook (and its attendant website), has lived aboard and cruised for 10+ years. She is the go-to expert for cooking on board; her website attracts over 160,000 unique visitors each month. Her tips and anecdotes will speed your climb up the learning curve as you bypass the mistakes she and her husband, Dave, made as they learned the hard way.

Nica Waters, one of the admin team for Women Who Sail, has (with her husband, Jeremy) owned her 28’ Bristol Channel Cutter since 1992. She’s cruised extensively in the Bahamas and the Chesapeake both before children and with them, and is in active preparation for the next, more open-ended adventure. Her YouTube show, Tasty Thursday, has been running weekly since October of 2012. Her entire philosophy is “Yes, you can!” and the stories and advice she shares will convince you it’s true.

To listen, just search for “The Boat Galley” in your podcast app. Episodes are short, ranging from 5 to 15 minutes and cover every aspect of cruising and preparing for life aboard.

The post New Podcast on the Cruising Life appeared first on Cruising World.

Life throws its rough moments at you. I am in the midst of one right now as I help Larry, my husband and companion of more than 50 years, through the late stages of Parkinson’s disease. But as I stand on the end of the jetty, watching Noel and Litara Barrott sail Sina through the entrance to North Cove, near our New Zealand home on the island of Kawau, my thoughts are drawn back to a comment Larry made the second time we met this intrepid voyaging couple.

The first time was in the southern reaches of Canal Beagle. Stormy weather had forced us to seek shelter at the Chilean outpost of Puerto Williams and wait for a break before we headed back out into the South Atlantic for a second attempt at doubling Cape Horn aboard Taleisin. Noel and Litara were headed home toward New Zealand via the canals of southern Chile in their handsome self-built 53-foot yawl after a voyage to Iceland. Because Larry and Noel both love building wooden boats almost as much as they love sailing, the bond was immediate.

The second time we shared an anchorage was a month later, at Puerto Montt, after we’d successfully sailed back out into the Atlantic, then headed south of Cape Horn before beating north past the wind-blasted, rock-strewn lee shore of Chilean Patagonia. Noel and Litara, with their daughter Sina on board, had taken a far different route, exploring the glaciers and fjords of Canal Beagle before escaping into the open waters of the Pacific Ocean through Canal Trinidad. The first hours of that reunion were spent rehashing the four days of hurricane-­force winds each of us had encountered just after sailing clear of the Furious 50s. Now, as I watch Noel and Litara round up into the 35-knot wind that roars across the cove, I remember Larry summing up our mutual heavy-weather stories by saying, “Only good thing about storms: They teach you patience.”

It is an important lesson to recall at this moment. And as I wait for Noel and Litara to secure their boat, launch the dinghy and row ashore, other lessons cruising taught me begin to leap into my mind, lessons that have stood me in good stead both at sea and ashore.

Everything Passes

Strangely, we actually found the storms we encountered at sea easier to endure than some of the storms that kept us harbor-bound in foreign ports. But in each case, as I look back, I realize the time did slide by. In hindsight, these trying times often created the best sense of shared purpose. I have memories of the encouragement we gave each other during stormy times at sea, reminding each other we’d worked hard to prepare ourselves and our boat to face these conditions and now had a chance to test our endurance and patience. But most of all, when the winds abated and we sailed into calmer waters, I remember the feeling of confidence gained and the sense of accomplishment.

Calms, too, pass. That is a lesson that slowly grows in importance the longer you cruise. To some sailors, calms represent frustration. But to others who have learned to put aside schedules, calms can be a time of quiet introspection. To Larry and me, sailing engine-free as we did, calms at sea were often our favorite times. Time to forget about sail trimming, to catch up with simple onboard chores so when we reached shore we had little left on our work list. Though we were rarely truly becalmed — when we couldn’t keep the boat moving even with our largest nylon sails — for more than a few hours at a time, we once had several days of complete calm as we crossed the Arabian Sea. The passage had so little wind, the 2,200-mile voyage took almost 36 days. So how does this translate to a useful lesson once you spend more time ashore than cruising? Once again, the lesson I learned is this: All calms eventually pass. Now, when I find myself looking at my calendar and thinking, Not much interesting planned for the next while, instead of rushing about looking for something to add, I remind myself to sit back, relax and drift with the moment.

Sometimes, Do Absolutely Nothing

One summer when we were cruising through the islands of Maine, I was invited to crew on a race boat with several very high-powered businessmen. As often happens in those waters, we were surrounded by heavy fog for four out of the five days. One day we’d been sitting on the rail for several hours, keeping as quiet as possible to ensure we would hear any approaching boat. We had nothing at all to look at but a sheet of gray dripping fog. The crewmember next to me broke the silence. “If someone caught me sitting and staring at a blank wall for two or three hours at a time they’d say I’d gone crazy,” he stated. “But if they saw me right now they’d just say, ‘He’s out sailing.’”

Back when we were cruising full time, I had a lot of time to myself during night watches, or times when Larry was taking a daytime nap. I didn’t always particularly feel like reading a book, but I didn’t feel the need to fill these hours with activity. It felt normal at the time because we were sailing. This too is a useful lesson cruising taught me. It is OK to sometimes do absolutely nothing, to let your mind rest or wander lazily among dozens of thoughts that would otherwise be drowned out in the noise of everyday life. Some truly refreshing and original ideas have occurred to me because I brought this practice to shore.

Be Spontaneous

We’d risen early one morning and worked our way free of the reef surrounding Huahine, French Polynesia. We were bound for the island of Raiatea. This was the second time we’d set off to make this 26-mile passage. The first time, we’d been becalmed exactly halfway across. Then the normal easterly trade winds reversed and came in strongly from the west. With dark falling, we decided it would be prudent to turn around and run back to Huahine. We would wait for a favorable wind and full daylight to pick our way through the reefs and coral heads surrounding the anchorage we wanted to reach in Raiatea.

Two days later, on our second attempt, we had wonderful sailing, with no sign of faltering trade winds. We’d been under way for just two hours when we noticed familiar-looking sails approaching from the west. Soon, two friends we’d first met a year previously in Mexico were alongside. “We’ve been working our tails off, fixing boats for the charter fleet in Raiatea,” Mike called as we hove-to a few dozen yards from each other. “We’re headed for Huahine to rent some motor scooters, catch up with some friends at the south of the island, do some diving and have a few days’ fun,” Mike continued. “Why don’t you turn around, come and play with us?” I didn’t have time to protest before Larry yelled, “Sure thing.” A week later, as we reached easily (and this time successfully) toward Raiatea, we had a fine time talking about the people Mike had introduced us to: Polynesians who welcomed us into their home, shared their meals, took us out fishing on the reef and gave us an insight into their culture.

When we first set off cruising and first came across opportunities like this, I remember remarking to Larry that it was easy to change plans because we didn’t really have any — just the desire to set sail and explore for four or five months. But plans did form, and sometimes I had to remember how important that spontaneity, that willingness to change plans, could be. It was definitely a lesson we brought to our onshore life.

Don’t Be Too Determined

In a way, this lesson goes hand in hand with the previous one. We’d had a fast, wet, windy and squall-prone run across the Indian Ocean, bound for the intriguing, isolated and deserted atolls of the Chagos Archipelago. It was a destination that had been on our wish list for years. When we were about 400 miles from the unmarked, unlit atolls, the weather became even more unstable: squalls with torrential rain overtaking us sometimes twice in an hour; 15- to 20-foot following seas; and gray and cloudy skies with low visibility between the squalls. “I’m just not willing to risk running down on a maze of underwater atolls in these conditions,” Larry said that evening. “We wouldn’t know we were in danger until we were already on top of a reef. Let’s slow the boat down and hope this weather system passes over us.” We reefed down to just a storm trysail. Our speed dropped from 7.4 knots to about 4.5 knots. Two days later, we were within 125 miles of the first underwater reef we’d have to negotiate to reach a safe anchorage. The weather had not improved. “OK, let’s heave to and wait for things to change,” I suggested. For two days we lay hove-to. Life was not uncomfortable; I didn’t resent the wait. But on the third morning, with squalls coming through just as often and the barometer unchanged, I agreed when Larry stated, “I don’t think Chagos is in the cards for us this time. Let’s go for a Plan B solution. Let’s reach south toward Rodrigues Island.” A day later, we sailed out of the near-gale-force winds, squalls and grayness into bright sunshine. Four days later, we were secured alongside a clean, palm-frond-covered stone quay right in the center of the capital of Rodrigues Island, enmeshed in one of the more memorable experiences of our cruising lives.

As an affirming footnote, the Rodrigues weather station, which tracks Indian Ocean weather systems, recorded almost three more weeks of heavy cloud cover, squalls and near-gale-force winds over Chagos. Several months later, in southern Africa, we met two sailors who had been bound from Malaysia toward Chagos just a week after us. They had radar and GPS on board, and carried on in spite of the weather, only to end up hitting the exact reef that had worried us most. They were fortunate to get their boat free after three weeks of very hard work. Repairing the damage once they reached South Africa cost them a year’s cruising funds.

Yes, this is a lesson we have carried into nonsailing situations, realizing when to step back and rethink a project, plan or scheme, to take a different tack. Sometimes we even have to admit that something just isn’t going to work and it’s time to let go and head in a new direction.

Take Time to Cultivate Friendships

This is the most important lesson of all. Everyone comments about the amazing friendships that develop when you are cruising. I’ve heard explanations such as, “I had something in common with everyone I met.” Or, “Everyone was so willing to be helpful with information and ideas.” But I think the real reason we found it so easy to make quick and lasting connections with people when we headed out cruising was that we actually took the time to do so, and once we came to know someone, we went out of our way to spend time with them. I can recall literally hundreds of afternoons when we lounged in our cockpit or lazed on the foreshore with someone we’d just met — other sailors, fishermen, the local couple we chatted with ashore and then invited on board for their very first visit to a yacht. Once we settled in the cockpit, the only distractions were the birds flying overhead, the fish breaking the surface, maybe a boatman rowing past. This uninterrupted time let us leisurely find the common ground that tends to make all people appear helpful, friendly and interesting. These afternoons sometimes stretched right through dinner and late into the evening. We almost always felt the time had been well-spent. And once we made these new friends, we went out of our way to spend lots of time with them over the next days, knowing we might not ever get to spend time with them again. This is harder to do ashore, but using this cruising lesson — making extra time for new people I meet, turning off my telephone, loosening up any schedules and being open to each person who comes into my life — has definitely paid dividends.

Yes, cruising taught me many lessons, and when I use them, life does seem to flow more smoothly. The hard part is recalling them through the hustle of shoreside life. But today, standing on the jetty, I remember to use the lessons. Though I hadn’t expected Noel and Litara to sail in, though I had a list of “important” things that needed doing, I mentally re-prioritized plans as I watched them row toward me. I have no qualms about putting everything aside for a day, or even two, to devote myself to doing nothing but enjoying their company.

– – –

Over 45 years, Lin and Larry Pardey sailed the equivalent of three times around the world, visiting 75 countries. They now live ashore on the island of Kawau in New Zealand.

The post Lessons from a Life of Cruising appeared first on Cruising World.

In late 1984, with 2,000 miles of California sea trials and easy Baja California cruising behind her, Taleisin could no longer be called a new boat. We’d tested her power as we beat north against 25-knot winds to re­visit the magic hideaways of Mexico’s Gulf of California. As we explored the hidden coves we’d prowled around 16 years before on Seraffyn in the tranquil waters of the Bay of La Paz, we’d found the best leads for our light-air sails. A few fresh reaches had forced me to rearrange lockers so I could actually get at the provisions I wanted even when I wasn’t feeling my very best.

Now, as we left Cabo San Lucas, bound for the Marquesas, Taleisin was in top sailing shape, though she was loaded well beyond her designed 17,400-pound sailing displacement. In fact, a check of her waterline marks showed her ready-to-­depart weight was close to 18,600 pounds. But other than four baskets of fresh, fragrant fruit and vegetables, which we’d wedged securely at the head of the forward bunk, everything was hidden in its proper locker.

Ahead of us now lay a whole new world. In 18 years of voyaging we’d never once poked our bowsprit south of the equator, never visited a South Seas island or coral atoll, never heard the throbbing drums of Polynesia.

Two days’ sailing south of Cabo San Lucas lay Socorro Island. Rugged and desolate, it is inhabited on shore only by a small contingent of Mexican soldiers. Underwater it is reputed to be haven to the largest spiny lobster population in the Pacific. We planned to stop for a few days and enjoy a few good meals before setting off for the long haul to Polynesia. It was late morning when we reached in toward Socorro’s only tenable anchorage, an open bay tucked tightly against the southwest corner of the island. The water within the bay didn’t look right. I got out the binoculars and could make out wispy plumes of spray, then the slowly arching backs of seven gray whales as they stirred the waters by moving in a slow pavane, circling the only shoal area we could safely employ. We dropped the small genoa and, under staysail and main, reached closer. Larry tried to reassure me: “They’ll leave any second now. Besides, they’re probably farther offshore than they look from this angle. We’ll sail in past them and have lots of room to anchor.”

He was wrong on all counts. The placid behemoths ignored us completely as we slowly reached alongside them. They carried on with their mating activities. I threw the lead line to sound the anchorage; they still didn’t leave. In fact, the closer we got, the more they seemed to fill every bit of space, swimming to within a dozen yards of the shore with their massive, heaving, barge-like bodies.

We jibed, then reached clear of the anchorage, and as the full swell of the open ocean again caught us I said, “Let’s ­forget Socorro — wind’s fair, let’s keep going.”

But Larry’s eyes had their mad hunter look. “Remember what that Mexican diver told us about the lobster here. Probably never have another meal as good as the one we’ll have tonight.”

So we winched home the sheets, tacked over and left the staysail backed. Taleisin slowly lost way and lay comfortably hove-to while I made lunch. Two hours later we eased the staysail sheet to turn and reach back in to the anchorage. By then, our harbor mates had moved … somewhat. Now there was almost enough room for us to set our anchor as the whales nuzzled around each other, completely ignoring us. But not quite enough. So we jibed and reached out into the open water again, to lay hove-to for another hour. Then we sailed in yet again. The necking-party-cum-gossip-session seemed less intimate now as the whales swam in three separate groups. Amid them there appeared to be just enough swinging room to set our anchor. Before I could change my mind, Larry had unclutched the anchor windlass and eased out our 35-pound CQR with 150 feet of chain.

Our big gray cove mates ignored the rattling chain but ­acquiesced to our territorial claim, swimming and cavorting just clear of Taleisin. I turned to Larry.

“Going in for some fresh dinner fixings? I’ll get out your fins.”

My urgings, definitely made in jest, were ignored. He sat next to me on the cabin top, imagining the teeming sea life crawling through the crevices and crannies of the sea-washed rocks just 200 yards from where we lay at anchor. That evening, as we chewed our way through some durable Mexican chicken and braced ourselves against the slight surge in the anchorage, the whale-induced wavelets and occasional gusts of the fresh westerly breezes scooting down from the hills inshore of us, Larry said, “I’ll slip overboard and chase up a bug or two tomorrow, when our friends move on.”

But by morning it was we who decided to move on — to get a good night’s rest by going to sea. The serenade of whale spouting, augmented by what we took to be sighs of sexual delight, had kept us both on the edge of wakefulness through the night. Within an hour we were free of the wind shadow of Socorro Island and gliding over a sun-speckled sea, three sails set to catch the 15-knot westerly.

The wind slowly eased aft from our beam to cross our stern until we were running wing and wing in the northeasterly trades. The only comments worth recording in our log, other than course and distance made good, were: “baked bread, had a hot shower, took cushions out onto the foredeck for the afternoon, made love in the shade of the drifter.”

As I read that comment now, decades later, the scene floods back in warm details: the green-and-blue striped sail arching over us, providing a perfect screen from the tropical sun; the smell of fresh bread slowly baking belowdecks; the sound of Earl Klugh’s guitar carrying softly from our stereo, his strumming almost in perfect rhythm with the hiss, then gurgle, as Taleisin’s bow rode over the crest of each surging wave.

For once I truly believed perfect trade-wind sailing existed. We’d found it, and Taleisin loved it. The string of noon-to-noon runs recorded in our log belied her relatively small size: 158, 165, 176, with the current giving us a few extra miles on top of that. The days sped past in the easygoing, intimate routine that seems to develop on board a two-handed sailboat during an ocean passage.

Keeping the necessary round-the-clock watch means Larry and I spend little time actually being together when we are at sea. Three hours on, three hours off all night, our only communications being a quick update from the person coming off watch. We each then spent two hours napping later on to top up our need for about eight hours’ sleep each day. Then there was the time needed to make occasional sail changes, navigate, clean up inside the boat, check the gear on deck, check the fresh produce for signs of deterioration. With only the two of us on board, we find that at sea we have less than four hours of unstructured time for cooking, eating and communications. If one or the other of us happens to be fully engrossed in reading a book we “just can’t put down,” we find our only true time together happens as we share our evening meal. Then begins the routine of settling the boat for the night and having a quiet drink, a quick sing-along or a shared chapter from a book we might choose to read aloud together before Larry climbs into the bunk.

As on all previous passages, we stuck to our routine of having the same watches each night. Studies by sleep psychologists confirm what we have learned by trial and error. Our body clocks adjust more quickly to sleeping during the same time periods each night instead of dogging or alternating watch hours.

Two things began to indicate the unique nature of this passage. First, not one of our night watches was interrupted by a call for assistance. The second oddity: By our 10th day out from Socorro we hadn’t found the doldrums that should have slowed our progress well before we reached the equator. In fact, when our sights showed a current against us — a sure sign of the edge of the doldrums — the seas steadied and the wind shifted just enough to put us on our fastest point of sail, a beam reach. Taleisin, with her modest 27-foot-6-inch waterline, turned in a wondrous series of noon-to-noon nautical-mile runs: 168, 176, 171. Our taffrail log reading and celestial sights concurred to within a mile or two to rule out help from stray currents.

As exciting as this was, it presented a new problem.

Both of us are fair-skinned. Many years of enjoying sailing before medical science made the link between sun exposure and skin cancers meant we’d both acquired a fair sprinkling of keratosis (the early stages of skin cancer). These scaly ­patches and recurring small lesions had, in the past, been frozen off during a visit to the doctor’s office. Recently our personal physician had suggested an alternative — a chemical treatment called Efudex, which we’d tried under his direction (made by Roche Ltd., it’s basically chemotherapy for the skin, using fluorouracil cream). We’d apply the stuff twice daily for three weeks; the sun spots would redden, turn to open sores and then scab over and heal, leaving behind blemish-free skin. The spots we’d treated under the doctor’s supervision had all been on our forearms and easily hidden from public view. Now the affected areas were on our faces. We kept putting off the treatment, waiting for a time when we’d be away from people for a while. The time seemed right on this longer passage.

“It’s more than 2,500 miles to the Marquesas,” I’d said to Larry when we left Mexico. “We’ll be at sea for three weeks or more. If we start the treatment a day or two before we leave, our skin will be all cleared up before we get there.” But by our 13th day at sea, when another 158-mile noon-to-noon run put us within 400 miles of Nuku Hiva, I looked at Larry’s splotched countenance, then took a mirror to inspect my own ravaged face, and knew we’d made a slight miscalculation. Both of us looked like refugees from a fire. Unless we hove-to for a few days, we’d arrive appearing ­almost leprous.

There is a saying among sailors: “Put one sailboat within sight of another and both will start racing.” There wasn’t another boat within hundreds of miles of us. But the splendid record of miles made good was as much of a prod as the sight of another sail on the horizon. So, in spite of our appearances, we kept Taleisin running as fast as she could, the drifter set to one side on the 20-foot spinnaker pole, the mainsail to the other.

On the morning of the 16th day at sea, the craggy outline of our first South Seas island seemed to burst over the horizon. Taleisin surged down the trade-wind swells as the sheer black cliffs of Nuku Hiva slid ever closer. The fish line we’d been trailing for almost 2,400 miles sprang to life, sounding the alarm Larry had jury-rigged by putting a couple of nuts and bolts inside an empty beer can.

Larry almost trampled me as he rushed through the cockpit to grab the line. A gold-fringed tuna leapt into the air, growing ever more frantic as Larry pulled it hand-over-hand toward the boat, then flipped it over the lifelines. I ran as far out of the way of that flailing flash of silver as I could, clinging to the fish-free safety of the boom gallows until it was subdued. My screams of “Kill it before it jumps down the hatch!” died in my throat as a strange black smoothness disturbed the crest of the swell ahead of Taleisin. The next 10-foot swell lifted Taleisin’s stern and sent her scudding downhill amid a burst of foam, guided only by the wind-vane self-steering gear. She seemed to hang motionless for just a few seconds in the trough of the sea as I pointed in stunned silence. Less than 10 feet away on our beam, two huge whales lay side by side, gently spouting, basking serenely, unaware that only fate had kept 9 tons of rushing timber and lead from landing on their backs.

“Luck, only luck. That’s all that kept us from a real catastrophe,” Larry whispered as he held the slowly dying 8-pound tuna against the leeward bulwark rail with his foot.

My mind was filled with visions of a massive, angry fluke smashing through our teak planking, driven by 20 tons of terrified mammal. From the look in Larry’s eyes I could tell he was recalling another encounter with sleeping whales almost 18 years earlier, when he’d been first mate on an 85-foot schooner called Double Eagle. He’d been at the helm when, halfway between Hawaii and California, they’d sailed quietly past a basking whale. One of the crew tossed an empty beer can at the mammal. Its frenzied dive had sent cascades of salt water right across the massive schooner to drench the crew.

“If that fluke had hit our stem, it would have shattered it,” Larry had often told me.

Now we watched in silence as, astern, white wavelets washed across the backs of the whales. Taleisin lifted and fled before another trade-wind swell, and within two minutes those whales were lost from view. The smells of approaching land slowly invaded my senses. The last death throes from the fish Larry was still holding under his foot brought him out of his shock-induced trance. We were soon occupied with fish filets, sail changes, navigation. Neither of us mentioned our close encounter with those mammoth creatures that shared this water with us until we lay in our bunk together late that evening.

It was dark when we short-tacked between the towering sides of the Marquesas’ Taiohae Bay and shattered the quiet with the rattle of our anchor chain. Sixteen days, six hours out of Socorro we lay at anchor after a passage that could be described as close to perfection.

Morning brought reality with it.

At the first sight of our yellow quarantine flag, the health officer arrived. He took one look at our sore-encrusted faces and informed us we were confined on board until further notice. Our attempts to use our 20-word French vocabulary failed completely. But he did take our tube of Efudex with him and made it clear he would be contacting the authorities in Papeete, Tahiti, for further instructions. It was late afternoon before he returned, accompanied by a customs official, who carried a bottle of wine to officially welcome us and invite us to explore his island home.

An old sailing friend once said, “You’ll go out sailing 10 times, then you’ll hit one day that is sheer magic. You’ll be hooked and go out again and again trying to fall under that ­intoxicating spell once more.” When I look back at all the voyaging we’ve done, I have to agree with his sentiment: Truly memorable days were vastly outnumbered by those days when the sailing was merely pleasant, or other days that were utterly mundane or even downright difficult. I knew this would be the case as we voyaged onward on Taleisin. But now, the difficult and stormy days, as well as the mundane ones, are set against the memory of our highly satisfying dash, neatly sandwiched between two whale tales, from Mexico to the South Pacific.

Long acknowledged as the “first couple of cruising,” Lin and Larry Pardey are two-time circumnavigators aboard boats they built themselves and the authors of 11 previous books. This story is excerpted from their 12th and latest, Taleisin’s Tales: Sailing Towards the Southern Cross (L&L Pardey Publications, 2017).

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