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.

“This is the worst trip… I’ve ever been on.” I sing the chorus to “Sloop John B.”  My voice rings out loud and clear.

Just 15 feet from me, my partner, David, is sound asleep. But no matter how loud I sing, I know I won’t disturb him. My voice is nothing compared to the sound of wind whistling through the rigging, the crash of water rushing across the foredeck as Sahula shoulders her way through wave after wave.

For the past three days, we have been taking turns hand-steering as we fight our way toward Australia. A polar dip has caused two different weather systems to unexpectedly overlap each other, creating messy cross seas. Without our assistance, the windvane self-steering gear struggles to keep Sahula close hauled in the near-gale-force winds. 

We are both tired. The work of sitting behind the wheel in these sloppy seas is physically demanding but also boring. We have shortened our normal night watches to just two hours.  Sleep comes instantly when I get down below, strip off my foul-weather gear and climb into the leeward settee for my off-watch. David is the same. And though I am technically getting enough rest, I still need to do something to keep me fully awake and alert as day 13 of what is usually an eight- or nine-day passage slowly dawns. 

The Tasman Sea doesn’t have the best of reputations. Only one of the five previous crossings I have made between New Zealand and Australia could be considered pleasurable. The others ranged from plain hard work to one of the worst passages I recall making with my husband, Larry. Thus, I had been determined to choose a good weather window for this sixth crossing. 

The month of May is usually the best time to head westward from New Zealand. The seawater temperature has cooled down from its summer high, so the risk of tropical cyclones has fallen right off. Winter gales have not yet begun rampaging across the Tasman Sea. Several weeks earlier, I’d started watching the online weather forecasts on Windy and PredictWind, plus Met Office New Zealand. I was looking for a time when the center of a low pressure system crossing the Tasman was just passing the North Island of New Zealand,  and before the next low pressure system shoved its way between Tasmania and mainland Australia. Potentially good departure windows seemed to appear every fifth or sixth day.

Ten days before the end of May, we’d finally taken care of all our landside obligations. We’d enjoyed a brisk sail 120 miles north toward Opua, the customs clearance port, to complete the formalities of leaving New Zealand. But before we cleared, both of us were looking forward to finding a quiet anchorage among the myriad islands near Opua where we could spend a few days recovering from the rush to set sail while we waited for our weather window to open.

Weather patterns are complex. Two-day forecasts are reliable, but longer-term predictions are educated guesses. Windows open and close.

Only hours from Opua, our plans were derailed. My scour of weather sites indicated the exact pattern I’d hoped for was already forming up. If we could clear customs, make a dash to the local grocery store for fresh fruit and vegetables and set sail the next morning, we’d have a fine chance to reach northwestward with fresh, favorable winds for four days, and then catch a trade-wind sleigh ride westward.  

“What about catching the following window?” David suggested. “Be nice to do nothing for four or five days.”

It was tempting. Then I looked at the weather sites again. “This front is moving slower than usual. Could be 10 days before another window opens up,” I answered. 

As I rushed about buying provisions, then doing the pre-departure paperwork, David topped up Sahula’s water tanks, secured the deck strap for our harness lines, set up the para-anchor and its bridle so we could launch it without having to go on the foredeck, and then deflated the tender and secured it on the aft deck.

As I was walking back down the dock toward Sahula, I met Doug, a Kiwi cruiser I knew quite well. He asked when we planned to set sail. 

“In the morning. Nice weather window.”

He replied: “Cruising is a lot easier and safer now than when you and Larry set off. Now we’ve got all the info we need to avoid sailing into heavy weather.”

I recall those words just as a particularly hard gust of wind adds to the cacophony of sounds and I have to swing the wheel hard over to counteract Sahula’s surging. It’s true that Larry and I had far less access to weather info as we voyaged across oceans. But in some ways, that made sailing less worrisome. When we were planning to set off across an ocean, we used pilot charts to determine the best potential times to make a passage and the most advantageous course to sail for a chance of fair winds. To determine our actual departure day, we used local radio forecasts, the TV weatherman we watched at the pub near our anchorage, and the weather synopsis printout we could find at the local port captain’s office. We’d look for a time when we’d have at least three or four days of favorable winds to clear the land. Then we prepared the boat and ourselves as best we could for whatever weather might come eight or 10 or 20 days later.

We were never truly surprised or disappointed when the weather deteriorated five days or eight or 10 days after we set sail. We just reefed down and kept the boat moving comfortably, or we hove to until conditions improved.

Now, as I struggle to stay awake, I realize David and I are fighting something that should just be accepted. I don’t wait for the end of my watch. Instead, I call down to David, “Come on up and help me get this boat hove to.” I get no protest at all. Together, we soon have the staysail furled. We’ve used the mainsheet traveler lines to haul the double reefed mainsail tight amidships, and tied the helm to leeward. 

We were never truly surprised when weather deteriorated days after departure. We reefed down and kept moving or hove to until conditions improved.

Sahula slows until she is making almost no headway at all. The chartplotter shows she is now drifting downwind at about half a knot. The wind feels like it has dropped by half, and spray no longer lashes the boat. I put the kettle on to make a cup of tea while I download the latest forecast. Iridium Go! indicates the wind should start to back sometime in the next several hours. 

“Don’t count on it,” David comments as he climbs into the cockpit, and released from the chore of steering, settles comfortably into a dry corner under the doghouse to watch for coastal shipping traffic. 

As I climb into the bunk, I feel certain this short-term forecast will be right.  I also recall what Bob McDavitt, a well-known New Zealand weather specialist and sailing router once told me: “So many factors can affect weather patterns. That means, while it is relatively easy to make accurate two-day predictions, we forecasters are just making educated guesses about what will happen four days out. You sailors have to be aware, windows may open, but windows also close.” 

Less than six hours after we hove to, the wind did back. We set sail on a close reach to arrive at our destination 36 hours later, having sailed 1,370 miles in 14.5 days. No gear failures, no need to use the para-anchor, and two of those days were true dream sailing. 

The rest was hard work. But now, as we meander ever so leisurely north inside the Great Barrier Reef, it is those perfect days that come most readily to mind. 

After cruising more than 240,000 miles, US Sailing Hall of Fame inductee Lin Pardey is headed to sea again. Her latest book, Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond, encourages sailors to go simple, go small and go now. She is also the co-author, with her husband, Larry, of the essential Storm Tactics: Modern Methods of Heaving-to for Survival in Extreme Conditions, a must-read for anyone preparing for offshore voyaging.

The post Weather Windows: Lessons in Planning and Patience at Sea appeared first on Cruising World.

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

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

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

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

“Need to or want to?” he queried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

There’s a certain beauty in the rhythm of cruising. The sun rises, the coffee percolates (usually with a slight list), and someone somewhere is wrestling a mainsail down while shouting a few choice expletives into the wind. The seas might not always be calm, but the rituals are familiar. Reliable. Comforting, even.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about change—not the dramatic kind that grabs headlines, but the subtler shifts. The way the anchorage looks a little more crowded than it used to. The way newbies at boat shows talk about Starlink like it’s a basic provisioning item, right up there with peanut butter and Poo-Pourri.

And yes, I’ll admit it: The growing number of multihulls here in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, has me rubbing my eyes at times, wondering when exactly we hit critical mass. The other evening, I was walking down a dock at Bahia Mar after sundowners on a buddy of mine’s boat and realized that every single boat on the row—port and starboard—had two hulls. Perhaps it was that “level 3” painkiller, but for a second, I thought I’d been whisked away to some charter base on Tortola.

Truth is, we’re deep into the era of the catamaran. For the first time, our Boat of the Year field this year had an even split between monohulls and multihulls. So in our annual Multihull issue, we wanted to dive straight into this cat fancy with two features that bring a little subjectivity to the matter. Tom Linskey, a seasoned cruising sailor with thousands of multihull sea miles behind him, lays out the real-world trade-offs of cruising on two hulls versus one. And reformed monohuller Pat Schulte and his family return to the world of multihulls—and discover a fresh take on comfort, purpose, and finding the right boat for life’s next chapter.

I won’t spoil either piece for you, except to say this: The multihull discussion isn’t ­really about hulls. It’s about evolution. People’s needs change. Families grow. Knees creak. The dog wants his own stateroom. Sailing adjusts to meet us where we are, and that’s a good thing.

Speaking of evolution, this issue marks a major moment here at Cruising World. After nearly three decades of reliably making us laugh, think, and occasionally spit coffee across the salon table, Cap’n Fatty Goodlander is handing off the helm of our beloved On Watch column.

For 27 years, Fatty’s been our resident rascal and philosopher. His stories came with equal parts wisdom and whimsy, often wrapped in a layer of self-deprecation that made us wonder how on earth he survived some of those adventures. (Answer: Because he’s brilliant, resourceful, and just a little bit nuts—in the best way.)

His departure leaves big sea boots to fill. Fortunately, we found a legend in every sense of the word who was ready to step in.

Lin Pardey, alongside her late husband, Larry, sailed more than 200,000 offshore miles—most of them engine-free, in boats they built by hand. Lin is a born storyteller, a skilled mariner, and a living reminder that simplicity and adventure go hand in hand. We’re thrilled to welcome her as the new voice of On Watch. Her debut column is everything you’d expect: warm, wise and quietly bold.

Personally, this transition hit me a little harder than I expected. Fatty was the first columnist I ever read in Cruising World—the one who made me realize that boat writing didn’t have to be dry or technical, that it could be joyful and human and a little irreverent. Or maybe it’s just because I hate goodbyes. Either way, I found myself this week flipping through back issues, rereading favorite On Watch columns like they were dog-eared letters from an old friend.

Sailing has always been about adapting to the ­conditions. Whether you’re changing course, changing boats or changing who’s at the helm of a column, the important part is keeping an eye on the horizon and a hand on the tiller.

As for Cruising World, our heading remains the same: to bring you stories that reflect the real lives of sailors today. Whether you’re a monohull traditionalist, a fresh catamaran convert or a dreamer still at the dock, we’re with you, ­always on watch.

The post The Changing Watch: Multihulls, Modern Cruisers, and a New Voice On Deck 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.

SCROLL TO BOTTOM AND LISTEN NOW FOR FREE!

In this special “Live from Annapolis” edition of Ahoy!, we sit down with one of sailing’s most beloved voices: Lin Pardey. A trailblazer, bestselling author, and legendary voyager, Lin has spent decades living simply, sailing widely, and writing deeply about the cruising life she shared with her late husband, Larry Pardey.

Together, Lin and Larry logged more than 200,000 offshore miles aboard two wooden boats they built by hand—neither longer than 30 feet and neither with an engine. But as Lin shares in her new memoir, Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond, the real voyages go far beyond the miles. In this heartfelt conversation, Lin opens up about the emotional passages that have defined her life: rounding the notorious Cape Horn aboard Taleisin, navigating the long goodbye of Larry’s illness, rediscovering love in a new chapter with sailor David Haigh, and finding fresh meaning as an 80-year-old adventurer still drawn to wind and water.

Recorded on the docks of the Annapolis Sailboat Show, this episode is full of rich storytelling, quiet wisdom, and gentle humor. Lin reflects on the art of writing, the lessons of partnership at sea, and the enduring rewards of a life lived deliberately and courageously.

Whether you’re a lifelong sailor, a dreamer with one foot on the dock, or simply someone who appreciates stories of resilience, love, and discovery—this episode will stay with you, long after the last wave fades.

Listen in, and be reminded why we fall in love with sailing—and the people who make it a way of life.

The post PODCAST | Lin Pardey on Love, Loss, and A Life Under Sail appeared first on Cruising World.

Once upon a time, two cavemen were sitting on their floating logs, complaining about their spouses. One caveman stood up to pee-to-lee. The sun was hot. He opened up his furs to stay cool and caught a gust of wind. Modern yacht racing was born. 

Ever since, a yacht race has been defined as “any two sailors within sight of each other.” There are lots of advantages to arriving first. The faster caveman not only gets to eat first and eat more, but he also gets to, er, snuggle for a longer duration than the loser. 

Losers don’t like this. Not at all. Thus, for a long time, every yacht race has been divided into two groups: the skipper who won and the many angry skippers who believe they were cheated. We call this unfocused anger “wholesome competition.”

Now, the caveman who lost to the innovative, bladder-­blessed sailor soon discovered that lighter, longer logs of the same buoyancy are faster. Basically, this was the first step on a winding road called the America’s Cup. 

One hungry fellow in the village cooked up a T-rex burger on a log and then later attempted to scrape off the coals. He realized that the charred wood was easy to remove with his sharp oyster shell. Thus, dugout canoes were another great leap forward. I’ve had the pleasure of watching men build them using this exact hot-coal method in Micronesia. 

Hoisting specially sewn furs on a vertical pole was another mega advance, as was mounting sheets of slate to the bottom of the canoe to add righting moment (weight) and reduce leeway by increasing lateral resistance. 

Steering was done with an oar. Most men, even then, were right-handed. If the voyage was long, they’d lash the oar in place. As a natural result, they’d tie up to discharge their cargo on the port side, not the steering oar (starboard) side. Anatomy as destiny.

Newbies who steer from a proper helm often confuse the words “port” and “starboard.” An easy way to remember the difference is that port and left are short words, while starboard and right are longer. Or remember this simple phrase: “Red left port.” A sailor named Red sailed out of the harbor. The left side of his boat is the port side and the one with the red light. (When two vessels are on a collision course, the one who sees the red light should stop so that the ­green-lit vessel can go.) 

Also, in the United States at least, sailor Red correctly kept the red navigation marks on his left as he proceeded out to sea, in order to stay in the dredged channel. 

This is all basic stuff, correct? (Notice I didn’t say “right” and confuse you even more.)

Alas, sailing vessels that were intended to cross oceans soon began to look different from coastal counterparts. Why? Because their crew didn’t want to drown from waves sweeping across the vessel offshore and carrying them overboard. Plus, the excessive pitching of the vessels in a seaway slowed them down. 

Designers felt that they most certainly had the answer: Make the bow and transom higher, more high, and even higher still. Thus, the lofty stern castles and towering bows of the ­man-of-wars of the 1600s. 

This didn’t work. The weight added at the ends only increased the pitching. Who could have guessed? 

If you think all this is ancient history, just observe the modern trend in multihulls with reverse-raked bows on their hulls or amas. This is the latest demonstration of the “migrate the weight toward the center” concept. Such design choices even affected the English language. Immodest, crude sailors stuck their naked butts over the bows at the “head” of the ship, while more modest skippers set up a canvas shield on the poop deck. 

But getting back to the America’s Cup in the mid-1800s: Yachts had a problem. To be strong, they had to be heavy. And heavy required lots of sail area. But the designer couldn’t make the masts taller with the limited technology of the day. Thus, as the boats became heavier, the rigs became longer via overhanging booms and long widow-makers forward (that’s what bowsprits were called during my youth). 

Sailing ships of the day had lots and lots of sails. They regularly left Boston with four to six extra crewmembers when they sailed to the West Coast via the Horn during the Gold Rush era. One clipper skipper bragged that he’d “lost only three crew” out of the rig during his last rounding of the Horn. How lucky was that?

Anyway, after the Americans carried off the Hundred Guinea Cup and renamed it after America, Europeans wanted to visit the New World to see what all the fuss was about. Shipping increased, and thus the need for pilot boats that could remain at sea for long spans of time yet return to port quickly. That was the heyday of the pilot and fishing schooners, the kind that I grew up aboard. 

Why schooners, specifically? Because with their giant mainsails set far aft, they hove-to extremely well. Here’s irony for you: Some of the fastest boats of their day evolved from vessels specifically designed to bob in place. Ah, the historical goofiness of yacht design.

Back in my youth, large headsails weren’t practical. Not without sheet winches. Yes, some vessels sported sheets with block-and-tackles—all the better to kill any slow-ducking crew.

Now, during this time, most sailors knew empirically, not mathematically, about concepts such as lateral resistance. If you take a picture of a hauled-out sailboat from the side and cut away everything but its underbody, and then you balance the bit of the photograph on a pin, that’s the exact center of lateral ­resistance of the yacht. 

Then, if you add up all the combined centers of effort of all the various sails, and then place that point a couple of inches abaft the center of ­lateral resistance, well, the boat will be perfectly balanced, with just the right amount of weather helm. 

Don’t want to haul out to find the lateral resistance, or don’t have a camera? Fine. Just tie up your sailboat extremely loosely on a windless day. Then pull it in parallel to the dock. Then push it away from the dock with the point of the boat hook. If the bow moves away first, move aft. If the transom moves away first, move forward. Eventually, you’ll get to a spot where the boat will move away parallel to the dock from a single point. Drop a plumb bob into the water: That entire line is your center of lateral resistance. 

What? You didn’t know this? Well, most of my generation of bilge rats did. The difference between us and yacht designers was that the yacht designers knew how to operate expensive slide rules (which were kind of the ­supercomputers of the era). 

Of course, as wonderful as schooners were, it was only a matter of time before a smart-ass such as myself put the rig on backward by placing the smaller foresail behind the larger mainsail, thus inventing the modern ketch. (A ketch has its mizzen mast forward of where the rudderpost bisects the design waterline. Not aft, like a yawl.)

Now, I realize that ­knockabout split rigs are currently out of fashion, and they should be. However, once the wind pipes up above an offshore vessel, split rigs such as our Wauquiez 43 ketch really come into their own. The mainsail can be totally dropped in a gale, and the vessel remains in perfect balance. The boat not only can sail jib and jigger under mizzen and headsail, but it also can sail to windward if it’s well-designed. We regularly go through 40-plus knots with a fully battened mizzen and ­roller-furling storm staysail set, without leaving the safety of the cockpit. How cool is that?

In light-air off-the-wind conditions, we often fly our mizzen staysail instead of our heavy mainsail. The nylon mizzen staysail is ultra-easy to hoist and hand. (In my day, we didn’t take down a sail. We handed it.) 

Of course, the real problem with racing boats is the boats themselves. In a way, they suck. I mean, in order to sail upwind, you need a keel and a sail; the hull of the boat is just useless baggage to support one or the other. Doubt me? Ask any foiling kiteboarder, especially one with a smug grin. 

Or ask any of the crew of the America’s Cup boats Ineos or Taihoro, for that matter. 

How much do I know about the finer bits of yacht design? Modesty prevents me from answering at length, but I do recall my father answering: “How much doesn’t Fatty know on any given subject? Well, usually just enough to get himself into trouble.” 

Fatty Goodlander is still hard aground on his own coffee grounds in Southeast Asia.

The post From Logs to Foils: The Wild Evolution of Yacht Design appeared first on Cruising World.

Back in the day, “­Two-Time Tommy” never did a Race to Mackinac without bringing a Sunday Chicago Tribune in a resealable container. He’d take any bunk assigned to him. He asked no special favor for being the vessel’s navigator, but he always used that newspaper to mark his territory. Only then would he stow his Plath sextant and Thomas Mercer ­chronometer, both in gleaming varnished mahogany boxes with solid bronze hardware. Never cheap brass.

Tommy had won—or, the vessels he’d served as navi-guesser aboard had won—the Mackinac back-to-back. He was a hot navigator, plucked from the ranks of Great Lakes cruising vessels. And he’d spent a lot of quality time at sea, both before and after World War II. 

Mostly, Tommy kept to himself. He said little. He was a tall man with a clipped mustache and a whiff of Old Spice. And he napped often. “I’m enough of a numbskull bright and fresh,” he’d say. “I don’t even want to think of all the stupid things I’ll do if I get fatigued.”

On the morning of the race, he’d go through his ritual—stripping the sheet and pillow off his bunk and then placing page after page of the newspaper on his mattress. Once he had about four layers of newsprint over the mattress, he’d unfold a piece of plastic sheeting and place that over the newsprint, tucked in carefully between the hull and the mattress with the flat end of a small wooden ruler. 

Tommy was a careful, precise man, and all of this took time. Newbies would take note and inquire why. 

“Well, you never know,” Tommy would say with a smile. Each time he’d leave his bunk, he’d do it. Each time he returned, he’d redo it. 

There’s much we can learn from the iron sailors who grew up aboard wooden vessels. Back in those days, the starting line was filled with heavy Alden schooners and graceful Herreshoff ketches—nearly all carvel-planked. And it’s a long race, the Mack is. The weather is fickle. Lake Michigan is notorious for going from fresh to frightening in the blink of an eye. Many of the boats were built of thousands of pieces of wood—planks, butt-blocks, bilge timbers, stems, horn timbers and frames, not to mention the deck planking, deck beams, mast boots, and skylights. 

Don’t get me started on skylights—so lovely, with their bronze bars, thick glass and oiled-canvas covers seeping into the piano hinges. Yes, a good ship’s husband could make his skylight leakproof in the hardest rain, as long as his vessel was in a harbor. At sea, not so much. And I’ve never been offshore with a traditional hinged skylight that didn’t leak. 

Wooden boats also flex. Especially at sea. In a blow. Under a spread of Egyptian cotton. 

Often, before Mackinac was fetched, Tommy’s was the only dry bunk aboard. “It’s not a matter of if,” he’d say, “but when.” 

Why do I mention this, dear reader? Because many of the most experienced sailors, like Tommy, think of sleep first. Getting sufficient rest offshore is a priority for them. 

If you don’t sleep, you start making bad decisions inside of 48 hours. A tired sailor is a dangerous sailor, to themselves and others. 

First off, you need a dry bunk, numerous pillows and at least one bolster. The idea is simple: You sleep in a comfy rough between the hull on one side and a wedge of pillows and bolsters on the other. This allows you to drift off without having to tense and relax your stomach muscles. 

I also use an eye mask, but it’s a large, hollowed-out one that allows my eyelids to flutter during REM sleep without waking me. 

If we are hove-to in a full gale or rarer storm conditions, I also bring my noise-canceling headphones with me, to drown out the screams of centuries of drowned sailors. AirPods and old-fashioned earplugs work almost as well. 

Of course, aboard my 43-foot ketch, Ganesh, custom-sewn, super-strong lee cloths are always rigged in heavy air, so there is zero chance I’ll become airborne during a broach, knockdown or roll. 

Normally, I fall asleep ­instantly, unless I’m so tired and so wired that I can’t. In that case, I slowly, methodically relax each part of my body until it is leaden and floats on an imaginary cloud. I start with my toes and seldom get to my head. 

My wife, Carolyn, is to a large degree responsible for how rested I am before a major gale. Once she realizes that a bit o’ breeze is on the way, she orders me to my bunk. If I’m sleeping deeply, she doesn’t wake me for as long as possible. 

During this time, she makes a thermos of coffee and one of soup, and hard-boils a dozen eggs. I can fight a gale forever with eggs in my foulie pockets. I just hold the egg up, crush it one-handed until the flecks of shell are all swept overboard, salt it with the waves bounding aboard, and chomp it down. Once, on a 36-hour stint at the wheel with a jammed headsail, I couldn’t stop steering long enough to pee. Afterward, alas, I truly understood the “foulie” nomenclature.

Anyway, Carolyn works extremely hard before the gale while I nap like a little prince. She gets her princess sleep during the gale as I wrestle with the devil on deck. 

Obviously, before the gale, I drink only nonstimulants such as herbal tea and avoid heavy meals, both of which can inhibit sleep, especially for the aged. 

One thing I never do is to wish the storm away. This can quickly lead to obsessing. In fact, I have a switch on my anemometer so that my crew and I can’t obsess about the speed of the gusts. Nor do I listen to any chats on the single-sideband radio with newbies who don’t want to die. I tune out the wealthy friend with a large yacht that has Starlink. He stupidly attempts to push the storm away with his cursor—and then complains bitterly over the SSB that it has no effect. 

Expressing this kind of fear is contagious. If a crewmember grows silent with worry, I nonchalantly talk about events in the future while noting that our masts are up, our is keel down, and our bilges are free of water. 

No, I never allow any talk of the life raft. Lubbers consider the life raft a reasonable option. Sailors don’t. To me, stepping into a life raft is one step closer to Fiddler’s Green. 

Of course, just because I have spent a lifetime avoiding my life raft doesn’t mean I sail without one. I have two. And, most important, I have four dry bags full of supplies. I also have a rehearsed plan. (Of course, I have a lofty distress kite with a tail of shiny CDs to alert ­distant ships. And an AIS for the raft, and a handheld VHF radio with a solar charger as well.)

Here’s the truth: I’ve chosen to live my life afloat. This affords me the highest quality of life imaginable. Storms are part of life at sea. Therefore, I’m out in midocean not only for the magnificent sunsets, but also for the storms. 

Few people have ever seen a mature gale from the deck of a small vessel. The immensity of the force is unimaginable. I think of this force as Mother Ocean, but you can call it Mother Nature or God if you prefer. Whatever you call it, it is awe-inspiring. 

Whenever I think of death, I remember the cosmic thrill of surfing off on liquid mountains in the lower Indian Ocean. Yes, I fear men. No, I neither fear nor deny death, because death is what makes living so ­touchingly sweet and precious. 

Of course, to stay safe out there, Carolyn and I are careful not to wake the other. We use a Watch Commander. It’s an adjustable timer that first blinks gently, then buzzes softly and, finally, rings an alarm. This is a one-touch device. Each time it is touched, it resets. Our Watch Commander is a beloved companion after three circumnavigations.

One thing I do not ­recommend is any mother’s ­little helpers. Don’t carry pills to stay awake, and never take one to fall asleep. Party your heart out on recreational drugs if you must, but only ashore—never at sea. 

Most of all, I’m rested at sea because I’m at peace at sea. I love the long ocean passages the most. Forty-eight days across the Pacific was the ­closest I’ll ever get to heaven on this earth. I’ve wanted to do this all my life. No price is too high for me to pay to continue to see God’s face in every wave.

Sailing is the last planetary freedom a poor man can enjoy. The American cowboy used to say, “Don’t fence me in.” Luckily, mobile phones, computers and AI haven’t yet figured out a way to wall off Mother Ocean. 

Go to your nearest port and shove off to sea at dawn. Long before nightfall, you’ll be ­totally alone—just you, your vessel and your god of choice. 

How cool is that?

Fatty and Carolyn Goodlander are having a blast in Singapore, where they recently hosted a ­traditional American Thanksgiving feast for about half the country. 

The post On Watch: Why Smart Sailors Prioritize Sleep at Sea appeared first on Cruising World.