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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My husband, Harry, and I spent 25 months cruising the Pacific Ocean. We returned to land at Bainbridge Island, Washington. Friends and family gathered on the dock to greet us. They rang cowbells, boomed a cannon and cheered when I expertly slalomed our 44-foot Mason, Oh Joy II, to the dock. It was an overwhelming experience, and that feeling didn’t fade for months.

Before we departed on our adventure, we’d watched videos, movies and in-person presentations about cruising. We’d read books, magazine articles and other stories. We’d talked incessantly about our cruising plans with each other and with other cruisers. The preparation phase was rich and well-supported.

But upon return, there was no guidance whatsoever. No videos with recommendations on how to transition back to land life. No sage advice about what to expect the first few months. Nothing at all. 

These are the things I wish someone had told me as I stepped off our boat onto land.

Accept the Grief

This is a confusing time. You’ve invested your heart into a lifestyle that challenged you and taught you a whole lot. Now you’re ending that lifestyle and starting a new one. Maybe you thought you were happy about this next chapter. Or maybe you knew you weren’t happy about it. Either way, accept that the end of your cruising lifestyle comes with grief. Even if you’re overjoyed to be off the boat, there will be grief.

Your partner might grieve differently than you do. What looks like productivity and industry might be an attempt to bury sadness. What looks like despondency might be physical exhaustion. Instead of making assumptions about what your partner is experiencing, try having a conversation about it.

The sooner you can accept that you’re grieving, the sooner you can start to make sense of your new life.

Stay Connected to the Sea

This helps with the grief. It also helps you process what was likely the biggest, most consuming experience of your life. The point here is to dig into memories of your journey. Take your time. Do a little work on this every week. 

Staying connected to your sea adventure might mean a visit to your boat. Go for a day sail, or just sit in the cockpit for a while. Feel the feelings. Be curious about them. There is no right or wrong way to feel.

You can create a video to share with friends and family. Or volunteer to share your story with your local yacht club, and create a presentation for that. Or compile your written logs and journals into a book that you can self-publish through any number of online services.

Another idea is to continue to communicate with friends who are still at sea. Send emails and texts. Comment on social media.

Expect ‘Normal’ to Be Elusive

Whether you spent years or decades living on the ocean, it will be a while before the daily rhythm of land life feels comfortable. You’re accustomed to a vigilance that’s just not required in land life. Your nervous system is tuned to a high pitch from navigating different countries and cultures, being self-sufficient with little support, and anticipating calamity. Settling down feels dangerous. “Normal” feels weird. You’ll get there. Give it some time.

If you’re returning to an interrupted career, my informal survey of other cruisers says it’ll take six months to a year before you’ll find a job or get back into your income groove. This will seem like forever, but really, it’s exactly as long as it should be. You weren’t ready for it earlier.

Appreciate the Ordinary

People who sail on oceans are extraordinary. You are extraordinary for having done that. It became part of your identity. That can be hard to let go. 

There’s a big difference between monitoring cyclones that might destroy your body and home, and returning a package at the local store. But there’s joy in the ease of ordinary life, too. There’s freedom in being normal. Find a way to appreciate that.

Ordinariness is an excellent space for rest. You’re probably not yet aware of the physical tax on your body from holding a state of attention for years. Ordinary life gives you permission to stop paying attention, knowing you’ll still be safe.

Don’t Throw It All Away

During my two years at sea, I wore the same four or five shirts, the same two pairs of shorts, and the same three or four sundresses. I wore the same sun hat every day. These items were perfect for our adventure, but they became stained, torn and misshapen, so much so that before our arrival home, I threw most of them away. 

This spring when the sun came out, the first thing I wanted to put on was my favorite sundress. Which I no longer owned. I was shocked by how sad this made me.

It’s not about the items. It’s about what the items represent, and how they can help you process grief. Give yourself a few months before you get rid of things.    

Remember: A Lot Changed

At first I was a little bummed to realize none of my friends really understood how much two years of living on the ocean had changed me. Then again, did I understand how much my friends had changed too? 

While I was gone, two friends moved across the country. One had a stroke. Another was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer, entered a clinical trial, and became cancer-free. Grandchildren were born. 

You don’t have a monopoly on major life experiences just because yours is so unusual. If you can widen your viewfinder, you’ll find comfort and camaraderie right where you are.

People still ask me occasionally, “How’s the transition to land going?” I haven’t had a good answer for the past year, but now I’m starting to feel like I can respond more consistently: “It’s going good! Still a little weird, but less so every day.” 

Joy Archer recently completed a Pacific Ocean circumnavigation with her husband aboard a Mason 44. She is writing a memoir of the odyssey. Enjoy more of her writing on her Substack, Oh Joy!

The post 5 Lessons From a Sailor’s Return to Land Life appeared first on Cruising World.

I’m a lifelong, card-carrying rag sailor. But the sail I hoist isn’t the only reason the term fits. I know that, like wine, sailing clothes improve with age.

Take my two sailing shirts: both long-sleeved Lacostes, one navy blue, the other white. The backs of both have enough holes to rival cheesecloth. The cuffs are tearing away from the sleeves. The darker material of the blue one masks most of its stains, but the white one advertises them—slashes of green bottom paint, rust-colored blotches, speckles of varnish, a grease stain of unknown origin.

I’ve worn these shirts as long as we’ve owned our 12-foot catboat, Finn—almost two decades. They’ve become old mates of mine, and the rips and stains and frays testify to the many years of service they’ve seen aboard our yachtlet. Catch a whiff of them in their postsail state and, if you’re like me, you’ll relish their aroma of seawater, salt, sunscreen and sweat (and perhaps Pilsner Urquell).

Indeed, though they were once crisp shirts-about-town, the well-marinated state they’ve reached makes them boat-wear only. My wife, Ellen, sees to that. 

She knows my penchant for wearing sailing clothes that are, if not technically rags, at least comfy to the point of scruffiness. Polos, chamois shirts, swimming trunks, hats, shoes…. How many times over the years have I tested her goodwill by wearing clothes that should have been donated to Goodwill?

This tendency to look like a seagoing hobo came early to me. By age 5, I was a connoisseur of rumpled khakis and baggy jeans. I still remember how pajama-like one pair of khakis had become. My mother ironed patches on the knees several times over, and I loved wearing them rolled up pirate-style, as I did with my jeans.

One of my favorite articles of sailing clothing when I was a sea pup aboard the boats we chartered and owned was a white sweater with a Swiss cross on its front. I wore it as much as possible, maybe because I equated it with my father’s Swiss Army knife that I coveted. I slept in it, burrowed away in a cramped forward berth. I probably even got my hair cut in it—the signature crew cut my father administered with clippers and buzzers. (Dad also used to summon me home to dinner by blowing on a conch shell Hawaiian-style, and I’d come running, likely in those same khakis—the knee patches muddied and grass-stained.)

I’ve never seen another sweater like it. I’m still looking for a similar one—an attempt to embrace my sailing roots, I suppose—even though long ago I lost the Swiss Army knife that my father bequeathed to me. 

When I was a commercial fisherman, I lived in codfish-­bloodied jeans, a ­hand-me-down blue-plaid flannel shirt, a pair of canvas sneakers bought at Kmart for $3, a royal-blue oil-splotched down vest with rusty snaps that I found at a thrift store and, on trips offshore, rubber deck boots and orange Grundéns oilskins—the true uniform of the trade. Those too bore blood flecks, scrapes and raggedy cuffs.

When my mom got gussied up before a night out, she said she was putting on her “glad rags.” I feel the same way when I put on my sailing shirts. I’m getting ready to party on the water with friends.

Clothes are mere objects, I realize, and yet they’re companions of a sort too—crewmates that have embraced me on sails spanning from the sublime to the scary. 

Being a rag sailor binds me, as it does all of us who sail, to sailors from St. Brendan and Columbus to Cook and Melville. I wonder: Did they too forge bonds with their attire?

Henry David Thoreau appreciated the importance of old clothes. In a journal entry from 1858, he writes: “Dec. 26. Call at a farmer’s this Sunday afternoon. I surprise the well-to-do-masters of the house lounging in very ragged clothes … I am glad to know … the actual life of these New England men, wearing rags indoors which would disgrace a beggar…”

I still mourn the tattered khaki baseball cap emblazoned with “Salty”—the name of our beloved yellow Lab—which got swept overboard during an unintentional jibe. No amount of searching could retrieve it. 

And I believe that while sailing clothes might not improve in looks as they age—if you ­fancy the spiffy and the spotless—they do grow richer in character and comfort.

I will continue to trot out my shirts and my current battered sailing hat the way I did my last pair of Top-Siders. They were blue ones that turned powdery slate with countless rinses in salt water and developed such huge holes in their sides that the last three toes on both my feet waggled free. 

One day, these two old friends, derelict at last, will ­disintegrate. Or someone in our household, namely first mate Ellen, will deem them too disreputable for wear even on the water, and I will consign them to the deep to mingle with the remains of my long-lost cap.

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