Prior to stepping aboard the Hanse 360 during the 2025 Boat of the Year contest, the last Hanse I’d sailed was a year earlier on the larger, quite imposing 510. It was a beast of a yacht with a seven-figure price tag, more than 50 feet of waterline, and a towering 77-foot spar. As a brand, Hanse had been concentrating on its larger offerings, and I have to say, I was a bit intimidated but also quite taken by the 510’s bold looks and massive platform.

So, stepping aboard the 360, I was highly interested in how the French design consortium of Berret-Racoupeau—the naval architects also responsible for the 510—would scale back their vision while remaining true to Hanse’s usual brand ­objective: Build comfortable production cruisers that sail well. 

I thoroughly inspected the 360 dockside and then took it for a spin on Chesapeake Bay, and I was actually somewhat shocked—because I liked it even more than its big sister. Size-wise, especially, it was a boat I could relate to. 

Aesthetically, to gain perspective on the 360’s generous girth, it’s perhaps wise to begin aft and work our way forward. The wide, open transom has a drop-down platform that serves as a handy back porch for boarding or swimming (a nifty attached swim ladder drops directly into the drink). The twin wheels are just forward and well outboard, with Jefa steering pedestals. The cockpit is flanked by settees/couches to port and starboard, and a ­flat-screen Raymarine chart ­plotter is mounted on the central table that also holds a handy day fridge. 

Going forward, as is de rigueur in so much contemporary production yacht design, there’s a pronounced chine that creates a lot of interior space. A trio of hull windows offers light and views down below while providing some visual accents to the tall freeboard. The coachroof, as with most Hanses, is low and understated, almost flush (you don’t need a tall deckhouse with all that volume below). 

The Selden spar ­package is deck-stepped, and the traditional, standard Doyle mainsail with slab reefing is fully battened and stashed in a slick stack pack on the boom. There’s a choice for the deck of optional real teak or synthetic Flexiteek, both of which offer good grip and appealing looks. Our test boat had the optional sprit forward—perched over the plumb bow—for ground tackle and tacking off-wind sails. From directly overhead, the 360’s outline bears a striking resemblance to an arrowhead, especially with its pointed entry. 

Not surprisingly for a ­contemporary design in the mid-30-foot range, the interior is laid out for a couple. In the standard accommodations plan on our test boat, the main stateroom is essentially an open floor plan, with a pair of double doors providing privacy for the forward V-berth in the event that there are guests occupying the double berth aft to starboard (to port, this opposing space is dedicated to stowage). There’s a central dining table fronting a U-shaped settee to port, with a straight-line settee to starboard. There’s also a nice galley and a single, opposing head to either side of the companionway. The overhead room is rather astounding, well over 6 feet, 5 inches. An optional layout in the 360’s brochure shows a pair of double-berth staterooms, two heads and an offset double berth in the bow; from the drawings, at least, this version appears incredibly busy for the length overall.

The construction laminate employs vinylester resin with a balsa core in the hull and the deck, which are bonded together for a bulletproof coupling. The cast-iron keel has an attached bulb and is available in a shoal-draft (5 feet, 5 inches) or deep-draft (6 feet, 9 inches) configuration. The single spade rudder is hung off an aluminum shaft with self-aligning bearings. The auxiliary is a 40 hp Yanmar diesel with saildrive. Solar power is an option; our test ride had several flexible deck panels. 

We tested the boat on a fall Chesapeake Bay afternoon in a moderate breeze of 8 to 12 knots. An electric winch used to hoist that big mainsail was a welcome feature. The boat is easy to sail and trim, with running rigging led aft and a double-ended German-style mainsheet. The 360 has a split backstay that allows easy egress to the swim platform, but it’s also a bit uncomfortable when leaning outboard behind either of the wheels. I was curious about that single rudder on such a wide stern, but it had plenty of bite and control. The helm was light, and the boat was pleasant to steer. 

The self-tacking jib made tacking easy, but the boat seemed a bit underpowered. Genoa tracks are an option for an overlapping headsail, and that would be an easy choice for me if I were keeping a boat on the Chesapeake. Still, we managed a hair over 6 knots in the puffs, as the hull was easily driven. Even if we didn’t maximize the 360’s sailing potential, it felt like it was clearly there.

Built in Germany, the 360 found immediate success in the European markets, and it’s no mystery why. It’s a cool boat, and it’s roomy and quick—two traits that are hard to beat. 

CW Editor-at-Large Herb McCormick was a 2025 Boat of the Year judge.

The post Sea Trial Report: Hanse 360 appeared first on Cruising World.

At the end of a long pier at SUNY Maritime College in New York are two clusters of piles used to protect the Empire State IV training vessel. The pier was adjacent to the swift tidal currents of the East River, and before each day’s practice, I would make a point of sailing in a figure eight around the pilings. This simple exercise improved my boathandling skills in close quarters.

It doesn’t matter whether I’m someplace like that, daysailing through a mooring field, closing in near a marina, or lining up on a crowded starting line for a race. The goal is to navigate safely in close quarters while enjoying the sights.  

I enjoy waving to mariners on other boats and to people on the dock. Everyone waves back. People are friendly on the water. But you need to be careful: The most important factor in this type of sailing is to control your boat’s speed. If the boat is stopped, there is no maneuverability. 

There are three important factors when handling a boat: rudder position, sail trim and weight balance. Make sure your sheets are ready for trimming. Have the lines in hand, not cleated. Check that the sheets are coiled neatly so that they can be eased or trimmed at a moment’s notice. 

The helmsman should constantly communicate the next maneuver to the crew. Crews do not like surprises, like a sudden jibe where the boom flies across the deck or a fast turn that puts everyone off balance.  

Don’t be shy with the crew. Ask everyone to stay low so that there is adequate visibility for the person at the helm. Avoid loud chatter, which will allow everyone to concentrate on assigned duties. Turn the rudder slowly so that the boat keeps momentum. This is important when approaching a dock or a mooring buoy. 

I find that a boat is easier to steer when there is a slight leeward heel. The position of the crew’s weight is important. 

Keep a lookout for other boats or objects. When hailing a warning to the rest of the crew in the cockpit, be sure to turn toward them so that you will be heard. Establishing eye contact helps communications.

Things can go horribly wrong in close quarters. I watched a horrifying video recently of a small cruising boat struggling to stay clear of a pier extending out into the Pacific Ocean. The helmsman kept heading up to avoid hitting the pier. The action put the boat in irons with no steerage at all. Eventually, the boat smashed into the pier and broke its mast.  

The solution for this unfortunate sailor should have been to head down, trim the sails and accelerate. Just 2 or 3 knots of speed would have made the difference, allowing the boat to tack out of harm’s way.

 If the boat is slow, head down to gain speed. Your speed will increase in just one boat­length. A sailboat will accelerate quickly when you bear off if you ease the sails out. Avoid overtrimming the sails. If you head up, trim the sails in as you turn toward the wind. The trimming action on the mainsail will help the boat turn up, allowing you to use less rudder. A fast turn forces the rudder to drag and slow the boat.  

If another boat is sailing toward you or in close proximity, give a hail so that they hear you. If you must make a maneuver, then make a deliberate course change of at least 15 degrees so that the other crew will see your action. The important thing is to avoid any chance of a collision. Keeping the VHF radio tuned to Channel 16 is also a good practice.

Continuously take mental bearings with your surroundings. Observe the object you are heading for, and use that line of sight with a distant object. The change in bearing between the near and far objects will help you be sure that you are sailing the correct course.    

Understanding the direction the wind is coming from is essential in close quarters. Use every available source. My favorite wind indicator is the masthead fly. I glance at the top of the mast frequently to see the direction of the wind.

You can also observe the masthead wind indicators of other boats in the harbor, as well as flags onshore and pennants flying from shrouds or from the mastheads of other boats. Best of all, you can see the sail trim and course that other boats are steering in the ­vicinity—even if the enclosed waters make it hard to see wind ripples on the water.    

Be careful not to sail too fast. Your hull will make waves, which annoys sailors at dockside or anchor. I find it best to pass to leeward of moored or anchored boats to avoid fouling the anchor line. This technique also ensures that your mast will not get entangled with another rig. Try to maneuver in open waters. Most boats can make a comfortable turn in one to two boatlengths. In particularly tight quarters, it is acceptable to have the engine running in case you need it.  

You can practice maneuvers using a single buoy as a reference point. Tack and jibe around the buoy to get a feeling about the distance it takes to bear off or luff up. Experiment with fast and slow turns to get a better feel for your boat. This is what helped me with the two piling clusters off the Maritime College pier.  

A word of caution: Don’t be a showoff. I recall a 12-Metre skipper who was inspired to entertain a wedding party taking pictures on a floating dock. The skipper misjudged the speed of the boat as he was attempting to land. He hit the dock at about 4 knots. Luckily, no one went into the water, but the bride and groom looked horrified.  

Too many of us have done similar things. When I was about 17 years old and skippering a speedy E Scow, I ­decided to show off by flying into the harbor at about 20 knots. At the last second, I rounded the boat hard into the wind. The boat came to a stop, and the sailors watching my antics erupted in applause. The only person not clapping was the boat’s owner. His comment a few minutes ­later was, “Son, that wasn’t cool.”

The post Threading the Needle: Boathandling Tips for Sailing in Tight Quarters appeared first on Cruising World.

Somewhere, someone is about to fall in love. It might happen this fall, walking the docks at a boat show. Or online, browsing listings deep down a brokerage rabbit hole. Or aboard a friend’s boat, when the genoa pops, the water turns to mercury, and that little voice inside says, More please.

If that someone is you, I won’t talk you out of it. But I will say this: Boat ownership is not all smooth sailing and sunset anchorages. It’s a floating to-do list. It’s a crash course in troubleshooting, a master class in delayed gratification. It’s 90 percent chaos and 10 percent magic, and somehow, that math works. 

You’ll encounter new tools, new smells and new words. Most of them will be expensive. But somewhere along the way, you’ll also discover a part of yourself that thrives on challenge, adapts under pressure, and finds meaning in every hard-won nautical mile.

Full disclosure: Boats are demanding. They break. They leak. They never ask how your day is going before they throw something new at you. And we love them all the more for it.

When my family bought our first boat, I didn’t fully appreciate what we had signed up for. I just knew I wanted to go sailing. What I didn’t expect was how attached we, as a family, would get to all of it: the clatter of halyards in the yard, the smell of wet teak, the pride of knowing the boat inside and out because we’d rebuilt or rewired half of it ourselves. Our first cruise wasn’t flawless, but it was unforgettable, and that’s the ­currency of boat ownership.

Sure, as a boat owner, you might question your decision more than once. But then comes the moment—maybe on a perfect beam reach, or alone on the hook with ­coffee at sunrise—when the chaos subsides, the boat steadies, and you feel it: This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Boats also connect us to one another. How many dockside friendships have started with, “Hey, I noticed your solar panel setup,” or “Mind if I borrow your heat gun?” This is a community that rallies, whether to share knowledge, lend a hand, or swap stories over sundowners. Owning a boat brings you into that fold.

If you’re heading into boat-show season and hearing a little voice—Am I ready? Is it worth it?—the experts who contribute to Cruising World have your back. In our Hands-On Sailor department, Behan Gifford of Sailing Totem pulls back the curtain on marketing lingo like “turnkey” and “ready to cruise.” She also explains how to separate dream from delusion. On the other side of the coin, Avocet’s Marissa Neely unpacks what it ­really takes to prep a boat for sale, both emotionally and practically. She offers insights for sellers and ­future buyers alike. You’ll also find a pair of boat owners’ stories that remind us what this lifestyle is all about—seen through a purpose-­built ­passagemaker and an Atlantic crossing that tested not just the systems but ­also the soul of the journey, and from a solo sailor who wrestles with 3,000 miles of ocean and finds clarity on the other side. These stories matter because the boat-ownership experience isn’t just about the boat. It’s about what the boat makes possible. Boating is a platform for self-reliance, growth, escape and return, and everything in between. 

If you’re staring down your first haulout, chasing that elusive “perfect boat,” or trying to make sense of what “needs a little love” really means, we welcome you. No, you’re not crazy. You’re embarking on a journey that can be extraordinary.

In my experience, there’s always been that moment—after the bilge has been cleaned, the leaks hunted down and sealed, the errant halyard finally led fair—that you step back, wipe the grime from your hands, and catch a glimpse of your boat at rest. Maybe the sun is just beginning to arc low across the anchorage. Maybe you hear the soft clink of rigging in a light breeze. In that quiet instant, you remember why you fell in love with this life in the first place.

Is boat ownership worth it? 

You already know the answer. 

The post For the Love of the List (and the Life) appeared first on Cruising World.

The sea off Cannes, France is barely breathing this particular morning, its surface flat and ­luminous under the weight of the sun. We slip quietly from the dock and into the Gulf of Napoule, where the horizon meets the sky in the sort of hazy blur that makes distance seem irrelevant. A thin breeze meanders through the rigging of Sine Finis, just enough to stir the sails but not enough to command them. The boat moves anyway. Not quickly, but surely, as if being pulled forward by some invisible tether.

At the helm, Nico Jonville stands relaxed, one hand lightly on the wheel. He isn’t adjusting or trimming or steering with any urgency. He is simply sailing. The kind of sailing that reveals not just what a boat can do, but also what it is.

That quiet clarity is what first strikes me about Sine Finis. With so little wind, there should have been hesitation. But instead, we glide. A boat like this doesn’t need drama to be impressive—only a sailor who understands.

“There’s a precision to the helm,” Jonville says. “You feel the rigidity of the boat. It’s clean, immediate.” 

Even in stillness, this boat offers something most performance cruisers don’t: calm confidence. And in this light-air passage off the South of France, I can already feel what the boat was made for: movement. Big movement. The kind that crosses oceans and transforms sailors.

This movement, for Jonville, started long before Sine Finis. It began in France with his grandfather, aboard boats that shaped his earliest memories. 

“I was behind the wheel by the time I was 3,” he says, laughing. He grew up between Paris and the coast, with summers spent on the water. Sailing wasn’t something he learned; it was something he absorbed.

His grandfather—an old-school mariner who believed in ­giving youngsters the helm—handed him a level of freedom most sailors don’t taste until adulthood. As a teenager, he was already captaining trips with friends aboard a 46-footer, gaining miles and an innate trust in himself and the sea. There were mistakes, of course—he’s quick to acknowledge them. “Plenty of stupid things done,” he says, smiling. “But that’s how you learn. That’s how it gets into your bones.”

Eventually, life brought him to the United States, where he found a different rhythm in the sailing scene of Southern California. In 2007, he bought his first “real” cruising boat: a 37-footer capable of more-serious travel. “I wanted to go farther,” he says. “I wasn’t interested in racing or daysailing. I wanted to move.”

And move he did. From San Diego, he sailed down the Baja coast, into Central America, through Panama and into the Caribbean. He spent time in the San Blas Islands, fell in love with remote ­anchorages, and began to sketch out a circumnavigation. “That was the plan,” he says. “Around the world.”

But then came COVID. Countries closed. Routes vanished. Plans dissolved. Like many voyaging sailors, Jonville found ­himself reevaluating not just his passage plans, but also his vessel. 

“She’d taken me far,” he says of the 37-footer. “But I started seeing the limits—especially in tougher weather. I wanted something safer. Something that wouldn’t just survive offshore, but thrive.”

He sold the boat in Virginia and began what he jokingly calls “the hunt”—a meticulous, sometimes maddening, two-year search for the right replacement. Not just a boat that looked good on paper, but one that also could carry him through the kind of voyaging he envisioned: shorthanded, long-distance and full of unknowns.

“I had a hundred checkboxes,” he says. “Fast. Safe. Solo-capable. Dry cockpit. Storage space. Good light-air performance. A real sailboat, not a floating apartment. But I still wanted comfort. I didn’t want to compromise on what matters at sea.”

He found the Pegasus 50 almost by accident. It was in a listing online, with a photo that caught his eye. The lines were modern and purposeful. The configuration looked different. The deeper he researched, the more intrigued he became. 

Built in Slovenia, the Pegasus 50 was designed for performance cruising with an epoxy-infused carbon hull, twin rudders, a double-wing keel, and a cockpit that emphasized protection and singlehanded control. It was a monohull with the openness of a catamaran, but it still promised to sail like a proper offshore boat.

He flew to Europe. When he saw the boat in person for the first time in the marina, he was overwhelmed. “I was like a kid in a toy store,” he says. The sea trial sealed it. In just 12 knots of wind, the boat moved effortlessly at 9. The code zero unfurled, and the boat surged forward with a smoothness that made his decision feel inevitable. “It was everything I’d hoped for. And more.”

That evening, after the sea trial that left him electrified, Jonville and his wife ducked into a small waterside restaurant tucked away in a sleepy Slovenian harbor. Still riding the high of the day—and the certainty that he’d found the right boat—they raised a toast with glasses of local sparkling wine.

The label caught Jonville’s eye: Sinefinis. Curious, he asked the waiter what it meant.

“It means ‘without borders,’” came the reply.

Jonville sat back, stunned. His last boat—his faithful 37-footer that had carried him through Central America and into the Caribbean—had been named Sans Frontières. The French translation was identical. Here, thousands of miles from that boat and its memories, he’d stumbled onto the same phrase, translated into Latin, etched on the bottle at the table where he and his wife were dreaming of a new chapter. Sine Finis. Without borders. Without end.

The boat was delivered to the Mediterranean, and after some time testing and commissioning with the owners of Pegasus Yachts, Jonville set off from Slovenia with two friends, heading west toward Venice, Italy. It was his first true shakedown sail aboard Sine Finis, just days after taking delivery. He’d barely had time to get acquainted with the systems—hadn’t even practiced reefing under pressure—when the weather turned.

Off the coast of Italy, sometime after midnight, a squall barreled in fast and hard. The wind spiked to 38 knots. The Adriatic turned serious. “It came on strong and unexpected,” Jonville says. “I barely knew the reefing system yet, and here I was, alone in the dark with sails full and seas rising.”

He sprang into action, reefing down quickly, learning on the fly in real time. Sheets were eased, and he worked through the motion with instinct and muscle memory. But what surprised him most was how the boat responded—not panicked or overloaded, but sure-footed, balanced.

“She held her own,” Jonville says. “There was no drama in the way she behaved. I adjusted, and she just kept moving.”

Later, in the calm that followed, Jonville sat at the helm watching the glow of the instrument lights dance off the carbon rig. The boat had just passed its first real test—not in a sea trial, not on paper, but out there, in the elements, with one sailor alone. And the bond between them began to cement—not with a handshake or a christening, but with shared weather and trust.

Later, they sailed west through Gibraltar, on to the Canaries and across the Atlantic—Sine Finis’ first major passage. This boat was ready. Jonville was too. 

“Crossing the Atlantic is the dream,” he says. “But it’s also the test. You learn who you are. You learn who your boat is.”

Crossing an ocean isn’t just a matter of charts and provisions. It’s a psychological departure, a shift in mindset from the immediacy of coastal sailing to the long, slow breath of life offshore. Before casting off from the Canaries, Jonville and his small crew spent days readying Sine Finis for the passage. Systems were checked, weather windows weighed, redundancies double-checked. They discussed watch schedules, stowed food in every conceivable locker, and reviewed emergency protocols with the same attention as sail trim.

But as any offshore sailor knows, no matter how prepared you are, there’s always that quiet moment of reckoning when the coast fades behind you and the realization sets in: This is it. You’re out there now.

“For me, there’s a mental shift,” Jonville says. “You go from planning to being. There’s nothing left to do but sail, and that’s the beauty of it.”

For just under three weeks, Sine Finis rode the trades westward with the grace of a boat made for the passage. The crew settled into their rhythm quickly: two-person watches rotating through the night, shared meals by day, quiet hours at the helm punctuated by bursts of laughter or mutual silence. The boat revealed itself as fast and capable, and also forgiving. It was comfortable in light air, confident in heavier breeze, and almost eerily quiet in motion.

“Even in rough weather, we could cook, work, sleep,” Jonville says. “We had everything from 3 knots to 35, and she never ­struggled. That gave us time to actually enjoy the crossing.”

And enjoy they did. There were nights when the cockpit felt like a floating observatory—the stars so brilliant, they could trace constellations by instinct. Moonrises over the stern lit the water in molten silver as the boat surfed at 12 knots. One night, dolphins played in the wake, their bodies igniting trails of bioluminescence like underwater fireworks.

There were challenges, of course, but nothing serious: a code zero tack line change due to chafing, a spinnaker tear in strong gusts, a loose washing-machine-hose repair underway. The crew was sharp and composed, and worked together with an ease born of trust—trust in the boat and in one another.

“You get to know people differently out there,” Jonville says. “When you’re standing watch at 2 a.m., talking about nothing and everything, it sticks.”

On Sine Finis, that space for connection was everywhere—­between helm and cockpit, galley and salon, on-watch partner and off-watch sleeper. The open flow of the boat’s design meant the crew was never isolated. And the boat’s handling meant no one was ever overwhelmed. The boat made the crossing not only possible, but also pleasurable.

More than anything, the passage offered something rare: clarity. Little internet. No noise. Just wind, water and the company of people who had chosen to be there. They trimmed sails together, told stories over breakfast, shared the quiet work of passagemaking without pretense or pressure.

“She just felt right out there,” Jonville says. “The boat, the crew, the sea—it all came together.”

And for every mile they made good, there was something else gained: confidence and the quiet wonder of seeing the world slowly shift, one longitude at a time.

One of the boat’s standout features proved invaluable offshore: an electric gimbaled salon table. “You’re heeled over at 15 or 20 degrees, but you can still work, eat, read, use a laptop while sitting level,” Jonville says. “It’s not a gimmick. It changes the way you live aboard underway.”

Just as important was the cockpit protection. On his previous boat, sailing in big seas often meant getting soaked, battling weather, and bracing for every wave. On Sine Finis, the covered helm created a cocoon of calm. “You’re doing 9, 10, 11 knots, and outside the wind is howling, but you’re dry, you’re warm, you’re focused,” he says. “It’s a completely different experience.”

After landfall in the Caribbean, the boat continued north ­toward Chesapeake Bay. There was little fanfare aside from complimentary onlookers asking about the boat. Just another passage, another movement forward. That, in many ways, is what Sine Finis represents for Jonville—not an arrival, but rather a way of continuing. A vessel not just for going places, but for becoming someone new along the way as well.

“This October, I’ll have Sine Finis at the Annapolis boat show. After that, I don’t know where we’ll go next,” Jonville says, standing at the stern as Sine Finis edges north along the US East Coast. “The list is long.”

A return to San Diego is all but certain—his adopted hometown, a natural waypoint and homecoming after the Atlantic chapters. And there’s talk of sailing north to the Pacific Northwest, a region that calls to him with its wild coastline and quiet anchorages.

But there’s no timetable. No fixed itinerary. Not anymore.

He’s not chasing latitudes or counting countries. He’s chasing something more elusive: feelings. The right breeze. The right harbor. The right morning light filtering through the companionway as the kettle whistles and the boat rocks gently at anchor.

Still, that old idea, the one that started it all, hasn’t entirely disappeared. The dream of a circumnavigation lingers in the background, unhurried but unforgotten.

“It’s still there,” Jonville says. “It might not look like I imagined when I was younger, and that’s OK. We’ll take it one leg at a time. If it happens, it happens.”

In the meantime, Sine Finis is already doing what it was built to do: crossing oceans, making landfalls, bringing people together. Each passage unlocks something new for Jonville—on the chart and inside the sailor himself. It’s apparent when he stands at the helm. That quiet reverence. That calm curiosity. The same posture he carried that day in Cannes, when the boat was barely moving but somehow telling us everything we needed to know.

For a sailor raised in the space between tradition and ambition, Sine Finis is the right boat at just the right time. 

The post Sailing <i>Sine Finis</i>: The Boat Built to Chase New Horizons appeared first on Cruising World.

There’s an old saying among sailors: “The two happiest days in a boat owner’s life are the day they buy their boat and the day they sell it.” While my husband, Chris, and I can confirm the unbridled joy of buying our beloved 1979 Cheoy Lee 41, Avocet, we’re not quite ready to test the second half of that theory. After years of pouring sweat, love and bottom paint into her, we’ve promised to keep her for the long haul.

That said, we’ve been crew on the emotional roller coaster of friends preparing to sell their boats. Trust me: It’s a ride with plenty of ups, downs and the occasional splash of regret.  

To demystify the process and help sailors prepare for what can feel like the nautical equivalent of sending your child off to college, I turned to two experts: yacht broker and sailor Josh Hannigan, as well as our pal and long-range ­cruiser Peter Metcalfe. They shared their wisdom, and a healthy dose of reality, on how to sell your boat while (mostly) ­keeping your sanity. 

The Right Timing

Let’s rip off the bandage: The right time is now. “If you’re ready to let go, just do it,” Hannigan says. “Boats aren’t like real estate. They’re not investments that appreciate. Every day your boat isn’t on the market is a day the perfect buyer isn’t seeing it.”  

Hannigan is more than a longtime yacht broker. He’s ­also a captain involved with yacht surveying, sailing ­instruction, and providing specialized services for ­watermaker systems and custom sails. He offers insights as an active sailor, instructor and liveaboard boat owner. He’s also an associate surveyor with the Society of Accredited Marine Surveyors and an instructor with NauticEd, making him a trusted adviser on boat ownership, maintenance and sales. 

For Hannigan, boats are less like houses and more like relationships: There’s someone out there who will love your boat just as much as you do. But timing, he says, is everything: “The right buyer might be waiting for a promotion, selling their property or finally retiring. If your boat is out there when they’re looking—and it’s the best option—it’s game on.” 

The trick, as with most relationships, is patience. Boats can take time to sell, and the seasons of the sailing world ­often ­dictate when interest peaks. But Hannigan says a well-prepared boat can sell at any time of year, provided it’s priced competitively and ­presented at its best.  

First Impressions

If you’re picturing buyers strolling onto your boat and falling in love at first sight, you’d better make sure it’s worth swooning over. 

“Think of it like staging a home,” says Metcalfe, who is in the process of selling his boat, the 38-foot Hans Christian Kessel, after completing a singlehanded voyage across the Pacific. “A clean, fresh-­smelling boat with shiny brightwork makes it easy for buyers to imagine themselves living their dream on board.”  

To prepare Kessel, Metcalfe embarked on a top-to-bottom makeover. “I revarnished the cabin sole, repainted the ­interior, refinished the teak, and even spruced up the deck paint. It was a labor of love—and a little heartbreak—but it made all the difference.”  

Hannigan agrees, but with a sharper edge: “Every scratch, chip and stain is a negotiation chip that you don’t want to hand over. Fix it now, or be prepared to lose money later.” 

His advice? Paint the bilge, tighten the hose clamps, and make the engine shine like you’re prepping it for a yacht show. “Every small detail adds up to one big impression: This boat is cared for,” he says. “Buyers can sniff out neglect faster than you can say ‘osmosis blister.’”  

Keep It Functional 

Boats are also like pets: They don’t do well sitting idle. Hannigan says systems left untouched for months will almost certainly revolt when you need them most. “Flush the heads, check the furlers, and make sure your wind instruments actually display wind,” he says. “Buyers will forgive quirks, but they won’t forgive neglect.”  

Metcalfe adds that honesty goes a long way: “If you can’t fix every issue, be upfront about it. Disclosing known problems shows you know your boat and aren’t trying to pull a fast one. Buyers appreciate ­transparency, and it builds trust.”  

I remember when we were buying Avocet. She wasn’t neglected, but she was ­definitely left untouched for months because the seller was in poor health. Luckily, we had a survey to support our concerns and could whittle the price down to a number that reflected the state she was in. 

The Right Price

Hannigan’s pricing philosophy is refreshingly straightforward: Price your boat fairly based on its condition and market comps. 

“Set a no-nonsense price that reflects a boat in good working order,” he says. “If everything works, buyers will pay for their preferences rather than penalizing you for deferred maintenance.”  

The Broker 

Selling privately can save you brokerage fees, but the process is not for everyone. Hannigan recommends asking, “Do I have the time, patience and knowledge to handle this myself?” 

A broker can take care of marketing, showings and paperwork, making the process smoother—especially if you’re emotionally attached to your boat. (And let’s face it, who isn’t?)

When choosing a broker, Metcalfe suggests going with your gut. Ask yourself: Would I buy a boat from this person? “If the answer is no, keep looking,” he says. “A good broker should be approachable, knowledgeable and genuinely interested in finding the right buyer for your boat, not just making a quick sale.” 

Patience Is a Virtue 

Selling a boat takes time. Hannigan likens it to getting out of a gang: “It’s not going to be easy, and it’s not going to be quick.”  

When it came to buying a boat, Chris and I took a whole year and put in two offers on two boats before Avocet fell into our laps. It took time, heartbreak and research to find the right boat. I can only imagine how Avocet’s sellers felt with the boat sitting on their hands for twice that amount of time. 

Budget for the time it takes to sell your boat and for the expenses involved in keeping it in show-ready condition. Whether it’s in a slip or dry storage, a well-maintained boat is far more likely to attract buyers than one that looks like it’s been left to fend for itself.  

Moving On

For Metcalfe, selling Kessel is bittersweet. “This boat carried me through some of my toughest times, but life has seasons. It’s time for me to move on.”

He expects tears when he hands over the keys, but also joy, knowing that the boat he loved is ready for its next adventure. We can’t wait to buddy-­boat with him again someday. We are confident he will be on the buyer’s side of thingssoon.

What he’s going through right now, though, is what so many sailors endure. It’s more than a transaction. It’s a rite of passage. Whether your boat has been a faithful partner, a dream realized or a character-­building challenge, preparing it for sale is your chance to honor its story while helping a new owner begin theirs.  

So, give it your best. Varnish the teak, clean the bilge, and light a candle in the galley for good measure. And when the right buyer comes along, hand over the keys with a smile, a handshake and maybe a little tear. 

After all, it’s not just a boat—it’s a piece of your life, setting sail for a new horizon.

The post How to Sell Your Sailboat: Pricing, Staging and Letting Go appeared first on Cruising World.

The internet is replete with guidance—some of it accurate—on the subject of auxiliary diesel engine maintenance and upkeep. There is, however, far less discussion on the subject of marine gears, otherwise known as transmissions.

Transmissions ­commonly run into problems too. For instance, the control cables. They’re the traditional connection between the shift lever in the cockpit and the gear down in the engine compartment. This system is a telegraph of sorts. Pushing it forward or aft mimics the same movement on the gear’s own shift lever.

The cable, which is made up of a steel core and a steel wire jacket covered in plastic, is fairly reliable unless it gets wet. Then it can rust and seize. The jacket can also melt if it comes into contact with a dry exhaust component. More likely failures involve various ways that the cable jacket may be immobilized and how the core is attached at each end.  

The jacket clamp is critical. If it’s a gate style, then it should be safety-wired into place. If it’s a saddle, then it should be secured with self-locking or double nuts. If it loosens and the jacket is allowed to move, then shift control will be lost (and possibly stuck in gear).

The connection of the core to the shift lever must rely on proprietary parts from the cable manufacturer, including proper jaws, clevis and split pins. Don’t use common nuts and bolts. Check the interfacing parts for wear, a task that requires disassembly. Ensure that cable-end locknuts are tight. Make certain the cable is adjusted properly so that when it is in gear, the lever is fully engaged. Also be sure you know how to engage the lever manually if necessary.

For the coolers, be aware that there are two types of marine gears: mechanical and hydraulic. Up to about 100 hp, most engines are mated to a mechanical gear. Larger engines often utilize hydraulic gears. 

Many, but not all, of the mechanical gears use an oil cooler that is bolted to the gear housing. It removes heat through the case wall without ever coming into contact with the oil.  

Hydraulic transmissions utilize a traditional heat exchanger with oil on one side and seawater on the other side. 

Coolers used on both types of gears are prone to corrosion and leaking. Hydraulic gear coolers, because the pressure is much higher, will leak oil into cooling water initially. Coolers used on hydraulic gears can become clogged because they rely on small-diameter tube bundles.

Damper plates, also called torsional couplings, connect the engine’s flywheel, or output, to the gear’s input shaft. This system uses springs or a flexible, rubberlike insert to absorb shock when shifting. If the springs break, or if the flexible material cracks or disintegrates, you might lose all propulsion, or it simply might get very noisy. (Some plates are fail-safe; they will maintain contact but lose all damping ability.)  

If you notice a change in noise when shifting, or if you notice rubber or metal fragments under the after end of the engine, it might be an indication of a failing damper plate. Some bell housings (the cover that surrounds the damper plate) have ports that will allow for limited inspection without disassembly.

Finally, check your marine gear’s oil. This lubricant isn’t subject to the same sort of combustion contamination and heat degradation as engine crankcase oil, but it does wear out or shear, losing viscosity. It can also become contaminated with metal or moisture.  

Hydraulic transmissions usually call for replacement every 500 to 1,000 hours, which is an eternity for most sailing vessels. It’s either the number of hours or every six to 12 months, whichever comes first.  

Make certain you use the correct lubricant for your gear. Some systems require straight weight (not multiweight) ­motor oil, while others use auto­matic-transmission fluid. Also check the level correctly. Most ­hydraulic gears call for checking the level while running warm at idle and in neutral. By contrast, the mechanical gear oil level is checked at rest. Follow your manufacturer’s instructions.

Because the sump capacity is usually comparatively small, the cost of changing this oil annually is also small and offers a good return on investment. Ideally, have the oil analyzed as well. If your gear is hydraulic, it may have a filter (internal or external), and it probably has a suction screen. Remember to change or clean these too.  

Steve D’Antonio offers services for boat owners and buyers through Steve D’Antonio Marine Consulting.

The post Marine Transmission Maintenance: Prevent Failures Before They Happen appeared first on Cruising World.

We cleared through the Panama Canal and sailed back into Pacific waters for the first time in a decade—but I looked west from our 50-footer, Atea, with a sense of despondency. All of our sailing friends had worked hard to get to this stage. They looked at the Pacific as the beginning of an epic adventure. I, however, looked at it as the ending of ours. This would be the final year of an 11-year circumnavigation. I was reluctant to conclude our cruising lifestyle.

Yet, it was hard to be sullen when so much beauty lay ahead of us. The Pacific is the largest ocean in the world, and we would be sailing through one of the most enviable cruising destinations: French Polynesia. We would spend the next three months playing hopscotch across 2,000 miles of ocean, tossing our stone from tropical paradise to tropical paradise in a game that required no more effort than to follow the breeze and our desire. With 130 islands to choose from, the only challenge was selection. 

There are five archipelagos within French Polynesia. We decided to focus on one: the Tuamotus. With the Marquesas and Gambier islands to the east and the Society and Astral islands to the west, this central group is a part of French Polynesia that I had bypassed on my previous trip across the Pacific. Tahiti and Bora Bora caught my attention on my first trip, but this time, I was drawn toward names I had never heard: Makemo, Tahanea, Fakarava. We skipped the high peaks and lush greenery of the popular volcanic islands and headed for the Tuamotus’ string of six-dozen near-submerged rings that form the largest chain of coral atolls in the world. 

We departed from the west coast of Costa Rica and sailed 4,000 miles through a continuous sea to reach our first atoll. As we watched a thin cluster of wispy palm trees slowly materialize from the blue seascape, it was like setting our sights on a midocean mirage. Amanu is an outer-­lying atoll on the southeastern edge of the group, quiet and sparsely populated with few visitors. We found crabs, coconut trees and a small group of Polynesians in a sleepy village. We wandered the tidy streets and passed orderly rows of houses with tricycles parked outside property fences and gravestones set inside the gates. Other than a single resident who quietly strolled past us in the midday heat, the little township had an air of abandonment. After a month at sea without any outside contact, the lack of solitude suited us perfectly. 

Slowly, we cruised around the inner rim of the atoll, enjoying the peaceful beauty. Long, rolling waves that transited hundreds of miles crashed onto the outer reef, washing over to settle like still pond water in the inner lagoon. The tops of palm trees waved gently in the breeze, offering perches for the terns, boobies and frigate birds resting after their long-haul flights.

We would spend the next three months playing hopscotch across 2,000 miles of ocean, tossing our stone from tropical paradise to tropical paradise.

We collected seashells and made driftwood rafts for our 8-year-old pirate and ­10-year-old brigadier, stick weapons sheathed as they battled for imagined bullion and lost treasure. We snorkeled with the colorful bommies and healthy population of reef fish, and paddleboarded the drop-off with oceanic manta rays gliding by underneath. We built bonfires on the beach out of coconut fronds, pulled down as we dislodged coconuts from the cluster above our heads. We enjoyed a slow gin to the slip of the setting sun and gazed up at the fantastic spray of fairy lights sparkling in the darkness of an unpolluted night sky. For any recluse, Amanu is the place to be. 

The next few atolls offered similar isolation. On Makemo and Tahanea, coconut trees provide the only means of generating an income. For most of the locals, this business is a multigenerational family activity. Outside of that, they were doing what we were doing: using those same trees as shade in the midday heat, wallowing in the shallow waters for an easy catch for the evening meal, and shooing away giggling children. 

We rarely saw anyone. We usually chose anchorages away from the villages. When you have the independence and means to truly get away from society, you might as well go whole hog. By fully immersing ourselves in isolation, we were able to pick up on the nuances. Each atoll had its distinctions: Amanu felt totally remote, Makemo had aquatic purity, and Tahanea was unspoiled beauty.

Tahanea was our golden gem. It is a nature reserve whose only residents are feathered, shelled or scaled. The lack of hunting and fishing results in an abundance of wildlife ­completely unfazed by the odd human guest. A few islets within the lagoon provide ­hatcheries for three species of booby birds: red-footed, brown and masked. To hear the abrasive warning squawk of a protective hen and to see the curious eye of a newborn chick was a joy, and the frenzied swarm of the disturbed flock swooping and diving overhead was a curious intimidation. In the shallows was another nursery, with foot-long predators ­skirting around your ankles, the tip of their fin barely breaking the surface. 

Our timing for Tahanea was specific. We wanted to witness the grouper spawning. During the week preceding the full moon in July, the marbled grouper usually perform their mating ritual: a spiraling whirlpool of fish that create rippling currents of metallic color. This year, however, the spawning occurred in June, so we’d missed it. But the ­grouper were still around, all resting on the ocean floor. 

We did get to watch red snapper spawn in an equally impressive courtship dance. We came upon a large school just inside the pass and followed them for a while, unaware of the performance that was about to commence. They started grouping and regrouping, circling one another, one chasing another out of the pack. As the school grew and compressed into a tight ball, a female would break out in an ascending dash. A string of suitors would chase tail in a long spiral, a pearlescent flash of color ripping down their sides. At one point, a lemon shark swam through the group. The entire school turned on it and chased it away. To hear it, I wouldn’t have believed it, but that day, I watched the many defeat the mighty.

Next, we sailed for Fakarava to watch the competitions and performances of the Heiva, French Polynesia’s version of the Olympic Games. The Heiva is a monthlong festival in July that honors Polynesian history—the oldest festival in the Pacific with initial performances dating to 1881. Fakarava, the most populated atoll in the Tuamotus, holds the best example of a traditional Heiva (Tahiti’s are more commercialized). Encouraging locals pulled us from our seats to participate in the fruit-carrying race, javelin toss and coconut-husking competition. Fortunately, we were not invited to join the ‘ōte’a, a powerful and seductive Polynesian dance that would only humiliate any ­nonnative performer. We even walked off with a few cash prizes—a token for participation rather than achievement.

Fakarava is the second-largest atoll in the Tuamotus, with the second-largest lagoon in all of French Polynesia. Pelagic species crowd its two inland passes. (A whale shark guided us through the lagoon.) The northern pass is the largest, with a rich biodiversity of rays, turtles and dolphins. The southern pass is a protected sanctuary for gray reef sharks with the highest global concentration: about 700. We were side by side with these apex predators and they acted like docile goldfish. We were able to dive the outer wall and inside the pass without a local group, and the freedom of swimming within the school was an experience like no other.

Leaving Tahanea and Fakarava was like pulling teeth—none of us wanted to depart. But we were midseason and only halfway through the atolls. We received a warm welcome in Toau, where our arrival instigated a spontaneous lobster feast. In Apataki, we quickly made friends with two young bachelors who wanted a life simpler than in the faster-paced Tahiti. A stone set just off their homestead laid claim to the hopes, dreams and protections of mariners who had traveled through Apataki centuries before us. Following suit, we dressed up in palm-leaved hats and did a ceremony for our continued safe journey and protection at sea, then spent the next several days with our hosts sharing bonfires on the beach, fish from their daily catch, and lobster ­freely delivered to our boat. To be so openly accepted, befriended and included, with no gain in return, is the ultimate ­human experience. 

To be so openly accepted, befriended and included, with no gain in return, is the ultimate human experience.

For us, the Tuamotus offered a rare glimpse into French Polynesia’s beauty. Nature is allowed to flourish. The inner lagoons are healthy with marine life. Humpbacks spray their steamy breath into the air, and the occasional whale shark sidles in for a curious peek. The locals are welcoming, but they’re also willing to leave visitors in peace. 

I had started this season by looking at the Pacific as an ending, but with hindsight, I now see it as an opening. It is a reminder of all the beauty this world holds, and a promise that there is always an adventure in the path ahead.

The post Exploring the Tuamotu Atolls in French Polynesia 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.