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.

Ensenada, Mexico, was officially founded in 1542, but the year really denotes when Spanish explorers arrived in the area. Quechan- or Yuman-speaking people had lived here for thousands of years. The place remained little more than a village until gold was discovered nearby in 1872. Ensenada then developed as a mining port, and was designated capital of Baja California in 1882. British-owned Mexican Land & Colonization Co. planned and developed the modern city in subsequent decades.

Ensenada lost its capital status in 1915 after being devastated by the Mexican Revolution, and it remained a backwater until tourism took off in the 1950s. The annual Newport to Ensenada International Yacht Race began leaving from California in 1948—with famous actor Humphrey Bogart taking part that first time.

Today, Ensenada is one of Mexico’s most atmospheric ports. We found great wine and superb seafood (I’m told, at least, since I have never enjoyed seafood). Like many port towns, Ensenada is tourist-centric, which means there is petty theft and general pestering, but if you don’t go looking for trouble, you won’t find it. We learned that English is spoken virtually everywhere, and we did our best to communicate in Spanish out of respect. Google Translate, downloaded to our phones, was a big help to overcome my decision to study French instead of Spanish in college.

The streets were bright and colorful, alive with music and cruise-ship tourists. We exchanged our dollars for pesos and walked the long way through the fish market, along the Malecón and beneath the large Mexican flag that painted the sky. I pinched myself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. We were really here.

Reality on a boat has a way of reasserting itself, though. Our 1979 Cheoy Lee 41, Avocet, had a nasty gash from rubbing against the dock during a big blow back in the States before we’d left. It turned out to need a fairly quick fix that we could do in Ensenada.

Between coats of Awlgrip, my husband, Chris, checked in on our neighbor and buddy-boater, Peter Metcalfe, who was entertaining a friend aboard his 38-foot Hans Christian, Kessel. I was deep cleaning Avocet’s interior, preparing her for our longest passage yet, when Olivia knocked on our hull.

“Do you know how to get diesel out of fabric?” she asked.

“Baking soda and vinegar, grease-cutting detergent, Listerine or ammonia should do the trick,” I replied, and she went on her way.

A few moments later, she knocked again, asking if I could help her get diesel out of their mattress.

“Your mattress?” I asked.

By the time Olivia and I got over to Kessel, Chris, Peter and his friend were all tucked into the aft cabin, which was filled with diesel fumes. A breather hose for the diesel tanks, which allows the tanks to vent, was obstructed. When Peter had been filling the tanks, enough pressure had built up to create a siphon through the vent hose, which was, unfortunately, located above their bed.

The stench was so bad, it wafted all the way down the dock.

“Can I stay on your boat tonight?” Olivia asked. Our cat, Cleo, was thrilled to have a cuddle buddy in the quarter berth.

For us and the Kessel crew alike, the time spent in Ensenada was short, sweet, expensive and full of surprises—but then Chris and I were off again for our longest passage yet, to Bahia Santa Maria, where we would endure even more misadventures.

Lesson learned: Enjoy the good times, because when it comes to cruising, new challenges are always just around the bend.

The post Aiming for Mexico, Part 6: Good Times and Diesel Dreams appeared first on Cruising World.

The customs office was behind us as my husband, Chris, and I made our way back to the marina in the van, having been told by the authorities that we had to solve our paperwork problem or cruise out of Mexico within 48 hours of just having arrived aboard our 1979 Cheoy Lee 41, Avocet.

Our friend and buddy-boater, Peter Metcalfe from the 38-foot Hans Christian Kessel, was tied up next to Avocet at Ensenada’s Marina Coral. Peter immediately began doing what he does best: He jumped into fixer mode, calling all his contacts since he’d had a similar issue with his temporary import permit, or TIP.

“We can fix this,” our escort from Marina Coral told us, “but it’s going to cost you.”

We were bracing to be met with a $1,000 solution, but we were shocked to learn that it would only cost the amount of a new visa: $30.

The details of how we pulled that off? Well… suffice it to say that we had chosen well when we picked the Marina Coral as our landfall destination. We soon had a new TIP and the confidence to continue sailing south along the Mexican coastline.

But first, we were going to explore what Ensenada had to offer, starting with a nice, long celebratory soak in the marina’s hot tub.

I had been to Ensenada aboard cruise ships: three times as a kid with my family, then once with Chris on our honeymoon. Experiencing it as a cruiser was entirely different. There was no one to present perfectly curated itineraries, tell us where to eat or direct us toward things to see. Instead, it was up to us to navigate this city with our minimal Spanish and our own feet.

During the TIP debacle, Chris had treated our Marina Coral agent to lunch at his favorite taco place—which had also given us a chance to learn where the locals eat in a sea of tourist-trap palapas. The tacos were so amazing that Chris suggested we make a return trip. That’s where we started, with our friend Peter in tow. The tacos de asada for breakfast were fantastic, followed by fish tacos for lunch a few hours later and a churro for early dessert.

And that was just the beginning of everything that Ensenada had to offer.

Lesson learned: Local knowledge is key for a lot of reasons, from solving paperwork problems to finding the best food.

Coming next: Part 6, at last, the good life in Ensenada, but with new challenges never too far off on the horizon.

The post Aiming for Mexico, Part 5: Local Knowledge—and Tacos—Save Our Voyage appeared first on Cruising World.

Our friends Peter and Olivia had made landfall in Mexico before we did. With their own boat, the 38-foot Hans Christian Kessel, all tied up, they guided us into the slip alongside. Their dog, Ginger, was quick to greet us with sloppy, wet kisses.

We only had an hour to check in with the marina and Mexican customs, so we left our own boat, the 1979 Cheoy Lee 41, Avocet, in the condition we’d arrived in.

At the office, checking in with the marina was fairly straightforward. Afterward, marina staff escorted our group to customs officials. That service alone was the reason why we chose Marina Coral in Ensanada. Although it is a more expensive berthing option than some other marinas where we could’ve checked in, Marina Coral had promised to help us through the process, which can be tedious and which, in our case, became problematic pretty quickly.

All vessels checking into Mexico need to obtain a temporary import permit, or TIP, either online or in person. Back when we had bought Avocet, the broker had assured us that the boat’s TIP had expired, leading us to believe we were clear to apply for a new one.

What we didn’t know, and what we quickly learned in Ensenada that day, is that “expired” and “canceled” are two different things.

We had actually tried to get our TIP online prior to arrival, but we kept running into an error code that said we needed to mail the application and money. The Mexican postal system is notoriously unreliable, so we’d decided to figure it out in person once we arrived in Mexico aboard Avocet.

Now, our check-in process was going smoothly until it came to that TIP. The agent behind the counter shook her head and whispered something to our Marina Coral escort.

He then told us that we had 48 hours to leave the country.

Wait, what?

It turned out that Avocet’s previous owner had never checked out of Mexico before crossing the border, and hadn’t canceled the TIP, probably because he had intentions of sailing back. Then, he had fallen ill. During the sale of Avocet, he was in poor health, so his daughter and close friends had handled our purchase of Avocet from him. The TIP had likely slipped through the cracks at that time.

To satisfy the Mexican government, we needed to provide a document showing the previous owner’s exit from Mexico and his arrival in the United States—something that would be even more complicated now, since he had since died. The boat’s bill of sale would not do.

I called Avocet’s past two marinas, trying to get a lease contract with the previous owner’s name, but there was no luck there. I reached out to his daughter on Instagram, where she keeps up with our journey, to see if she had any paperwork laying around. Nope.

The clock was ticking, and our Marina Coral escort suggested that we all go back to the marina to see if the previous owner was in its system. Maybe the marina could provide some sort of proof of exit.

Even better, we would soon learn, our escort already had another solution hiding up his sleeve.

Lesson learned: When buying a boat, make sure that the broker fully understands your cruising plans, and that everything about the boat is in order for those plans to become reality.

Coming next: Part 5, a problem that could’ve been a lot more expensive, and why it pays to have local assistance on your side.

The post Aiming for Mexico, Part 4: The TIP Trouble No One Warned Us About appeared first on Cruising World.

It was 4 a.m. on the dot, so I thought my husband, Chris, was rather punctual when it came to going off-watch and gently waking me for my turn at the helm aboard our 1979 Cheoy Lee 41, Avocet.

Then, I realized I had a question to ask him as he shimmied out of his foulies: “What’s that smell?”

“Trash,” he replied before throwing himself into our bed, exhausted.

Not at all a normal reply, but an understandable one, given that he had just spent hours dodging poorly lighted fishing boats and a partially submerged barge to keep us safe while I snoozed.

I made my way up to the cockpit and found the beanbag nestled abaft the helm, water bottles and evidence of snacks all around—not that the scene after any of my watches looks much different, but I tend to keep all the things I need in a central location. I rearranged Chris’ setup to my liking and then settled in to watch the sunrise with Cleo, our cat, who had stretched off her slumber and stared out over the horizon with her yellow eyes as wide as can be. If only I could read her mind.

Three hours later, Chris emerged in the companionway, an hour before his next watch.

“There’s Ensenada,” he said, pointing. His eyes looked tired, but his smile showed excitement. He had decided to make us breakfast and to join Cleo and me outside. The closer we got to Ensenada, the more alive the VHF radio became with chatter from fishermen.

We had read countless articles and blog posts, and listened to tales from those who have cruised to Mexico—but still, I didn’t entirely know what to expect from this country. I reeled in my anxiety, which can get the best of me with negative thoughts, and I focused on how exciting it was to be curious about whatever was in store for us ahead.

After all, at this point, I had become great at finding the silver lining in our misadventures. I assured myself that if we stumbled into another one, it would all be all right.

It didn’t take long to encounter our first challenge in Mexico, and it was a real whopper—when we were told that we had only 48 hours before we had to leave the country.

Lesson learned: When you’re on a boat and entering a new country, be prepared for anything.

Coming next: Part 4, with all our preparations for cruising south of the border, we never expected to encounter this problem.

The post Aiming for Mexico, Part 3: Landfall in Ensenada and a 48-Hour Surprise appeared first on Cruising World.

It was 23:15, two hours into my four-hour watch aboard our 1979 Cheoy Lee 41, Avocet, when I checked the chart and saw that we had crossed the imaginary line that separates California from Mexico.

Tears streamed down my face. All the stress I’d been carrying melted into the sea as the years, months and days leading up to this moment vanished into an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Almost as if on cue, dolphins were in our wake, playing in the bioluminescence. Cleo, our cat, popped her head out of the companionway and let out a single meow before hopping onto my blanketed lap and settling into a deep sleep—a good sign, since she used to get seasick and avoid anything to do with the outside world.

Later, when my husband, Chris, relieved me from my watch, he discovered me looking all too comfortable, enthralled with the night sky. Before I retired belowdecks, I was sure to point out a few constellations in addition to my watch debrief.

Chris then got to experience the magic of true offshore cruising: It was just him, the sea, the stars and the voice of Olivia, who had also just taken her first watch aboard our buddy boat, the 38-foot Hans Christian, Kessel.

But alas, while my watch had been uneventful with time to search the stars for Orion, Poseidon had saved the action for Chris.

It was around 2 a.m. off Tijuana, Mexico when Avocet came upon a fishing fleet. I was still asleep below as Chris encountered 12 boats that he had to navigate through, all trawling in various directions with 300-foot leads behind them.

Not to mention, they weren’t lighted to spec, if they were even lighted at all.  And, they didn’t show up on AIS, a problem that added another level of intrigue to their course.

“Avocet, Avocet, Avocet,” Olivia called out on the VHF radio. “What do towing lights look like?”

Chris answered her question, and then she said there was a partially submerged, 200-foot barge lighted by a singular red flashing light on the outskirts of the fishing fleet.

If not for the full moon, Kessel would have made contact. If not for Olivia’s relay, we may have as well.

That was when I truly felt like we had made it over the border to a new place with new challenges. Oh, Mexico, what wonders will you hold for us?

Lesson learned: Always keep your eyes peeled, and have friends out on the water who are keeping watch and sharing information, too.

Coming next: Part 3, a 48-hour deadline we didn’t expect to encounter upon our landfall at Ensenada.

The post Aiming for Mexico, Part 2: A Midnight VHF Call appeared first on Cruising World.

It has been four years since my husband and I restepped the mast aboard our 1979 Cheoy Lee 41, Avocet, following weeks of DIY refit work. Our project list included upgrading the hardware, extensive sanding and, as the final touch, applying Nyalic as a protective coat.

My husband would have preferred to leave the mast bare, but I wasn’t on board with the idea of aluminum looking shabby over time. Aluminum is one of the most popular metals for marine use because it’s durable and lightweight, and it forms a natural oxide coating that prevents corrosion. However, exposure to salt water can leave it looking rough, prompting many boat owners to turn to paint, which can fail, lead to corrosion, and deteriorate the mast. Paint can also starve aluminum of oxygen, preventing it from maintaining its protective oxide layer. 

Another option—anodizing—is an electrochemical process that hardens aluminum’s oxide layer and offers excellent protection. Unfortunately, in California, there’s only one anodizing tank large enough for masts, and the cost for us would have been equivalent to buying a new mast.

We did consider leaving the aluminum bare, but I discovered Nyalic, a clear protective coat designed to seal aluminum against saltwater damage, oxidation and pitting. Used on spacecraft, Nyalic seemed promising. After hearing glowing reviews from industry professionals, as well as a trusted friend who had used it on his mast, we decided to give it a try.

Our initial testing came from Avocet sitting in its slip in Ventura, California, where it endured frequent sandblasting by prevailing winds. The Nyalic finish held up well, maintaining its shine.

In September 2022, we began cruising, starting with a sail up the coast to San Francisco Bay. Heavy rains and salty sea spray tested the mast’s protective coat, which continued to shine. During the next month, the bay’s salt-heavy environment and industrial soot put Nyalic through its paces. After washing down Avocet at the Berkeley Yacht Club, we found that the mast still showed no signs of wear.

Nyalic isn’t as hard as paint, and it is more susceptible to scuffs in high-wear areas, but touch-ups are simple, with no need for extensive prep.

We shared our experience online and heard from other sailors who’d tested Nyalic with similar success. Our friend Peter, who applied Nyalic to his 1978 38-foot Hans Christian, Kessel, reported no need for touch-ups after a year. “The spar is shiny and protected from corrosion,” he said. “The application process was straightforward, using aerosol cans to apply even coats. I’d absolutely use Nyalic again.”

Another couple, Ben and Allie, aboard their 1989 Sceptre 41, Kiana, used Nyalic after reading our blog. They’ve since sailed from Canada to Mexico and are preparing for a Pacific crossing. “With so many projects to tackle on an older boat, it’s nice to keep some things simple, and Nyalic totally fits the bill,” Ben said.

Four years in, we remain impressed by Nyalic’s performance. As we continue to add miles under our keel, we’ll keep testing its durability and share updates.

The post Shining Armor: 4 Years of Real-World Nyalic Mast Protection appeared first on Cruising World.

Our last month in California was pretty action-packed as we tried, diligently, to point the bow of our 1979 Cheoy Lee 41, Avocet, southward toward paradise. We escaped Morro Bay after experiencing horrendous weather and fixing our diesel engine, and we arrived in Ventura, where we ran around like chickens with our heads cut off. From there, we made it to Catalina Island, where we discovered that our Starlink—which I rely on for work—was busted. On the map, Mexico was only a few hundred miles away, but at times throughout the month, it felt like our target destination was unreachable.

Finally, we were off—and getting a true taste of how it feels to live the long-distance cruising lifestyle.

“What are you working on?” my husband, Chris, asked from across the cockpit.

The sun bathed us in warm rays as our autopilot kept us on our southbound course, our sails full in a 7-knot breeze. I was typing away on new articles, responding to emails and adding podcasts to my “listen later” list since Starlink was back in action. Avocet was on her way to Mexico, and damn, did it feel good.

That was a long day full of fair winds and dolphins playing in our wakes that faded into a night of darkness and motoring. I found the low rumble of the Perkins engine to be a somewhat cathartic reminder of perseverance, since a month earlier, we’d been faced with the possibility of having to repower, further delaying our Mexico plans. Now, I no longer thought of the sound as a nuisance. It was a reassurance that everything was OK.

I took the first watch, nesting into the beanbag in our cockpit footwell while I waited for the stars to paint the sky.

“Avocet, Avocet, Avocet.”

The call over the VHF radio repeater in our cockpit was from our friend Peter Metcalfe aboard his 38-foot Hans Christian, Kessel.

Kessel had been behind us until he and Olivia, tapped out on sailing and turned on the engine a few hours before we doused our asymmetrical sail. I could faintly see Kessel’s stern light off our bow as the jagged shape of California’s coastline contrasted with the fluid sea.

“Are you seeing the sky right now?” Peter asked.

It glistened like diamonds. I did my best to identify my new recurring night watch buddy in the cosmos: Orion himself.

Lesson learned: Sailors who say all the aggravation is worth the effort to experience the world this way are absolutely right.

Coming next: Part 2, a VHF radio call in the night, and a dangerous series of hazards to navigate.

The post Sailing <i>Avocet</i>: Finally, Off to Mexico—Our Six-Part Saga appeared first on Cruising World.

Ventura, California, to Cat Harbor was not the plan, but at that point, what was? Accepting the unexpected had certainly made me a more patient person, and I wasn’t necessarily opposed to stopping at Catalina. On the contrary, I was excited to spend our last days in the United States on the magic little island, even if it was all while waiting for parts to arrive by mail.

Somewhere between Morro Bay and the present, our Starlink decided to stop working. We were getting painfully slow download speeds in comparison to our buddy-boater friends. It wouldn’t do for this crew, since I am still running my business while we cruise. It was 5 a.m., and I was hoping to get some work done while we were sailing, but soon realized that without a proper connection, all I could do was shut my laptop in frustration and hope we could figure out the issue when we got to Cat Harbor.

It wasn’t the most comfortable sail in the world, on the tail end of a strong Santa Ana in confused seas. The chop was 5 to 6 feet, coming at us from all angles in addition to the predominant northwesterly swell. Our buddy on the 38-foot Hans Christian Kessel who had left at the height of the wind event, four hours before us, was now only about 10 nautical miles ahead. He had slowed down to ride out the swell during the worst of it, which unfortunately lasted longer than anticipated. Our 41-foot Cheoy Lee Avocet punched through the washing-machine chop, holding an average 6 knots with full canvas up. It was a bumpy ride, but we arrived at the anchorage an hour after Kessel, snagging a mooring just as the sun went down.

Cat Harbor is the deepest cove on the island and provides excellent protection for boats anchored or moored there. It is one of only two U.S. Coast Guard year-round safe harbors in Southern California. Since it was the offseason, we paid for two nights and got five for free, which, at $73 per night, seemed like a pretty good deal to us.

At this time of year, the isthmus is lightly reminiscent of our beloved Santa Cruz Island, especially in contrast to the hustle and bustle of the city of Avalon on the southwest side. Although there is some infrastructure (a bar, restaurant, laundry, restrooms, and kayak rentals) they are mostly inhabited by ghosts during the winter.

None of which would help with my Starlink problem. Going up the California coast, we had no issues, but after our stint in Morro Bay, our dishy never worked the same. After we slept off the rough passage, Peter Metcalfe from Kessel was aboard Avocet in the early hours of the morning to help us troubleshoot. He and my husband, Chris, shuffled between Kessel and Avocet all morning with various equipment, trying new cables and configurations. Chris filed a help ticket on the Starlink app and was pleasantly surprised to get a response within five minutes. The tech confirmed it was a hardware issue and arranged for new hardware to be sent to our address, which was still set as Safe Harbor Ventura Isle.

Fortunately, we had friends living aboard in the marina. They agreed to receive the package and were kind enough to send us their router in the meantime. Unfortunately, there was no good way to get to the Avalon Post Office from Cat Harbor in the offseason, but Chris was excited to try and ride the 40 mile round-trip-trail. His first attempt was rained out by a squall, so he decided it was probably best to sail the boat over for a night before sailing to Mexico. It was Friday and the post office would be closed over the weekend, leaving us with two full days to explore Cat Harbor.

“Harlow no! Leave the Buffalo alone!” Peter shouted during our hike the next day, as one of his two Malinois pups tried to get up close and personal with a buffalo. A movie production had left 14 of them here in 1924, and they got pretty busy populating the island, with 150 buffalo here now. We encountered them on the Goat Whiskers Trail, which we hiked backwards, starting with the steep, sun-beaten ridge. Then we continued onward and upward, emphasis on upward.

“Did you pack your inhaler?” Peter asked with a chuckle as we began our ascent. Back in San Luis Obispo, I think I had a mild asthma attack when trying to hike Bishop Peak. I laughed through my panting, taking a swig of water before marching up to the next vista. With the recent rains, the island was painted in bright green with pops of wildflowers, all contrasting with the blue ocean. We encountered an abundance of native flora and fauna, what with the Catalina Island Conservancy having solicited sharpshooters in helicopters to execute all the goats back in the 1990s.

As we came to the top of the peak, we were greeted with the infinite view of the ocean to the west, and the mainland with snowcapped mountains to the east. The grandeur of the landscape and the island’s furrowed coast splayed open like a deck of cards, revealing unmatched views of Catalina’s wild side.

We were exhausted the following day, but Chris and I still managed to get out and stretch our legs, scrambling up a cliffside near our mooring. There was a lot of washout and unstable ground. To my delight, we foraged some fennel, California sage and the best surprise of all: pickleweed.

Back on Avocet, we turned on our water maker for the first time—it worked exactly as we had hoped, and our tanks were topped off within the hour. That evening, we brought our cat Cleo to shore to stretch her legs and get some enrichment, but she is not a fan of “outside,” so we were soon back to the boat sweet boat.

The wind caught our sails the moment we were out of the lee of Cat Harbor, giving us a good lead on our friends who were still maneuvering through the mooring field. The Kessel crew was now one member short. The salty life had not been suitable for their dog Harlow, who got a new life on land with a family.

“I see the tannies,” I said, watching through the binoculars as Kessel unfurled her tanbark genoa. Clouds formed on the horizon, quickly coming our way and growing darker. We short-tacked along the shore, sailing upwind down the coast in another southerly that seemed to be the norm for us at this point.

Catalina’s East Side is wild, with steep cliff sides speckled with bird nests and trees hanging on for dear life. The only “beach” we saw was filled with sea lions that barked across the water. We rounded the lowest point of the island, where Connolly-Pacific’s quarry came into view. The quarry, in operation since the mid-1900s, had supplied stone for many of the Southern California breakwaters.

Kessel passed us on a starboard tack and the wind started to die down, so both crews decided to motorsail to reach our destination on time. Chris hailed Avalon Harbor on VHF radio channel 12, but there was no response. Luckily we had cell service and got hold of them, right as the rain began to pick up. We danced circles alongside Kessel outside the breakwater, waiting for a patroller to guide us to our mooring ball. “You know there is a system coming through, right?” the patroller asked. We nodded and started to prepare mentally for a bumpy night.

As soon as we were secure we launched our tender, Winglet. Chris made a mad dash to the post office to retrieve our ticket out of California—or so we thought.

Packing paper was everywhere as Chris unearthed our friend’s Starlink router from the box. Peter came over for the moment of truth, but when we plugged it in, we were shocked: still no signal. We decided to table the diagnosis until the following morning.

The Santa Ana wind event came and went, bringing 2- to 4-foot chop into the mooring field. We rocked and rolled, and abandoned ship when the sun came up to wait out the sea state before returning to troubleshoot our Starlink issues. After a lovely breakfast and computer session at Catalina Coffee & Cookie Co., we made our way back to Avocet.

“It’s your inverter, bro,” Peter said, after measuring the hertz with a multimeter. Our Renogy 2000 pure sine wave inverter seemed to have served us well, but thinking back, it had started to show signs of failure when we returned to Morro Bay after the holidays. We theorized that during one of the storms, a surge led to its demise, going unnoticed until we tried to use Starlink when sailing south.

Fortunately, Peter’s mom, Charlotte, was planning on visiting the next day. We could ship an inverter to her that she could bring to the island. We could only get a Victron 500VA inverter in time, but it would suffice to run our Starlink and charge our laptops. We slept better that night, thinking the issue was resolved.

Of course, it was not. Charlotte arrived by ferry the next morning—but not before the unthinkable happened. It was 8 a.m. I was drinking coffee in the cockpit when Peter arrived on his Ocean Craft aluminum dinghy to say hello. He had just pushed off from Avocet when he dropped his phone in the drink. I called his crew, who relayed the info to Charlotte.

Within an hour, Mama Metcalfe was aboard Avocet with the inverter in hand.

Still no service. Profanities were exclaimed. The problem had to be our dish.

Peter took over as project manager, creating a list of options for us all. He needed a new phone, so his crew went back to the mainland with Mama Metcalfe. Our friends back in Ventura said we could use their dish, which Peter’s sister could get to from her house. That dish ended up on the ferry to Avalon, bound for us.

We spent our last night out on the town, with nachos for dinner despite the fact our following months would be full of Mexican cuisine. After we ate our weight in chips and cheese, we walked to one of the best vantage points that overlooked Avalon Harbor. As always, Chris had his camera for keepsakes.

I couldn’t sleep that night, full of anxiety, excitement and fear for all the things to come. Morning came all too soon. My phone lit up with a message as the ferry arrived, and Chris went to retrieve our dish.

We set up all the components and plugged them in, finally seeing results. Tears cascaded down my cheeks from thinking about how amazing our friends are. With a steady connection, we could finally depart for Mexico, and did exactly that as soon as the dinghy was on deck.

We were doing it! After years of dreaming, months of scheming and weeks of uncertainty, we pointed Avocet’s bow south and set our course for Ensenada, Mexico. The rugged shape of Catalina shrank off our stern, and the snowcapped mountains of California’s Sierra Nevada disappeared. We knew we were getting closer to the promised land, but we had 130 nautical miles ahead of us.

Kessel’s tanbark sails decorated the horizon behind us as we settled in for the passage. It was nice to chat back and forth on the VHF radio, which we would soon learn made night passages go by a lot faster. Our stereo played Mexico by Cake, which had been our rally song since Morro Bay, inspiring us to keep going because eventually the lyrics would ring true, and by the grace of Poseidon they finally did.

The post Sailing <i>Avocet</i>: Comms Failure appeared first on Cruising World.

Sailboats have a way of making you resourceful. Every piece of equipment onboard has to earn its keep—especially the gear you use daily. So, when it came time to replace our sail cover, we decided to go all in and build something to make our sailing life easier: a DIY stack pack.

A stack pack, also known as a lazy bag, combines a sail cover with lazy jacks for hassle-free sail handling. Instead of wrestling a floppy sail into submission, the main drops straight into the bag as it’s flaked. Zip it up, and you’re done. No sail ties, no awkward deck yoga—just smooth, simple efficiency.

After admiring stack packs on other boats, we decided it was time for Avocet to get the upgrade. Pre-made options are expensive and don’t always fit perfectly, so we opted to build our own. It took planning, patience, and a few cups of coffee, but the end result was worth every stitch. Here’s how we did it, what we learned, and how you can tackle the project too.

Why Build Your Own Stack Pack?

If you’ve priced out custom stack packs, you know they can cost as much as a brand-new jib. Off-the-shelf options are cheaper but often compromise on fit, fabric quality, or features. By building your own, you can:

• Save money (hello, cruising budget!)
• Customize the fit for your sail and boom.
• Choose high-quality materials that withstand UV rays, salt spray, and heavy use.
• Experience the satisfaction of building something that works perfectly for your boat.

It’s not a quick project, but it’s a rewarding one. Every time you zip it up after a long day of sailing, you’ll be glad you made the effort.

What You’ll Need

This project requires a few tools and materials. Here’s what we used:

• Sunbrella fabric: Weatherproof, UV-resistant, and durable. Buy enough to cover your boom length plus extra for seams.
• Marine zippers: Heavy-duty and corrosion-resistant.
• UV-resistant polyester thread: Essential for long-lasting seams.
• Webbing: Reinforces attachment points and secures the lazy jacks.
• Basting tape: Keeps fabric in place before sewing.
• D-rings and grommets: For attachment points.
• Heavy-duty sewing machine: Capable of handling multiple layers of Sunbrella. We used a Sailrite machine.
• Scissors, measuring tape, and marking chalk: For cutting and marking fabric.
• Patience! Not technically a tool, but you’ll need it.

We weren’t starting from scratch. Chris had helped build a stack pack on his mom’s Mason 43, Sea Castle. We analyzed designs from neighboring boats and Sailrite’s library of blueprints. Our goal: a simple design with bottom-edge clasps for easy removal and reinforced Dyneema lazy jack attachment points, eliminating the need for PVC or FRP battens.

Instructions

1. Measure and cut. Measure your boom length and the desired height for the sides of the stack pack, ensuring enough space for your flaked mainsail. Use paper templates to map out dimensions before cutting the fabric. We used butcher paper, which made any adjustments a cinch. Once satisfied, we traced the pattern onto the Sunbrella and cut it out.

Pro Tip: Use fabric chalk to mark your cuts. It’s visible on dark fabric and washes off easily.

2. Sew the panels together. Sew the side panels to the top using a flat-felled seam, which hides raw edges and strengthens the seams. Basting tape kept everything aligned during sewing, saving us from mistakes.

Pro Tip: Double-stitch all seams. Boats are unforgiving, and the extra strength pays off.

3. Add the zipper. Install a heavy-duty marine zipper along the top centerline. Basting tape kept it in place while we stitched it on using a zipper foot. This step takes patience, so don’t rush.

Pro Tip: Watch a few video tutorials on zipper installation before starting. It’ll save you frustration.

4. Attach the lazy jacks. Reinforce attachment points with webbing and sew in D-rings to clip the lazy jacks. Install grommets on the sides to guide the lazy jacks through. Double-check placement before cutting grommet holes.

5. Final fit and adjustments. Attach the stack pack to the boom, hoist the main, and drop it into the bag to test the fit. We made minor adjustments to seams and grommet placement, but overall, it worked as planned.

The preinstalled view at our stack pack. The black material is the chafe protectant, with the robust webbing that anchors the lazy jack attachment points.

What We Learned

• Measure three times, cut once. Fabric is expensive, and mistakes add up quickly.
• Use basting tape for everything. It prevents slipping and keeps seams aligned.
• Don’t skimp on materials. Cheap zippers and thread won’t last.·   Be patient. This project is detailed but manageable with the right mindset.

The Finished Product

When it was done, we admired our work. The DIY stack pack fit Avocet perfectly, making sail handling a breeze. No more wrestling with sail ties or struggling in the wind. It also gave the boat a polished, professional look.

Was It Worth It?

Absolutely. Building a DIY stack pack saves money, teaches new skills, and brings a sense of accomplishment. Plus, every time you zip up your sail in under a minute, you’ll feel like a pro.

Thinking about making your own? Drop us a message at editor@cruisingworld.com or tag us @cruisingworldmag in your project photos on Instagram—we’d love to see your creations.

The post DIY Sail Stack Pack: A Guide to Making Your Own appeared first on Cruising World.