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.

Catalina Yachts has announced its most ambitious project yet: the Catalina 48, a new flagship cruiser born from a design collaboration with Tripp Design Naval Architecture. As Catalina’s first-ever production 48-footer, the yacht represents more than just a model launch. For many, it signals a shift in how America’s largest sailboat builder sees its future.

For more than half a century, Catalina has earned a reputation for building strong, simple, and affordable boats that carry families on their first daysails, extended coastal adventures, and full-blown liveaboard voyages. With the Catalina 48, the company aims to evolve that legacy while staying rooted in the values that made it a household name.

“This is not just a new boat. It’s the beginning of something bigger,” said Patrick Turner, president of Catalina Yachts. “The Catalina 48 brings together the best of who we’ve been and where we’re going. It’s American luxury, redefined for the sea.”

The yacht will feature sleek lines, expansive accommodations, and a deck layout shaped by both function and comfort. Tripp Design—celebrated globally for creating elegant, seaworthy yachts—has brought a fresh design language to the project. The partnership introduces a new dimension to Catalina’s range, one that emphasizes modern styling while keeping practical cruising needs at the forefront.

“We’re thrilled to bring a new voice to a brand with such a storied legacy,” said Bill Tripp, principal of Tripp Design. “There’s an authenticity in Catalina’s approach that aligns perfectly with our philosophy—beautiful, honest boats built for people who love to sail.”

Details of the Catalina 48’s interior are still unfolding, but the builder emphasizes generous living spaces, warm finishes, and thoughtful ergonomics intended to make long-term cruising more comfortable. Above deck, sailors can expect a cockpit engineered for handling ease and confidence underway.

As the first of several new-generation models now on the drawing board, the Catalina 48 marks a turning point for the builder. It’s American-designed, American-built, and a proud signal that Catalina is ready to shape the next era of cruising under sail.

The post Catalina Yachts Unveils All-New Catalina 48 appeared first on Cruising World.

When Sarah and I tell people we’re planning to sail around the world, we usually get one of two questions: “Where will you go?” and “What kind of boat are you doing it in?”

The first answer is simple: everywhere we can. High latitudes and tropical trade routes, quiet coves and remote anchorages, oceans to cross and people to meet.

The second question takes longer to answer—and the decision behind it took even longer to make.

We knew from the outset that this boat wouldn’t just be a mode of travel. It would be our home, our lifeline, and our entire support system for months or even years at a time. That made the search personal, and deeply mission-driven. The end result—our Boreal 56, Spindrift—is the product of months of discussion, dreaming, and refining what really mattered.

If you’re beginning your own search for a serious offshore cruising boat, we hope our experience helps frame the questions that matter most.

Start With the Mission

We began with a clear plan: to circumnavigate under sail, as safely and comfortably as possible. Our route would include everything from tropical trades to high-latitude routes with cold water, long passages, and unpredictable weather.

Our crew? Often just the two of us. Occasionally, our daughters Hannah and Samantha would join. Maybe, now and then, another couple. That meant two things had to be true: the boat had to be easily handled by two people, and it had to be rugged and forgiving in heavy weather.

We weren’t in a rush. Retired and finally free of the demands of career and commuting, we had time on our side. But that also meant we didn’t want to spend our retirement years tied to a dock, elbows deep in a refit or chasing system failures across foreign ports. We were looking for a boat that wouldn’t just go the distance—it had to arrive ready to go.

New vs. Used: The Time Equation

This led us to the first big fork in the road: old boat or new build?

There are plenty of excellent older boats out there, and we seriously considered going that route. But we also recognized that a “project boat” can quietly take over your life—and often carries invisible risks. In our case, the price of uncertainty outweighed the savings.

We didn’t want to be in a boatyard for the first year of retirement. We wanted to be at sea.

Material Matters: Why We Chose Aluminum

With the new-build route in mind, the next big choice was hull material. Fiberglass? Steel? Aluminum?

After plenty of research, conversation, and crawling around in boatyards, we decided on aluminum. For us, the pros—ruggedness, impact resistance, structural strength, repairability—outweighed the cons. We liked that aluminum deforms rather than cracks, and we trusted the long-term durability when built well.

The construction techniques used in our final choice were impressive: a thick keel plate, double-digit millimeter hull plating, and a monocoque structure that removed as many failure points as possible. Concerns about electrolysis are real, but manageable with good engineering and proper maintenance.

Hull Form and Handling: Comfort First

Comfort underway became a guiding value. Not comfort in the sense of plush cushions and granite countertops, but a kind motion—a boat that takes care of her crew in rough seas.

That ruled out multihulls for us. We gave them a fair look, even touring a Chris White Atlantic 55. But in the end, we preferred the motion and security of a monohull. One particular design caught our attention: the Boreal 56, a centerboarder with twin daggerboards—a rarity, but a configuration with huge upsides. It could go shallow, surf safely, and track well on long passages.

Weight distribution was also thoughtfully managed—fuel, water, chain, and batteries were centralized low in the hull. This created not just a more stable ride, but also increased internal volume where we needed it most: for storage, guest accommodations, and systems access.

The Rig: Safe and Simple

The rig design sealed the deal for us. We chose a Solent configuration with twin furling headsails and a main with deep reefing capability. Downwind, we carry a Blue Water Runner and a furling gennaker, all sized for short-handed control.

But what impressed us most was the attention to safety. The mainsheet is out of the cockpit entirely, mounted to the top of the doghouse—no traveler to fall into or trip over. Winches and sail controls are brought inboard where they can be handled safely from the cockpit. These details reflect real offshore experience. They’re not flashy—but they make a big difference in the moments that matter.

Finding the Right Builder

No boat is built in a vacuum, and in the end, the people mattered most.

After visiting many yards, we found one where the philosophy aligned with our own. The builder’s experience, integrity, and design evolution made a strong impression. The founder had clearly spent thousands of miles at sea and poured that experience into each detail.

What sealed the deal wasn’t just the specs or even the prototype—it was the team. The pride they took in their work. The thoughtfulness in their answers. The way every decision seemed tied back to the real-world question: “Would this make life safer, easier, or better for the crew?”

Final Thoughts

We know Spindrift isn’t the right boat for everyone. But for our goals, the Boreal 56 checked every box. And that’s the point.

There’s no single answer when it comes to boat selection. The “right” boat depends on your mission, your crew, your risk tolerance, and your sailing style. The only real mistake is not thinking hard enough about the decision.

Ask questions. Challenge assumptions. Visit builders. Talk to other cruisers. And most of all, know your priorities.

This was our process—and it led us to the boat of our dreams.

Offshore Cruising Boat Selection Checklist: A Practical Planning Guide for Cruisers Starting Their Search

Whether you’re dreaming of trade winds or tackling high latitudes, here are 10 questions to help guide your offshore boat search:

1. What’s your mission?
   Define your sailing goals—distance, locations, duration, and seasons.
   
2. Who’s your crew?
   Will you sail solo, as a couple, or with friends/family? This impacts layout, sail handling, and safety.
   
3. How important is comfort under way?
   Evaluate motion at sea, not just interior space. Try different hull types in different conditions.
   
4. Do you want a new or used boat?
   Consider time, budget, project appetite, and the hidden costs of a refit.
   
5. Which hull material fits your plans?
   Fiberglass, aluminum, and steel each have trade-offs in weight, repairability, and resilience.
   
6. How shallow do you want to go?
   A centerboard, lifting keel, or shoal-draft design could expand your cruising grounds.
   
7. Is your rig optimized for your sailing style?
   Look for a setup that’s safe and manageable by your smallest likely crew.
   
8. Can systems be maintained off-grid?
   Think about power generation, redundancy, and access to critical parts.
   
9. How is safety integrated into the design?
   Look beyond marketing—ask how design decisions reduce real-world risks.
   
10. Do you trust the builder?
    Visit yards, talk to past owners, and evaluate the yard’s philosophy and support.

About the authors: Tony and Sarah Mercurio grew up on the water in New Jersey and Rhode Island and now live on Long Beach Island, NJ. Lifelong sailors, they spent years chartering globally before commissioning their current world-cruising sailboat. In retirement, they’re pursuing a lifelong dream to circumnavigate aboard Spindrift, their Boreal 56. Follow their voyage at KrustyKrabAdventures.com.

The post One Couple’s Search for the Right Offshore Cruising Boat appeared first on Cruising World.

Nearly two decades ago, Seawind Catamarans walked off with top honors in Cruising World’s 2007 Boat of the Year contest multihulls category. Judges praised the couple-friendly liveaboard layout, sailing performance and bluewater-voyaging safety features of the Seawind 1160, a catamaran they also recognized as being that year’s most ­innovative entry.

Many of those same noteworthy features—refined now over the launch of several subsequent models—are be found aboard the Seawind 1370, which this year’s panel of judges named 2025 Best Midsize Multihull.

Like its predecessor, the 45-foot 1370 is well-suited to be a couple’s liveaboard go-­anywhere cruising boat, with a versatile Solent sail plan that has a full-batten square-top main, a self-tacking jib and a screecher. The two headsails are on furlers, so changing gears to match conditions is manageable for a shorthanded crew.

For sea trials after the Annapolis Boat Show, Seawind’s sales and marketing manager, Mike Rees, brought along a colorful asymmetric chute as well. That, of course, was set as soon as we were aboard. With the mainsail still stowed in its boom pouch, we were off to the races. The 1370 skipped along at close to 9 knots on a broad reach, giving a good hint of what a run in the trades might feel like. Later—with the main raised, the screecher unfurled, and the breeze down to the midteens—our speed while reaching was in the 7-plus-knot range. Beating upwind with the self-tacker, we still managed 6 or so knots at just under 40 degrees off the wind. That ain’t bad for a cruising cat with fixed keels. For the performance, you can thank the collaboration between the Seawind team and Yacht Design Collective, which did computer modeling for hull design and performance. 

I really like the helm setup that all Seawinds have. The twin wheels are to either side of the cockpit on the bridge deck, adjacent to the hulls. Just forward of each wheel, removable windows let the helmsman see through the salon, providing good visibility in all directions. Comfortable seats are shaded and protected from the elements by the Bimini top and cabin house, or the skipper can choose to sit outboard in the breeze, atop the hulls, where visibility is equally as good and where you get a real sense of what monohull sailors like to call “sailing.” The 1370 we tested had engine controls at either wheel—a nice touch for docking.

The cockpit itself is quite spacious, with a bench seat running across the transom (there’s stowage for gear and toys underneath), a sink at the starboard end, and a propane “barbie” grill to port. Seawinds, after all, were first built in Australia, though Aussie owner Richard Ward has since moved the factory to Vietnam and opened a facility in Turkey. 

Overhead, a composite arch supports the after end of the Bimini top and anchors a track for the mainsheet traveler, which can be adjusted with a side-wind winch mounted on the side column.

In good weather, a clever trifold door between the salon and cockpit can be raised and stowed under the Bimini top, truly opening up things to the great outdoors. The 1370 is a galley-up design, with a U-shaped Corian counter (molded GRP counters are standard) just inside the doors. A sink faces aft, and to starboard are an induction cooktop and electric oven. Cooking underway would be a joy.

Forward in the salon, two ports open wide to let breeze pour through the interior. To starboard, a nav desk/command center offers a well-protected watchkeeping station for cool nights or when the elements are unruly. To port, an L-shaped couch surrounds a table that swivels to allow for various seating arrangements, or that can be lowered to create a lounging area for movie night or a berth where an off-watch crewmember can nap but still be nearby if needed.

The owner’s hull is to port, with a best-in-class head and shower compartment aft. A queen-size raised athwartships berth is amidships, where ­motion underway will be ­minimized. A walk-in closet is in the forepeak behind a ­watertight bulkhead and sail locker.

The starboard hull offers an assortment of crew and stowage possibilities, with a double berth aft, and a head and shower compartment amidships. Forward of that, a fore-and-aft bunk is inboard; space in the forepeak can be used for an additional berth (bringing sleeping accommodations to nine) or as stowage. 

Base price for a 1370 is $820,000. The boat we visited in Annapolis had a $1.15 million price tag, which included options such as twin 57 hp Yanmar diesels with saildrives (40 hp motors are standard). The boat runs on a 24-volt electrical system; four gel-cell batteries are standard, and lithium is an option. They are kept charged by engine alternators and 2.5 kilowatts’ worth of solar panels.

Seawind uses PVC foam coring in its infused hulls, decks and other composite parts, and vinylester resin throughout. Carbon fiber is added in a number of areas to help keep weight down and add strength where needed. Interior woodwork on the 1370 is light-colored ash and bird’s-eye maple. It all looks ­really good. 

Looking around the 1370, I remembered having toured the earlier Seawind 1160 when that year’s Boat of the Year ­judges took note of details such as 30-inch-tall triple lifelines, solid handholds wherever they were needed, and a layout that was practical, comfortable, and safe. This time around, I saw a lot of those elements and more—only better. 

CW Editor-at-Large Mark Pillsbury was a 2025 Boat of the Year judge.

Take the Next Step

Price: $1.15 million (as tested)
Website: seawindcats.com

The post Seawind 1370 Review: A Bluewater Catamaran Built for Cruising Couples appeared first on Cruising World.

After visiting and sailing Nautitech’s new flagship catamaran, the 48 Open, this past fall as part of Cruising World’s Boat of the Year trials in Annapolis, Maryland, it occurred to me that people could take the word “open” to mean any number of things.

First and foremost, it could refer to the sporty twin helms—located aft on either transom—in the great outdoors, under the open sky, out there where you can feel the wind in your face and hear the rush of water flowing past the hulls as wakes are left quickly astern in any sort of breeze.

Then there’s the open feel to the boat, especially in the flow from the salon to the cockpit. Interior designer Christophe Chedal-Anglay—working alongside the naval architects at Marc Lombard Yacht Design Group and the Nautitech team—created a space with furniture and fittings that’s kept minimal enough not to feel cluttered, but with accommodations that are ­refined-looking and more than adequate to keep a crew of even eight on charter well-fed and pampered. Overhead hatches and cabin windows let in lots of light, and a sliding door and adjacent window opening to the Bimini-top-shaded cockpit eliminate the distinction ­between indoors and out.

Topsides, wide and open side decks, along with ample handholds molded into the cabin top, make moving about while underway seem secure. Below, what the builder calls the ­optional “smart room,” located in the forward starboard ­cabin, gives an owner open-ended choices for how the space will be used. It can have a berth for two, or inboard bunks that fold out of the way; or it can be fit out as a utility room with a washer, dryer and lots of stowage. 

Last, the 48 gives an owner open-ended options for how and where the boat will be used. It can easily be handled by a couple, it has space enough for a family, and there’s a four-stateroom design, making it charter-friendly as well.

The 48’s hull and deck are foam-cored and vacuum-­infused; interior bulkheads, also cored, are reinforced with carbon fiber for added strength. The hulls—narrow at the waterline for sailing performance—flare out above chines running their length. This adds to interior volume below, as well as to buoyancy underway.

There are five layout options. The boat we sailed had the owner’s stateroom in the port hull and a guest stateroom aft to port, with the smart room and bunks forward.

A salon occupies the bridge deck, with a nav station ­forward to port, fridges and freezers to starboard, and a stand-up bar/counter/bookshelf—you name it—in between. Not sure what to do with it? Try standing there chatting with a mate. It’s a good spot to lounge, both dockside and underway.

The U-shaped galley has an aft-facing sink and a counter where dishes can be placed when they’re handed in from the cockpit dining table just aft; opposite, aft to port is the dining table with L-shaped seating outboard. Interior woodwork can be finished in light walnut (standard) and oak. 

Twin 75 hp Volvo diesels powered the 48 we sailed (60 hp is standard). Those, plus add-ons such as electronics and an 11 kW Onan generator, raised the cost of the boat by about $300,000 on top of the $1.1 ­million base price.

Noise levels while ­motoring were relatively low, even with the throttles set for a get-home-­quick speed of 8.5 knots. Cruising speed (1,800 rpm) was just over 7 knots.

But really, why motor? The Nautitech is a whole lot more fun to sail. 

Electric Harken winches just inboard of either wheel make raising the square-top main and trimming sheets a push-button effort. Another set, located at either end of the transom, controls the traveler that runs between them and the mainsheet. Reef lines and such that exit the mast are led into covered channels in the Bimini top and over blocks to clutches in the cockpit, eliminating line clutter except around the helms, where there’s plenty of room to sort things out.

The cat comes standard with a self-tacking jib, which is what we found on the boat we sailed; a 135 genoa is an option. Our test boat was also rigged with a beefy code sail set on a sprit using a continuous-­line furler. With that kite rolled out, we were definitely hauling the mail on a blustery day on Chesapeake Bay. We saw consistent speeds ranging from the low 9s well past 10 knots in about 15 knots of wind. The payday came in a 20-knot puff, when the ­speedo hit 15 and stuck there for a while. Fun ride.

With the screecher rolled back up and the self-tacker unfurled, we still saw lots of 7s and 8s on the GPS as we beat upwind. And the boat was ­really easy to sail. Standing at the helm, I did notice a bit of a blind spot caused by the corner of the cabin and glare off the windows as we weaved our way through crab pots. But moving around a bit solved the problem. 

Besides, crab pots probably won’t be an issue in a place where a boat like this will likely be going. Think trade winds, white sandy beaches and tropical punches. If the 48 Open were my boat, that’s where I’d be bound. 

Take the Next Step

Price: Approximately $1.4 ­million (as tested)
Website: nautitechcatamarans.com

The post Nautitech 48 Open Review: A Performance Cruiser with Room to Roam appeared first on Cruising World.

Few cruising yachts capture the spirit of rugged adventure and refined comfort like the American Tug 41. Launched in 2000, these semi-displacement trawler-style cruisers have earned a devoted following for their ability to handle some of the most challenging cruising grounds—from the winding waterways of the Pacific Northwest to the iconic Great Loop.

Seaglass, a 2006 model, designed by Lynn Senour and currently represented for sale by Wellington Yacht Partners, stands out even among this respected lineage. With a meticulous recent refit and upgrades totaling over $300,000, she embodies what happens when thoughtful owners commit to preserving and enhancing a boat’s performance, comfort, and reliability. Her 540-hp Cummins diesel engine powers a cruising speed of 9 knots with impressive fuel efficiency, yet can push her to nearly 16 knots when time or weather demand.

Belowdecks, the two-cabin, two-head layout offers spacious accommodations designed for long-term cruising. Natural light floods the salon and pilothouse through panoramic windows, while modern comforts like air conditioning, a full galley, and integrated entertainment systems create a welcoming refuge underway or at anchor.

Sophisticated electronics—including a comprehensive Garmin navigation suite with radar, thermal imaging, and autopilot—provide peace of mind, while thoughtful details like freshwater flush systems, bow and stern thrusters, and a joystick-controlled dinghy crane make daily handling and dockside maneuvers seamless.

With hull and deck constructed for durability and noise reduction, Seaglass is built for years of safe, comfortable exploration. Whether cruising inland rivers, coastal passages, or remote anchorages, the American Tug 41 remains a favorite for those who want a capable, no-compromise cruiser.

The American Tug 41 — Crafting Comfort and Capability

Launched in 2000 by Tomco Marine Group in Washington State, the American Tug 41 quickly became a standout among semi-displacement cruisers. Designed by Lynn Senour (best known for his work with Nordic Tugs), the AT41 blends the charm of a working tugboat with the comfort and systems of a well-equipped motoryacht.

Built tough for Pacific Northwest waters, the AT41 features solid fiberglass hulls below the waterline, integrated stringers and bulkheads, and a thoughtful layout that maximizes livability and visibility. Owners love the boat’s ability to cruise efficiently at 8–9 knots, but also appreciate the option to power up to the mid-teens when needed.

What makes the AT41 truly special is its versatility: it’s at home in tight canals, remote anchorages, and open water alike. Bridge clearance is low, access to mechanical spaces is excellent, and the layout fits couples or families equally well.

More than two decades after its launch, the American Tug 41 remains one of the most sought-after cruising tugs on the market—and boats like Seaglass show why, reminding us that cruising is as much about soul and stewardship as it is about speed or destination. They carry stories forward—of thoughtful care, innovation, and enduring style—helping inspire the next generation of cruisers to seek out vessels that are built to last and crafted for life aboard.

Keep an eye on this series for more “Used Boats We Love” — timeless long-range cruising boats (sail and power alike) that define cruising culture, craftsmanship, and the joy of exploration.

The post Used Boats We Love: <i>Seaglass</i>, the American Tug 41 appeared first on Cruising World.

It began the way these things often do—not with a plan, but with an invitation. A friend had chartered a boat in the British Virgin Islands and asked Mike and Cyndi Crosby to come along. It was meant to be a vacation, just a relaxing getaway. But as soon as Mike stepped aboard, something clicked.

“The second we got down and got on the boat, my brain was already spinning,” he recalled. “As soon as we left the dock and started sailing, I looked at my wife and said, ‘All right, we’ve got to figure out how to do this on our own. I don’t want to have to wait to be invited back.’”

That spark ignited a journey that would unfold over the course of nearly two decades. From YouTube tutorials and beginner books to ASA navigation courses and charter captain checkouts, the Crosbys’ transition from wide-eyed guests to confident owners wasn’t sudden—it was a steady climb. What started with wonder became a calling. And eventually, it became a way of life.

From Student to Skipper: Earning the Helm

In the early days, Mike set out to educate himself however he could. He devoured the growing catalog of YouTube sailing channels like SV Delos, not just for the aspirational stories but to learn—watching closely how skippers trimmed sails, navigated anchorages, handled systems. He read Sailing for Dummies, and on subsequent charters with his friend, he eagerly took the helm at every opportunity.

But there was a limit to what he could learn aboard big boats. Most of the vessels they chartered were large catamarans—44 feet and up—built for stability, not feel. “The helm can be fairly dead on big cats,” Mike explained. “You really don’t know how the weather’s affecting it. You can’t tell if your sails are properly trimmed and the boat is balanced.”

That lesson came into focus when he bought a 28-foot monohull to sail on a local lake. It was the smallest boat he’d ever sailed—and by far the most instructive. “When I first got out there with full sail up, anytime a puff came across the lake, I’d get that weather helm and broach right into the wind,” he said. “I didn’t understand the dynamics—I thought I had a bad boat.”

But what he had, in fact, was a teacher. The lake and the boat taught him to listen. A sudden heel meant the sail plan was wrong. A broach was a message, not a malfunction. He learned to reef early, to trim with precision, to feel the subtle shifts in balance through the tiller. It was a kind of learning no catamaran could offer.

As the idea of captaining their own charter began to take shape, Mike faced his next hurdle. A trusted base manager in the BVI—a man they’d chartered with for years—told him he’d need more than a good recommendation. A high credit card limit helped, but so did an ASA 105 certification in Coastal Navigation. Mike took the course and found it helpful, especially in understanding tides, currents, and chart plotters. But in the end, he remained convinced: nothing beats time on the water. “If I had to have a choice between someone who’s never taken the courses but has sailed for five years, or someone who’s taken every class and never sailed—I know which boat I’m getting on.”

His moment of truth came soon after, during their first bareboat charter as captain and crew. The base manager motored out of the harbor with them, watching closely as Mike raised the main and put the boat through a few maneuvers. Then, without fanfare, he peeled off in his dinghy.

“He was like, ‘All right, looking good. Have a great trip,’” Mike recalled. “I looked at Cyndi and my parents, who were my crew, and I said, ‘Oh, we’re doing this. He left.’ Evidently, he liked what he saw. And now it was on us to bring the boat back.”

They did. And they kept coming back.

Falling for the BVI—And Returning Home

What began as a one-time invitation gradually turned into ritual. Over the years, the British Virgin Islands became more than just a favorite cruising ground for Mike and Cyndi Crosby—they became their second home. Not just for the postcard-perfect beauty or the predictability of the trade winds, but for something more enduring: connection.

“The cool thing about the BVI,” Mike said, “is it’s not just one island. Each one has its own personality, its own vibe. It’s like sailing through a chain of neighborhoods.” That mix of variety and familiarity is what keeps them coming back. Some anchorages offer peace and solitude—places to drop the hook and not see another boat for hours. Others are social hubs, alive with music, cold drinks, and warm conversation. “You can choose your own adventure,” he added. “That’s what makes it so special.”

But what truly anchors them is the people. After so many seasons afloat, the Crosbys have cultivated a network of friends on nearly every island—local restaurant owners, charter base staff, fellow cruisers.

“We call them family,” Cyndi said. “We check in with them every time we return. It’s not just a vacation anymore—it’s personal.”

Cyndi finds tranquility in the quiet corners of the BVI: the soft sands and still water of Pomato Point on Anegada, often empty except for their boat; or Benures Bay on Norman Island, where the sunsets glow over Saint John and the world feels far away. Mike gravitates toward the energy of North Sound, Virgin Gorda, where anchoring off Prickly Pear puts you within dinghy distance of Saba Rock, Bitter End, and Leverick Bay. On land, their favorite haunts include CocoMaya for dinner on the beach, and Hog Heaven, perched high above the hills, serving barbecue with arguably the best view in the Caribbean.

Even after so many visits, the BVI continues to feel new—alive with both memories and possibility. “It’s like having a vacation home,” Mike said, “but we get to move it from island to island.”

And for now, it’s a base that fits. With kids still in college and life back home tugging at their calendar, the BVI offers the perfect mix of accessibility, variety, and ease. “We’re still in a phase where we can’t go off grid for months at a time,” he admitted. “But in the meantime, this is where we want to be.”

For the Crosbys, it’s not just about where they sail—it’s about how it makes them feel. The islands may be small, but they contain a world of meaning.

Making the Leap to Ownership

The idea of owning a boat—of not just borrowing the lifestyle, but building it—remained in the background for years. Then, at the Annapolis Boat Show in 2021, Cyndi nudged the dream into motion. After walking through a few boats, she turned to Mike and asked, “What are you waiting on?”

That day, they signed a contract for a Fountaine Pajot Isla 40.

For Mike, the timing was never going to be perfect. “It’s like having kids—you’re never really ready. You just do it,” he said. But the decision wasn’t just about owning a boat—it was about building a platform for the life they wanted.

Rather than keep the Isla for private use, they placed it in the Waypoints charter fleet in the BVI, largely because of their long-standing relationship with Anthony, the base manager. Trust, Mike emphasized, was everything. “I just know it’s going to be taken care of better than I could take care of it from 2,000 miles away,” he said.

They knew going in that charter ownership wasn’t a passive investment. Revenue ebbs and flows with the seasons, and during hurricane haul-outs, the expenses don’t stop just because the bookings do. “You’ve got to plan for the downtime just like you plan for the income,” Mike said. “Some months are great, some not so much.”

What’s made the difference, they believe, is their mindset. Rather than relying solely on the management company, they’ve taken an active role—marketing the boat, helping guests book trips, even stepping into new professional territory. Cyndi, who’s long helped friends plan vacations, is now earning her travel agent certification to formalize the work she’s already been doing behind the scenes.

“We treat it like a business because, well, it is one,” Mike said. “I love boats. I love the maritime industry. I want to be around people who feel the same. And I think that energy shows.”

For owners looking for less involvement, he acknowledges that guaranteed income programs offer predictability—but often at the expense of flexibility and oversight. “Whatever path you take,” he advised, “just take some ownership. Know what you’re signing up for.”

Lessons Learned, Upgrades Earned

Now, after two and a half years with the Isla, they’re preparing to step into the next phase: a new Fountaine Pajot 44. The decision to upgrade didn’t come out of restlessness but from experience—two and a half years of living with their Isla 40, learning what worked, what didn’t, and what they wanted more of.

“We always figured if it all worked out, we’d eventually move into that mid-40s range,” Mike said. When Fountaine Pajot announced their new 44—featuring design upgrades trickling down from their larger models—it felt like the right boat at the right time.

The changes may seem incremental on paper, but for the Crosbys, they’re meaningful. The new 44 adds an island in the galley for more prep space, a better seating layout, and most notably, an upper flybridge lounge—a significant improvement over the twin sunpads on their current boat. Storage is smarter. Ventilation is better. And for Cyndi, who handles the anchoring duties, there’s a game-changer: a redesigned anchor locker that’s no longer buried under cushions on the foredeck. “Now I just pop open a table lid and it’s right there,” she said, laughing. “I won’t be half-inside the locker anymore trying to get the bridle on.”

Other upgrades speak to the lessons learned only after spending real time aboard. The forward cabins now feature full-size beds, not just tapered doubles that give guests the short end of the stick. There’s more room for water toys, more thoughtful airflow throughout, and just enough extra storage to avoid the constant shuffle of gear. “We realized over time how much those small details matter,” Mike said. “And this new boat just checks the boxes we didn’t even know we had until we started using the first one.”

Cruising on Their Terms

Looking back, Mike doesn’t believe they’d do much differently—though Cyndi jokes he might’ve dragged his feet a little early on. They nearly bought a used Voyage 440 just before the COVID-19 pandemic. The closing was scheduled for Friday, March 13, 2020—the same week the world seemed to tilt. As a restaurant owner facing the prospect of lockdowns, Mike backed out. “It just didn’t feel like the right time to take on a boat,” he said. That decision delayed their dream another three years.

But in hindsight, it may have been exactly the timing they needed. “Those were the years our kids were in high school and headed off to college,” he reflected. “We were in the thick of it—driving them around, being present. I don’t know that we could’ve really used the boat the way we intended back then.”

Now, as near-empty nesters, they have the flexibility to take two- or three-week trips without the stress of juggling school schedules or the sense of missing out. Their plan has never been to live aboard full-time—but to build a lifestyle that lets them step away and truly be away.

That’s what the new boat represents—not just more comfort and capability, but a deeper embrace of the life they’ve spent nearly twenty years building. From the spark of a charter trip to the helm of a purpose-built catamaran, every step has been intentional. And for the Crosbys, the journey is still just getting underway.

The post From Charter Dreamers to Catamaran Owners: A Life Built Under Sail appeared first on Cruising World.

Recently I have observed my husband, Matt, at various times of the day and evening, sitting with a half-smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye, betraying an inner glee. I know during these times that he is thinking about what I have come to call, simply, “The Hull.” Matt has taken offense to that term, deeming it “soulless.” Fair enough—it’s not just any hull, but one with a storied past and, hopefully, a storied future as well. For we are in the midst of refitting the late, great American solo sailor Mike Plant’s round-the-world racer, Duracell, for extended cruising. But before we get into that sailing story, let me tell you ours. 

To do that, let’s return to 2014, to a crisp fall evening during one of our first dates. We were walking on a moonlit beach here in Washington’s Puget Sound when Matt told me that one day he was going to cruise around the Pacific. He didn’t say it was a dream or that he hoped to do this one day: He stated it as a fact. And he said it in his unassuming, no fanfare, no drumrolls (he leaves that to me) sort of way. He asked whether such an ­adventure might appeal to me. I didn’t respond right away because I knew this was a serious question and that my answer could have big implications for my life. So I gave it a few long seconds and then I replied, with confidence, “Yes.”

Fast-forward to spring 2017. I was teaching middle school science in Seattle, and Matt was running Kolga Boatworks, his boat-repair business. We were living aboard Louise, a unique 40-foot homebuilt monohull from the 1970s that we adored, on the Ballard Shipping Canal. We were preparing for our Pacific cruise. We’d saved our money, Louise was ready to sail offshore, and we’d put our respective jobs and lives on hold. Our parents had slowly been persuaded that what we were about to do—with careful, trustworthy Matt as captain—was safer than driving on I-5.

We pushed off from Shilshole Marina in Seattle on August 10 of that year. As Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” filled our hearts with butterflies, our first day of sailing was gorgeous: The wind pushed us gently but persistently toward the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the great Pacific Ocean beyond.

The cruise that followed was everything we expected it would be: magical, challenging, uncomfortable, eye-opening, educational, nausea-inducing, at times maddening and, ultimately, life-changing. Here are a few snapshots of our two years at sea, based on journal entries from various anchorages or underway, as we sailed from Seattle down the west coast of North America; into the Sea of Cortez; across the Pacific to the Marquesas, the Tuamotus, Tahiti and Bora Bora; north to Hawaii; and back home to Washington.

Smuggler’s Cove, Channel Islands

October 15, 2017: Smugglers Cove on California’s Santa Cruz Island is a shallow bay with clear, Mediterranean waters and a long beach. After anchoring Louise as close to the cliffs as possible to try to get some protection from the ­rolling swell, we decided to go ashore and explore. We were a little nervous because big rollers were coming in and ­breaking a little beyond the anchorage and ­pummeling the beach. But we discussed our strategy for a dry landing using our inflatable paddleboards.  

Matt explained that the waves come in sets, and if you wait out a set of big waves, there will be a short lull. During that lull, you position yourself between two gently rolling waves, then paddle, paddle, paddle fast enough so that the one behind you doesn’t break over you. With confidence, we put on our hiking boots, cinched on our wide-brimmed cruiser hats, got on our paddleboards, and headed toward the beach. Matt positioned himself just before the big rollers began to break. 

He turned around and gave me a look that said, “Watch carefully what I do.” He waited for the lull. It came. He paddled and paddled. I felt an especially large roller move under my board. The lull was over. Matt glanced back to see a big wave break right over him. I watched his board flip, his hat float to the beach and, a second later, a drenched Matt emerge from the ocean, ready to explore. He looked back at me and shrugged. I gave him a look that said: “Now you watch this. I’ll show you.”  

I was determined. I looked behind me; the ocean was flat. Now was the moment. Go. Paddle. I was riding high and dry. My impeccable timing resulted in a gentle wave breaking after it passed under my board. Perfect. I picked up some speed and surfed on in, graceful and dignified, a natural. Not a drop of water on my hiking boots. Matt watched from the beach in awe. I couldn’t wait to explain my strategy. But then the water slid under me a little faster, and the nose of my board started to drive down into the water. I was still going to succeed. No squishy hiking boots for me. Then I too was in the water, tumbling under the wave. Dammit. I resurfaced in time to see my hat make it to the beach before me. Oh well. Once deposited onto the Channel Islands, it was a wonderful place to explore. Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz and Catalina islands delighted us with their canyons, secluded beaches and windswept cliffs. The adventure had begun.

Bahia Santa Maria to Cabo San Lucas

November 11, 2017: As I sat in my belowdecks nook typing, Matt leaned in from the cockpit and said: “I sure hope this weather keeps up all the way to Cabo. That’d be so awesome.” The sailing was, indeed, currently awesome. Sliding down the coast of Mexico, we had 10 to 12 knots of northerly breeze, filling our spinnaker consistently with the gentle waves right on our stern. There was a shh-shh-shh of the water trickling off the hull and a lovely little skimming motion of the boat down the waves as they passed under us. 

I’d been reading about Zen Buddhism and experimenting with meditation. I’d concluded that sailing your home around the ocean is a natural way to practice the teachings of Buddhism. I looked up at Matt and replied: “The present moment is perfect; however, since everything, including the wind, is impermanent, we mustn’t get attached. Ah, yes, the wind and the waves are constantly changing, like life, and we have to move with the change, not against it. Indeed, we must search for the stillness, the calm, deep within us that stays peaceful no matter how our external situations change; much like how if you go a little under the surface of the ocean, the water is calm.” At which point, he closed and locked the hatch. 

I’m kidding: I didn’t say this out loud, but I did think something along those lines and tried to persuade myself of its truth. I, much more than Matt, get frustrated by the constantly changing state of the ocean. Of course, if the weather is taking us to our destination and the sea is relatively calm, I’m as happy as a clam. But if we then lose our wind and have to “fire up the ol’ donkey,” or get a header, or if the waves built up and made for a miserable ride (as it always does eventually), I tended to let out audible groans and sighs, with a general feeling of being smote by the ocean. Sometimes I complained out loud to myself, and we sailed, or more likely, motored on. I’d recently realized that since this will undoubtedly continue to be our reality for the next two years when traveling to our next highly anticipated anchorage, I should probably figure out a way to deal with it more gracefully (for my benefit and, equally, Matt’s) when the weather changes. As it always, always does. 

Huahine, French Polynesia

November 3, 2018: After spending eight months in French Polynesia, we’d started to get a feel for this really special place. Here is what the shimmering surface of French Polynesia looked like: lush islands dripping with bananas, coconuts, soursop, cedar apples, mangoes, pineapples, cocoa, and fruits we had never heard of before; turquoise lagoons filled with imaginatively colored fish, warm waves that gently lap soft white-sand beaches; a hundred shades of green that blanket the steep mountains and jagged basalt spires that pierce the pale sky. At night, the Milky Way scatters in full splendor across the black expanse while the sweet smell of white gardenias lingers in the warm dark air. 

The beauty of the islands was reflected in the people. The older women here had a twinkle in their eyes like light reflecting off ripples in the water; they stand close to you and smile and press mangoes into your hands. Men frequently carry around their babies, cooing at them (this society loves their babies and seems to view them as gifts to the larger community rather than the property of nuclear families), and women seem empowered. They are authentic, confident, fully and naturally themselves, somehow. They laugh a deep, unrestrained belly laugh when they are with each other, standing in circles waist-high in the warm water. Outside Papeete, in the small villages, there are no movie theaters, no big-box stores, no places to buy the latest shoes in fashion, no billboards telling you what you need to buy to be cool. In the afternoons, families gather at the water’s edge. They spend time together on porches. They sing out “Io orana!” as you walk by. No one is ever in any kind of hurry. The ancient Polynesian names of the islands, such as Matairea, translates to “joyful breeze,” and the 21st century Polynesians seem connected to their past and the people from whom they descended. They bury their relatives in graves in front of their homes, adorn them with flowers, and have picnics on top of the graves.

Lihue, Hawaii

July 19, 2019: It was hard to believe it had been almost two years since we pushed off the dock at Shilshole and began our journey through the Pacific. We’d sailed and motored 13,000 nautical miles, visited 135 anchorages and 30 islands, and experienced less-measurable things too. There was nothing definitive about the end of the trip; it was more of a gradual ending that merged into new beginnings at the same time. That said, the 19th of July was momentous. I decided to fly home, and a friend of Matt’s flew in to replace me for the final passage. As we walked to the airport, it felt like there was so much to say, but we had no idea exactly what, so we ended up walking mostly in silence. 

The end of the voyage didn’t really feel like a hard and final conclusion because the cruise had fundamentally changed how we wanted to structure our lives. It set us on a path. We’d started to reflect a little, here and there, about how the previous two years had changed us. We can, and should, live our lives according to our own rules and dreams, and if those happen to go against the societal grain, so be it. 

We dreamed and schemed of a future in which we lived on a self-sufficient boat, powered by solar, wind and hydro, that Matt had built. We wanted to work for ourselves and try to find a good balance between our vocations and everything else life has to offer. We wanted to live minimally and frugally so that we could afford more free time. We wanted to be able to pull up our anchor and go exploring anytime. All of British Columbia and Alaska lay to the north, and Oregon and the rest of the planet to the south. We both were full of aspirations and dreams, and the conviction to make this vision a reality, though our dear friend Salty might read all this and with a roll of his eyes say, as he has said before, “Such bums!” Maybe he’s right.

Throughout our cruise, Matt became increasingly interested in the features of a good cruising boat. Many hours were spent sitting in our cockpit in anchorages around the Pacific, scrutinizing other boats. He read all of Steve Dashew’s books. He became intrigued by Open 60s, offshore racers that have evolved over the past few decades in round-the-world races such as the BOC Challenge and the Vendée Globe. He started sketching designs. He dreamed about all the ways he would create an ideal cruising boat if he had the opportunity.

Olympic Peninsula, Washington

January 2022: Which brings us to the present. We’ve sold Louise and bought a small house in the woods in Washington, and Duracell is now ours, parked right outside our home (see the photo below). How she came to be ours is a story in its own right.

Designed by Rodger Martin (who passed away in May 2021), Duracell was built by Mike Plant back in the mid-1980s and named after the battery manufacturer that sponsored the boat. Afterward, Plant circled the globe aboard her twice, setting the American record for a solo circumnavigation during the 1989 Vendée Globe, a dramatic story that’s well-told in the documentary Coyote: The Mike Plant Story (available on Amazon Prime and other streaming services). 

Thirty years ago, Plant sold the boat to a sailor from Seattle named John Oman, who renamed her Northwest Spirit and sailed her to victory in the Pan Pacific Race across the Pacific to Japan. He next set off on a solo, nonstop circumnavigation of the planet that came to a halt somewhere near the equator after a collision with a cargo ship. Northwest Spirit was dismasted, but the hull didn’t sustain much damage because the bowsprit took most of the blow. The cargo-ship captain offered him a ride, but Oman opted to motor to Turtle Bay in Baja California, where he refueled and carried on to San Diego, where he loaded the boat on a trailer and drove it to Seattle, where he put it in his front yard.

That was in 1992. 

In 2019, just a few weeks after we arrived home from our Pacific voyage, Matt was scrolling through a local sailing forum when he saw a new post from Oman:

“I bought Mike’s Duracell from him as he was building his next boat, Coyote. My plan was to do my own nonracing, solo, nonstop circumnavigation. After bringing her to Seattle (through the Panama Canal) and winning the Pan Pacific Race, I brought her solo back from Japan as a shakedown. My circumnavigation was cut short by losing the top 50 feet of the mast in a collision with a freighter. Putting her on the hard next to my home, it was my intention to put her back together and return to sailing. Shore life got in the way with business and family obligations, and now age and health issues. I no longer have the means to chase that dream. So what now? I love that boat. I can’t imagine a more easily handled, seakindly, safe, proven, shorthanded boat capable of sailing anywhere on Earth. So a refit for a solo circumnavigator? Or shorthanded go anywhere?”

Immediately the wheels began turning in Matt’s head. I got a text from him that simply said, “I found our next boat.” 

The pandemic delayed everything, but during that time, we got to know Oman, and worked hard to earn his trust and prove that we were worthy of this special refit project. Almost two years after his original post, Oman generously decided to release the boat to us.

But why this boat? Matt says that it’s the most solid, safest, best-built, fastest hull out there: a very special shell that we can turn into a comfortable home. Before the pandemic, he traveled to Rhode Island, where Duracell was built, and was thrilled to meet Rodger Martin, who graciously gave him copies of the original drawings. Armed with those, the refit is now well underway.

Former science teacher Janneke Petersen and her husband, Matt—a seasoned sailor who was part of the winning crew in the inaugural Race to Alaska in 2017—are well into their ambitious refit, which they’re chronicling on their YouTube channel, The Duracell Project. Also look for more updates in future issues of CW.

Mike Plant’s Famous Duracell

Before he was tragically lost at sea in 1992, solo sailor Mike Plant twice circled the globe aboard his Open 60, Duracell. His most memorable voyage came during the 1989 Vendée Globe. Midway through the race, deep in the Southern Ocean, Plant was forced to ­anchor in the remote Kerguelen Islands to address rigging problems. Though he ­completed the repairs himself, he did accept brief assistance from a team of New Zealand meteorologists when Duracell dragged anchor.

Though the Kiwis told Plant they’d be sworn to secrecy, he radioed race headquarters that he’d had help: an automatic disqualification. But Plant finished the course by sailing alone back to France, where he was greeted with a hero’s welcome and set the American record for a singlehanded circumnavigation of 134 days. He disappeared aboard his next boat, Coyote, en route to the 1992 running of the Vendée race. —Herb McCormick

The post From Offshore Racer to Performance Cruiser appeared first on Cruising World.

We should do something,” my wife, Carolyn, said. “Something special.”

Carolyn is still a party gal. She loves to invite fellow sailors aboard our 43-foot Wauquiez ketch Ganesh or visit on their boats, or even go ashore to mingle with the dirt dwellers. She is far more social than me.

“You mean for our 50th?” I asked. She came aboard my boat in 1968 to sew up my curtains, and has been stitching happiness into my life ever since. We were both 15 years old at the time and, being a gentleman, I waited until she turned 16 to suggest we run away to sea together.

Sadly, she wanted to ­complete high school first. “How middle class,” I had sniffed at the time.

However, patience is a sailor’s virtue.

At age 18, fresh from giving her valedictorian speech at Chicago’s Gage Park High, she stepped aboard my wooden double-ender and said, “Show me the world, skipper.”

I’ve been doing my best ever since.

“Sure,” I said to her, ­resurfacing into current reality. “I’m up for anything on our golden anniversary.”

“Actually, I was thinking of your 60th anniversary of living aboard,” she said. “Lots of married couples are still together after 50 years; very few sailors are on their sixth decade of sailing.”

I’d never thought of it that way. I hadn’t set out to achieve a liveaboard record, merely to have the highest-quality life I could imagine, and share it with the woman I love.

My earliest memories are of growing up aboard the 52-foot Alden schooner Elizabeth—and of the shock of my parents selling her and moving ashore when I was 12. It didn’t take long for me to realize that dirt dwelling wasn’t for me. So at 15, I purchased the double-ender Corina, sans engine and rig, said goodbye to formal education, and was cruising the Great Lakes a year later. So what if Corina was so rotten that the only thing keeping her together were the roaches holding hands? Such freedom, once tasted, is forever desired.

Looking back, I think it’s fair to say I’ve seen some changes around the waterfront. Here’s an example: Elizabeth had one small 12-volt battery; aboard Ganesh, we have 12 large deep-cycle batteries.

When I was still a kid, my father wanted me to ensure I’d have some change in my purse, so he taught me celestial navigation and Morse code so I’d always be able to earn my living. Ahem! How time marches on.

The schooner I grew up on was built of wood. Caulking kept out the water (well, some of it). My childhood home had more leaks than the White House. To empty the bilge, we used a bronze barrel pump mounted in the cockpit while at anchor and a large deck-mounted pitcher pump at sea. The pitcher pump’s handle was over 6 feet long. My mother hated it, especially while pumping it for four hours to keep our home afloat while Father and I were ashore.

Elizabeth’s anchor rode was tarred hemp, and hauling on it was like grabbing a fistful of fishhooks. Our rigging was galvanized steel—spliced, of course. Both running and cabin lights were primarily kerosene. We had two instruments aboard: temperature and oil-pressure gauges for our tiny gasoline Scripts auxiliary, an engine that ran whenever it felt like it.

Our sails were made of Egyptian cotton, and fit with mast hoops that made for both a quick drop and an easy climb. All our deck and rigging hardware was silicone bronze; stainless steel (which is totally misnamed) hadn’t been perpetrated on the marine community yet.

Our galley stove was made by Shipmate and coal-fired (unless we were short on money and forced to feed it wood). Little Liz, our wooden 10-foot dinghy, was clinker-built, and we sculled her. Our compass was regularly swung, we had its deviation table and, yes, we knew the local variation as well.

Since Elizabeth had been built to sail and race in the Great Lakes, both her 100-­gallon riveted-iron water tanks had underwater valves to let in the fresh water. Our marine radio transmitted 20 watts of amplitude-modulated power, was crystal-controlled, and (pretty much) would reach any vessel we could see with our naked eye.

To determine our depth, we used a lead line marked in fathoms and armed with wax so that we’d get a sample of the bottom as well. There was a trick to tossing it forward from the bowsprit if you wanted an accurate, vertical double-tap on the bottom. Rock felt different than sand, and sand felt different than mud.

Yeah, it was different back in the day.

Marinas didn’t exist, aside from major cities, so usually we’d just raft up alongside a tug or fishing vessel. We couldn’t tell people we were cruising; that didn’t make sense back then. So we’d tell them we were delivering the boat or collecting tropical fish—anything to disguise the fact that my father needed a timeout from Western society. Whenever he heard the word “civilization,” he’d shout: “Sounds like a damn fine idea to me. We’ll return if it happens.”

Oh, it was a wonderfully wild and wacko childhood. The only difference between me and Tom Sawyer was that nobody forced this sailor into school or church. Thank you, Lord!

Once, a movie producer attempted to charter Elizabeth for an upcoming flick but had a tough time dealing with my beatnik father. Just because we were dead broke didn’t mean the old man lacked integrity.

“What, I look like a bus driver to you?” he asked the producer.

A few days later, a shifty-eyed fellow showed up and said he had to get out of town quick.

“Skipping bail?” my father mused.

“That’s right,” the man said with a shrug.

“Are you guilty?” my father asked.

“Guiltier than a nun with a dildo,” the man replied.

“Welcome aboard,” my father said.

Oh, what a collection of seagoing misfits slept on deck in various ports. There was a circus guy named Ruby the Red, who had dropped his trapeze-swinging brother; an alcoholic undertaker who used to brag about burying his mistakes; an ex-cop who had run away to sea after tasting the oil from his gun’s barrel. Oh, and Barefoot Benny, a lawyer from Natchez, who had thrown his shoes at the judge while screaming, “No, the obscenity in this courtroom is your honor, Your Honor.” And there I was, swinging through the rig above it all, drinking it all in.

Nobody had any money. The last time I’d seen anything bigger than a $5 bill was when we’d paid $100 for Elizabeth—or whatever was at the end of those stiff dock lines leading like iron bars into the dark, swirling water. Yes, boats underwater tend to be cheap, and being underwater wasn’t so unusual back then.

In the Caribbean, on islands such as Tortola, all the local boats would take on a load of rocks, and then sit out in Road Harbour to await a hurricane. If the barometer continued to drop, skippers waited for the gale to start, then knocked out the garboard plugs, and swam ashore. Once the storm had passed, those West Indians would dive down, toss out the rocks, watch their wooden boats rise to the surface, pound back in the garboard plugs, bail, and they were good to go. Try that with a boat brimming with computer equipment, a bilge full of engines, and a cockpit dotted with multipixel screens.

Nobody viewed us as profit centers when we sailed into a port in the 1950s. Hell, it was more likely the townsfolk would take up a collection! One of the reasons we loved to raft up with fishing boats was that often the fishermen would bring over a red snapper, my mother would cook it up, and we’d all get to telling stories while the rum bottle circumnavigated.

Stories! The stories were all we had. They were the universal entertainment of the salt-stained poor. We were flotsam and jetsam, all of us. The most respected fisherman in the harbor wasn’t the one who caught the most fish; it was the guy who told the best stories. These men were clever and violent gunslingers of harsh words and tall tales and dangerous fishing yarns—and don’t think I didn’t listen. I listened hard. These men were my heroes; they were everything I wanted to be—then and now. I used to know how much to trust a man by looking at his hands to count the calluses. I recall how my father used to say, “If it can’t be fixed, don’t bring it aboard.”

All of a sudden, I realized that I couldn’t tell if I had spoken that last part aloud or not. So I again swam upward from my reverie into current reality, and stared across the galley table at Carolyn.

“Boy,” she said. “You’re sounding like an old fart now.”

“I’m 68,” I said. “If I’d had any idea I’d get this old, I would not have done half the stuff I did, leastwise not in those dosages.”

“Getting back to the point,” Carolyn said, “what do you want to do that’s special?”

We were in Batam, Indonesia, at the time. It’s not a bad port, actually.

“How ’bout we take a ferry to Singapore?” I suggested.

Carolyn slapped herself on the forehead.

“Let me get this straight,” she grimaced. “To celebrate 60 years of living aboard, you want to take a boat ride?”

“And 50 years of wedded bliss too,” I added. “We’ll go see our daughter and our grandkids in Singapore. I can handle a little rock hugging, if you do your part.”

“You mean shake your bed and sprinkle drops of water on you so you can get to sleep?” Carolyn quipped.

“Is that too much to ask?”

“The things I do for love,” she said with a smile.

The Goodlanders packed a fair amount of sailing into the past few months and are now enjoying their latest landfall: Singapore.

The post On Watch: Golden Times appeared first on Cruising World.

I roll off the cockpit settee, pop my head over the dodger and look into the night. Twenty degrees off our starboard bow, I do see it: three white lights in a vertical line, then a red light below and to the left of the others.

“I’ve been watching him for a while,” Hank says. “His bearing hasn’t changed.”

My first reaction is to call for an ­exaggerated turn to port. As I try to shake off sleep, an exam question flickers from some dim recess.

You are approaching another vessel at night. You can see both red and green sidelights and, above the level of the sidelights, three white lights in a vertical line. The vessel may be

a. not under command
b. towing a tow more than 200 meters astern
c. trawling
d. underway and dredging

My heart races before I call for the course change; another question runs through my mind.

You are aboard the give-way vessel in a crossing situation. Which of the following should you NOT do in obeying the Navigation Rules?

a. cross ahead of the stand-on vessel
b. make a large course change to starboard
c. slow your vessel
d. back your vessel

Adrenaline wallops me. “Turn 90 ­degrees to starboard,” I say.

For the next minute or so, the tug moves safely across our port side, and soon we both see the faint red sidelight of its barge some hundreds of yards behind. I think of the hawser connecting them, lethal and invisible, then sit chatting with Hank for a few minutes before lying back down for another 20-minute nap. (For the record, the correct answers are B and A.)

Hands-On Sailors

I’ve joined Shawn Brown and Hank Schmidt as their instructor for a pair of courses — Coastal Navigation and Coastal Passage Making — two intermediate steps in a tiered curriculum from novice to expert that’s created and administered by the United States Sailing Association, or US Sailing. Shawn is an airplane pilot who’s recently left a tech startup and is now looking to buy a 50-something-foot ketch to live and cruise aboard. Hank (no relation to the Hank Schmitt who organizes cruising rallies under the Offshore Passage Opportunities name) is a New York City emergency-room physician who hopes to start crewing on ocean-sailing trips from the U.S. East Coast to the Caribbean. Both would like to charter sailboats in different places around the world. If they can successfully perform the hands-on tasks laid out in each course and pass the written exams, they’ll receive US Sailing certificates that demonstrate to charter companies and skippers that they’ve attained a rigorous level of ­proficiency in these disciplines.

For this trip, we’re sailing Matilda, a newish Hanse 505 managed by New England Sailing Center in Newport, Rhode Island. The Coastal Passage Making curriculum includes night passages, so we plot a track that will take us from Narragansett Bay out to Shelter Island at the eastern end of Long Island, then across Block Island Sound to Martha’s Vineyard, before returning to Newport — a triangle of some 200 miles over five days, including two overnighters.

After stowing provisions and getting familiar with the boat’s systems, we work through this question together:

The Hanse 505 is fitted with a Volvo D2 diesel engine and 75 gallons of fuel. If she cruises at 6.5 knots and burns 1.75 gallons per hour at 2,200 rpm, what is *Matilda‘s safe cruising range under power?*

a. 75 miles
b. 175 miles
c. 275 miles
d. 375 miles

It takes two steps to answer the question. We know that the engine burns 1.75 gallons per hour and that Matilda will travel a distance of 6.5 miles in one hour. Our first step is to figure out how far we’ll travel on a gallon of fuel. Dividing 6.5 miles by 1.75 gallons gives the answer: 3.71 miles per gallon.

Next, we need to know how far our tank of fuel will carry us. Multiplying 75 gallons by 3.71 miles per gallon gives a result of 278 miles. Answer C, 275 miles, is mathematically possible but not a safe cruising range. Applying a safety factor of 25 percent leaves us with a range of 208 miles. The answer B, 175 miles, leaves us a safety factor closer to a third of a tank. B is the best answer to this question. In practical terms, this means that even if the wind shuts off all week, we could still complete our itinerary without refueling.

We spend our first afternoon sailing in Narragansett Bay, calculating time-speed-distance problems and plotting course-to-steer vectors through the tidal current as we reach over the top of Conanicut Island, then tack down the West Passage to Dutch Harbor. Shawn and Hank study the chart and select a spot near the mouth of Great Creek that shows 14 feet of depth at mean low water and is marked with an “M” for its mud bottom. Calculating for 7-to-1 scope and taking into account the tidal range and our 5 feet of freeboard, they set the hook, then put out 160 feet of rode. We grill chicken, share a few laughs and turn in early.

Our trip’s first night passage begins at 0200.

From Lubber to Salt, Step by Step

US Sailing, which has existed in one form or another for more than 120 years, describes itself as “the national governing body for the sport of sailing.” In the 1980s, it got into the business of teaching sailing, with an initial focus on kids and small boats. In the 1990s, it began developing courses for adult sailors in bigger boats — “keelboats,” as opposed to dinghies, and cruising in addition to racing. Similar instructional programs are available that lead to American Sailing Association certification (see “ASA Courses and Certifications,” at the end of the article).

Two years ago, US Sailing reorganized itself to simplify its several missions. Now there’s a dedicated Youth department, which focuses on teaching kids to sail small boats through local sailing schools, yacht clubs and community sailing centers. Its Youth network includes some 1,500 instructors. Other US Sailing departments support sailboat racing up to the Olympic level, providing rules, coaching, measurements and other tools to create a level competitive playing field.

The courses Shawn and Hank are taking fall under US Sailing’s Adult department. Since January 2017, that division has been led by Betsy Alison, a champion in several senses of the word. Five-time winner of the Women’s Keelboat Championships, five-time Rolex Yachtswoman of the Year and 2011 National Sailing Hall of Fame inductee, her competitive record speaks for itself. But in a broader sense, Betsy has long been a champion of providing people access to the water, especially folks with clear barriers. In 2015, she won the ISAF World Sailing President’s Development Award for her work as head coach of the US Paralympic Sailing Program.

In her new role, Betsy’s mission has broadened. “We just want to get butts in boats,” she told me last winter. “We want people to try sailing and have a hands-on experiential learning opportunity that hopefully sparks their interest and makes them want to continue.”

For Betsy and her department, that ­mission starts with a program called First Sail. First Sail sessions typically run two hours and cost between $35 and $100 per person; after that, many clubs or schools offer discounts on future lessons. “We have First Sail locations that are not US Sailing keelboat schools or yacht clubs,” Betsy said.  ”And we don’t mind whether someone is using ASA instructors or volunteer instructors or whatnot. It’s the first entry point in my department, and it’s for people who have never tried sailing before.”

The next step for folks who want to learn more is US Sailing’s Adult Keelboat program — and this is the track Shawn and Hank are following. The US Sailing website includes a list of accredited schools that offer certification. With about 75 schools on the list, that network is smaller than what you’ll find with US Sailing’s Youth program (1,500 instructors) or the American Sailing Association (roughly 300 schools and clubs).

The Adult Cruising Track lays out a progressive set of standardized stepping stones to lead novices toward sailing expertise:

• Basic Keelboat
• Basic Cruising
• Bareboat Cruising
• Cruising Catamaran Endorsement
• Coastal Navigation
• Coastal Passage Making
• Celestial Navigation
• Offshore Passage Making

In addition to these, US Sailing offers other targeted programs, including Safety at Sea courses and a host of online instruction. “If you look at the millennial generation,” Betsy said, “they don’t want to own things. They want to go to a community sailing program or to a shared-boat club and lease or charter a boat and enjoy it without having to make the big financial investment in it. So this year we’ve started expanding our small keelboat program.” For such people, certifications are their ticket to renting boats. So, US Sailing expanded its program last year to include Performance Keelboat. “It’s an opportunity to teach people to sail their boats better and faster without being related to racing.” It’s also unrelated to the more systems-heavy cruising track.

Another new course comes under the heading of US Powerboating. “What sets us apart from some of the other ­powerboat-instruction providers is that our programs are all focused around ­hands-on, experiential learning,” Betsy said. “So you learn how to pivot-turn; you learn how to dock and undock, and all the little nuances that you don’t get if you sit online for your boater’s education card.”

Bringing It All Home

The full reality of that hands-on, experiential instruction hits us at 0130, when wake-up alarms start ringing through Matilda‘s cabin. After that initial jolt, only the clatter of the anchor chain breaks the midnight silence as we hoist the main and sail off our anchor engineless. A gentle southerly and the ebbing current take us quietly out past the Dutch Harbor mooring field and back toward West Passage.

“See that red light that’s flashing twice then once every six seconds?” I say to Shawn. “Keep that just off our starboard bow.” This is the preferred-channel buoy “DI” at the south end of Dutch Island — red on top, green on the bottom, with a composite group-flash light pattern at night. We talk about how boats traveling north up the West Passage treat this navigation aid as a red mark if they intend to continue up the main channel but as a green mark if they’re going up the secondary channel into Dutch Harbor. When Shawn and Hank take their exam at the end of the week, they’ll remember this moment; at least five questions deal with aids to navigation, and more than one of those asks about preferred-channel buoys.

With sunrise off Point Judith comes the New England fog — the “smoky sou’wester,” as advection fog is known in these parts, recognizing the strange pairing of zero visibility with a ripping breeze. What should we do?

Shawn combs through the Navigation Rules to find out. Subpart D covers  “Sound and Light Signals.” Rule 35 treats  “Sound Signals in Restricted Visibility.”

That’s us.

“In or near an area of restricted visibility, whether by day or night,” he reads, “a ­power-driven vessel making way through the water shall sound at intervals of not more than two minutes, one prolonged blast.” Elsewhere we read that a prolonged blast sounds for four to six seconds.

Sure enough, we can hear one of those off our port beam — and it’s getting louder.

But that signal is for power-driven vessels, and we’re sailing with our engine off. What about us?

“A vessel not under command; a vessel ­restricted in her ability to maneuver, whether underway or at anchor; a sailing vessel; a vessel engaged in fishing, whether underway or at anchor; and a vessel engaged in towing or pushing another vessel shall … sound at intervals of not more than two minutes, three blasts in succession, namely, one prolonged followed by two short blasts.”

And so for the next three-quarters of an hour till the fog clears, we take turns blowing the air horn — one prolonged, two short blasts, every two minutes. The sound of the other boat moves aft, but we never catch sight of it.

Through the morning and the early afternoon, we devise a watch schedule to make up for last night’s short nap, and we set up a detailed log of our progress. All day we motor sail a little south of west toward Gardiners Point, keeping a close eye on the weather. The NOAA forecast calls for a powerful front arriving later and bringing gale-force winds through the night. We call up National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s graphic marine weather charts and compare the surface analysis with the 12-, 24- and 48-hour forecasts. We talk about the isobars, those lines of equal barometric pressure on the map, and how tighter isobars indicate greater wind velocities. We talk about the changing sky, and what the progress from cirrus to stratus to cumulus foretells. Later that night, safely anchored in Shelter Island’s Coecles Harbor, the shrieks through the rigging and the boat’s snappy pitch send home the message that what we’re learning here isn’t just theoretical.

The gale doesn’t quite blow itself out till early afternoon, so we use the next day for coursework at anchor: tide problems using the rule of twelfths, set-and-drift plots, safety procedures in cases of fire or crew overboard. We use the time to plot a ­current-corrected course back across Block Island Sound to Martha’s Vineyard. After a swim and a late lunch, we up anchor and set off in time to round Gardiners Point by sunset and begin our second overnight passage.

By the time we return to Newport after five days out, the exam questions for the Coastal Passage Making certification seem a little less daunting — and a little more real.

The greater the pressure difference between a high- and low-pressure center, the:

a. cooler the temperature will be
b. drier the air mass will be
c. warmer the temperature will be
d. greater the force of the wind will be

Fog formed by moisture-laden air moving across a cold portion of Earth’s surface and condensing is called:

a. sea fog
b. radiation fog
c. advection fog
d. frontal fog

A lighted preferred-channel buoy will show a:

a. Morse (A) white light
b. composite group flashing light
c. yellow light
d. fixed red light

To pass the course and gain their ­certification, Shawn and Hank need to answer at least 80 percent of these questions correctly (the answers to the questions above are D, C and B, respectively). That’s 64 out of 80. But after this week, all that theory from the textbook has been fleshed out with a boatload of indelible memories. All that said, this story has a happy ending: They passed.

Plotting the Effect of Current

Step 1: We’ll use a universal plotting sheet to work out our current vectors. The plotting sheet is marked with units for distance and angle. We’ll use it to draw vectors, lines that represent both angle and distance. To solve problems for tidal current, the trick is to create a plot based on one hour of travel. That way our speed (knots) equals our distance (miles), and the length of each vector directly represents our speed. In this problem, we’re steering a course of 020 true and making 5 knots through the water. Using dividers with a pencil tip on one end, measure off 5 miles on the distance scale and make an arc near our course. Next, using the compass rose, line up parallel rules from the plotting sheet’s center mark through the 020 mark on the compass rose. Draw a line from the center to our pencil arc; this vector represents our course and boat speed. Above the line, label it “C 020 T.” The “C” reminds us that this is our course, uncorrected for current; the “T” reminds us that this is a true course, corrected for compass error. Below the line, label it “S 5.0”; the “S” reminds us that this is our boat speed (through the water, not over the ground).

Step 2: Now we’ll draw a second vector representing the current’s set (direction) and drift (speed). Using NOAA’s Tides & Currents tables, we’ve determined that the current is setting us at 082 true at a speed of 2.9 knots, so we can start by marking off a distance of 2.9 miles with the dividers. From the head of our course/speed vector, scribe an arc near 082. Set the parallel rules at the center of the plotting sheet and at 082 on the compass rose, then walk them to the head of the course/speed vector. Draw a line that intersects our second arc. Label these “SET 082 T” and “S 2.9.”

Step 3: Using parallel rules, draw the vector from the center of the plotting sheet to the head of the set/drift vector. Read the angle off the compass rose, then measure the distance with the dividers. This vector shows that our actual track is 042 true and our speed over the ground is 6.8 knots. Label this vector “TR 042 T” and “SOG 6.8.” We’ve solved for current. A plot on the chart based on this exercise would be called an “estimated position” — more accurate than a simple dead-reckoned ­position but still not as accurate as a positive fix.

ASA Courses and Certifications

Founded in 1983, the American Sailing Association has developed programs for sailing instruction that include textbooks and online courses, as well as classroom and on-the-water instruction. The ASA counts among its membership some 300 sailing schools and yacht clubs, as well as charter companies and professional sailing instructors. Its entry-level textbook, Sailing Made Easy, gets my vote for the best learn-to-sail book for novices. The ASA has developed standards for a series of progressive sailing certifications, including:

• ASA 101: Basic Keelboat Sailing
• ASA 103: Basic Coastal Cruising
• ASA 104: Bareboat Cruising
• ASA 105: Coastal Navigation
• ASA 106: Advanced Coastal Cruising
• ASA 107: Celestial Navigation
• ASA 108: Offshore Passage Making
• ASA 110: Basic Small Boat Sailing
• ASA 114: Cruising Catamaran

In addition to these broad standards, the ASA has also developed endorsements for more specialized skills:

• ASA 117: Basic Celestial Endorsement
• ASA 118: Docking Endorsement
• ASA 119: Marine Weather Endorsement
• ASA 120: Radar Endorsement

Be sure to check out ASA’s online courses too.

CW editor at large Tim Murphy holds a 100-ton Master’s license and has taught sailing for many years. He’s preparing a 1988 Passport 40, Billy Pilgrim, for long-distance voyaging.

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