My Boat-Owning Background

I’ve been sailing for 50 years. I’ve owned and sailed four cruising boats and made dozens of offshore deliveries between Maine and the Caribbean. Each boat, each voyage has taught me something. Most of those ­lessons came from getting my hands dirty and venturing outside my comfort zone.

My first boat was Quinta, a 1947 34-foot Alden wooden sloop. I bought it in 1969 in Shelburne, Vermont, on Lake Champlain for $6,000. I fixed it up, and we motored down the lake, through the Champlain Canal, down the Hudson River, around Manhattan, out to Long Island Sound and Cape Cod, Massachusetts, then up to Maine. For the next 10 years, Quinta and I sailed up and down the New England coast with a compass, a radio direction finder and a sounder. I learned to anchor, managed to keep the Gray Marine gas engine running, and navigated by running aground, frequently. 

In 1979, friends joined Kate and me on a two-week bareboat charter in the US and British Virgin Islands. The boat, a Morgan Out Island, was a floating Winnebago, but it introduced us to a world I thought existed only in literature: the tropics. 

I was hooked. The islands of the Caribbean were everything I’d been ­dreaming about since I could read. There was warm, crystal-­clear water. Colorful fish. Coral reefs. Islands, each one different, with strange languages, dancing music and spicy food. The sun shone all day. The trade winds blew steadily from the same direction. At night, a warm breeze wrapped around my ­sunburned hide like a down comforter. 

I had to get back—on my own boat.

Fair-Thee-Well was another wooden sloop built in Maine in 1947. It was 42 feet and cost me $42,000. I was moving up. 

That boat and I sailed to the Caribbean in 1980, and back to Maine in ’81. Then back down the Intracoastal Waterway in 1984 to hop over to the Bahamas, and then back in ’85. 

By then, I’d had it with leaky wooden boats. That fall, I bought Afaran, a Lord Nelson 41 cutter. She was brand-new and cost me $125,000. With another $20,000, we outfitted her in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and sailed to the Virgin Islands. 

I owned that boat for 10 years, sailing back and forth from Maine to the islands for the first five years. In 1987, Afaran and I rode out Hurricane Emily in Bermuda; then, in 1989, Hurricane Hugo in St. John, USVI. In 1995, we rode out Hurricane Luis in St. John, but a few weeks later, Afaran was lost in Hurricane Marilyn. I was not aboard to move the boat out of the way.

Yes, I still miss that boat. It showed me what it needed, taught me how to care, and gave me back twice as much. You might say that we had a relationship.

I’ve heard that you are supposed to own a boat whose length on deck is equal in feet to your age. In my case, that held true. After losing Afaran in 1995, I bought Searcher the following year. It was a 57-foot Bowman ketch built in 1976. It cost me less than $200,000, and with another $20,000, I ­outfitted it, and we sailed to the islands.

We made three round-trip voyages to the islands in the 14 years that I owned it—and I realized that I would not have been prepared to own and sail such a large, complex boat if I had not owned my three previous boats.

Boats are built of systems that need to be learned, maintained and occasionally replaced. Certainly, modern systems make the offshore voyage less stressful, but there’s still the weather, seas, currents and other ships to contend with, and the knowledge that you are out there, 300 miles from the nearest technical help. 

You are on your own, as you have perhaps never been. The only people farther away from help are the astronauts in space.    

Shopping Advice

The first piece of advice that I give people who are shopping for a boat is not to buy a boat.

Let me repeat that: Do not buy a boat. At least not yet. 

Sail on other people’s boats—as many different kinds as you can. Walk the docks and ask if anyone needs crew (assuming that you can properly cleat a line, tie a bowline, and pump the head). Pay for a ­bareboat-charter class or a DIY class. 

Before you even think about going ­offshore on your own boat, go with ­someone who has many voyages under their belt. This might cost you $4,000 to $6,000, but it’s a bargain as valuable research. For starters, it will teach you whether offshore sailing is your thing, and what to look for in a boat that fits you.

When you get to the actual buying, start small. I suggest a boat smaller than 30 feet. Within a year, you’ll learn a lot—and spend even more. There’s the cost of the boat, insurance, a mooring or slip to rent, the cost to haul and store your boat for the winter—it gets expensive. While doing all of that, you’ll also see if you actually use the boat enough to receive an adequate return on your investment. If not, charter a ­bareboat until your lifestyle justifies ownership. 

If your ultimate dream is to sail amid the islands of the Eastern Caribbean, or even around the world, then your preparations take on an even greater significance. The boat needs to be designed and built for long-distance offshore voyages. You’ll be spending weeks at sea, separated from any assistance, so you must be able to fix stuff that breaks, change fuel filters and bleed the injectors, rig an emergency rudder, patch a sail, and keep going. You will have acquired these skills working your way up while owning smaller boats.

Today’s offshore sailboats are technological marvels. If you are a gear person who loves fiddling with stuff, then these boats might not pose a problem. I’m still of the old school, and when navigating between Maine and the Caribbean, and through the islands, I use just Navionics on my smartphone. 

Top Considerations

I was walking the docks at the Newport International Boat Show this past year, looking for an offshore cruising boat. I found few. Only 20 percent of the boats at that show had masts. All the rest were ­power yachts. I did find two offshore ­sailboats that I liked.

Exodus, a Hylas 57, was impressive, but at $2 million, it’s a boat that only an experienced and wealthy owner could manage. A full-time captain might be required. 

The Island Packet 349 was a bit short at less than 40 feet, but Larry and Lin Pardey completed two circumnavigations aboard engineless boats under 30 feet. And the Packet has a full keel with an attached rudder to track well on long passages, along with smart bluewater features such as handrails along the entire coachroof. 

When I’m evaluating boats like these, I look for a number of key things. 

First is hull design: Sloop, cutter, ketch, yawl or schooner? They all qualify. A full or partial keel makes for better tracking over long distances. Narrow fin keels create less drag, meaning a faster hull and quicker turns around the buoys, but they require constant helm work to keep on course. Long keels and rudder skegs protect the prop and rudder. 

Waterline length: Longer is faster, but it’s also more costly to buy, operate and maintain. Many boats these days range from 38 to 48 feet, but more and more 50-plus-foot yachts are on the water. The difference in speed between a 45-footer at 6 knots and a 50-footer at 7 knots is 24 more miles in a day. On the 640-mile voyage from Newport to Bermuda, that 1-knot advantage gets you there half a day earlier. At 8 knots, Bermuda is whole day closer.

Catamarans: They have less wetted surface, are faster, have more living space, and have less heel, but my son, a yacht designer, tells me that once a pontoon leaves the water, stability begins to deteriorate drastically. “A cat is the most stable upside down,” he says. 

Tankage: If you’re going offshore to anywhere, you’ll need at least 100 gallons of fuel, enough to motor for 100 hours, four days, with another 30 gallons in jerry cans lashed to the deck as a backup. A few boats run out of fuel each year from inadequate tankage. Know your engine’s burn rate at different rpm.

Water: Two tanks are better than one because one could become foul. A watermaker? Sure, but that’s just another piece of expensive gear to buy and maintain. At a gallon per day of drinking water per person, a crew of four will need at least 60 gallons for a two-week delivery. Carry enough drinking water in extra jugs for emergencies.

Rig: A cutter rig is preferable to a sloop for going offshore. It’s easier to reduce sail and hove-to. A cutter or ketch affords more options in sail management. An inner forestay can carry a staysail or a smaller storm jib, but you’ll need running backs to support the mast. All headsails should be on furlers so that there is no need to go forward of the mast once at sea. Should you need to go forward, jacklines rigged from the cockpit exit point to the mast are better than those along the deck. Jacklines along the deck are fine for dragging you along in the water should you fall overboard, but jacklines rigged to the mast keep you from falling overboard in the first place. Look for handholds along the cabin top all the way and 30-inch-high lifelines—or, better yet, stainless-­steel rails. Those 24-inch ­stanchions can catch you at the back of the knees and flip you over the side.

Furling: How easy is it to reef and furl the main? Can it be done from the cockpit, or does someone need to go to the mast or climb onto the boom?

Anchoring: A windlass that’s hidden makes for a neat bow but is inconvenient. When it comes to setting and retrieving multiple anchors, the windlass needs to be on deck with a chain gypsy and a rope capstan—side by side, not stacked up—one above the other. You’ll need at least two anchor rollers on a well-built platform over the bow to accommodate a heavy working anchor on chain, as well as a second, ­lighter anchor on chain and rode. This lighter anchor can lower into the dinghy, run out, and set when there’s concern about dragging. A chain brake just forward of the windlass is a must, and I’d like to see a strong point on the foredeck—a Samson post—to secure snubbing lines, chain or a 1-inch mooring pendant. The deck cleats on many modern boats are barely adequate for dock lines. The windlass is not there to secure lines or chains. You’re apt to bend the shaft and render the thing useless. 

Convenience versus practicality: I recently delivered two modern cruisers. Compared with my previous boats, which were like camping in a tent, these were like motor homes. But with all the convenient push-buttons came a 50-page technical manual, or the need to bring along a technician. If you are buying a boat, ­remember the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Your new boat should be within your technical ability to keep it going.

Overall, if you’re up for the challenge and want to explore the world from the water, start small and learn as much as you can. Most of all, remember to enjoy the journey.

David H. Lyman is an author and award-­winning photojournalist who contributes regularly to Cruising World and other ­publications. Find him at dhlyman.com.

Useful Clicks for the Offshore Curious

Sailing Totem: Jamie and Behan Gifford are circumnavigators who provide practical ­guidance and exceptional coaching for safe, comfortable, happy cruising. sailingtotem.com

Lady K Sailing: Tim, a popular YouTuber, gives genuine unbiased advice about boats and boat ownership. ladyksailing.com

Sailing Avocet: Marissa and Chris Neely share their ­sailing adventures, from the technical aspects of cruising a classic sailboat to the challenges and triumphs of liveaboard life. svavocet.com

Yacht Hunters: Captain Q on YouTube provides a fresh, entertaining look at used boats. yachthunting.com

Offshore Passage Opportunities: OPO is an organized crew network that aims to create quality offshore passage opportunities for its members. sailopo.com

The post How to Buy a Boat: Smart Tips for Smooth Sailing appeared first on Cruising World.

We were just a few hours away from the start of the Round Ireland Yacht Race this past June, and I was meeting a few of my fellow crewmembers for the first time. Long story short: I’d raced J/24s the previous summer with an amazing Irish kid named Jack Cummins, who was teaching sailing in my hometown of Newport, Rhode Island. He’d finagled a ride for me aboard Barry O’Donovan’s sweet Beneteau 44.7, Black Magic. One of the lads was laying out the watch schedule and told me I’d be sharing driving duties on my shift with a chap named Conor Fogerty. 

I quickly realized that I took in this information too matter-of-factly, for he repeated the name with extra emphasis: “Conor. Fogerty.” After which came some pertinent Fogerty biographical info.

Professional delivery skipper. More than three dozen transatlantic voyages, including a class win and overall handicap victory in the treacherous 2017 ­running of the solo OSTAR race, for which he was named Irish Sailor of the Year. Hundreds of thousands of miles ­under sail, ­including a circumnavigation as skipper in the Clipper Round the World Race. And so on.

Yes, I’m a bit dense, but not so much that I didn’t understand the accompanying, unspoken message: “You’re splitting wheel time with Conor? You’d better bring your A-game, dude.”

With that, we were off. For the next 700-plus nautical miles, and five and a half sometimes-quite-bumpy days, I was treated to a master class in seamanship from the wily, bluewater Irishman. And more than a few laughs, as well. 

I’ve sailed with many amazing sailors who exude true serenity at sea, who are clearly one with it. The hairier the moment, the calmer their disposition. 

With Fogerty, two moments especially stand out. 

On the final day, getting walloped by headwinds in the Irish Sea, as the leech cord and mainsail battens began to fail, he performed a Flying Wallendas act perched high in the cockpit to address the situation before it became calamitous. Hours before, in the dead of night off Rathlin Island on the country’s northeast point, he put on a steering clinic in a tumultuous seaway in swirling currents that at one stage submerged the entire boat as we were creaming along at 12 knots. It was awesome. 

Overall, as a driver, I think I held my own, but let’s put it this way: I’m no Conor Fogerty.

When you sail offshore, however, the technical aspects of the exercise are only part of it. A lot of hours are filled just shooting the breeze with your mates. And the man had no end of excellent sailing stories. His early years learning the ropes on an old Swan 40 regularly racing from Ireland to Wales. His “longest delivery ever,” when he was hired to sail a Lagoon 50 from Australia to the Caribbean, and rather than bash into the Pacific trades, went the other way: across the Indian Ocean, around South Africa, and north via the Atlantic. His winning move in that aforementioned OSTAR, when he headed way north in the North Atlantic aboard his Jeanneau Sunfast 3600 (wow) to avoid a “bomb” low-pressure system that decimated much of his competition to the south. And all those transatlantics, racing and cruising, Mother Ocean always calling. Fogerty ­always answering. Finally, there were his future plans, which include hopping aboard an Oyster for the brand’s round-the-world rally, or entering the WorldStar 2026 solo round-the-world race, an offshore contest that will set out from Plymouth, England. 

All that said, at the end of the day, I reckon that Fogerty’s most amazing skill was his ability to hand-roll cigarettes in the open cockpit in the breeziest of moments. Smoking was a thing among several Black Magic crewmembers, all of whom were serious characters. At times, I felt I’d been beamed onto the waterborne set of an Irish sitcom. 

When I told him as much, he gave me a bemused smirk, which reminded me of something my mom used to say in the presence of certain company: “He has the map of Ireland drawn on his face.” 

Then he rolled another one.

The post The Irishman appeared first on Cruising World.

I recently inspected a new vessel built by a well-known manufacturer. There were a handful of issues, but what stood out most to me was the lack of access to ­critical systems.  

For example, the ­electrical panel was not hinged. Accessing it required the removal of 12 screws—not to mention needing at least four hands—making inspection of wiring, terminals and circuit breakers inconvenient at best. Even worse, once the fascia was removed, access to the back of the components still wasn’t possible without more disassembly.  

Similarly, the undersides of deck fuel fills were inconvenient to access. American Boat & Yacht Council standards mandate that “all fittings and connections of the fuel fill system shall be readily accessible, or accessible through an access panel, port or hatch.” The definition of “readily accessible” is “capable of being reached quickly, and safely, for effective use under emergency conditions, without the use of tools.” 

None of those conditions were present. Bulkhead ­paneling had to be removed—both screws and bungees—to access the fills and check for hose or clamp deterioration and tension.

This problem is about more than daily maintenance checks. After cost of operation, the things that most affect a boater’s enjoyment of the sport are the boat’s reliability and one’s anxiety about gear failure. That anxiety is exacerbated if the boater has limited troubleshooting or repair skills. 

It’s in the best interest of builders and yards to ensure that a boat’s propulsion, fuel system, seacocks, steering, and electrical components are accessible for service and repair. Less-stressful cruising equals less-stressed owners.

Beyond access, a vessel’s systems should be no more complex than necessary. I often hear boatbuilders say that they want to “keep it simple,” but that’s no longer possible for most vessels because owners also want most of the comforts of home. I have nothing against a comfortable vessel, but comfort can be achieved with more or less complexity, and with less or more reliability, respectively.

The better builders and yards know how to select and install the gear, and ensure the highest possible reliability. The opposite is a lesser builder installing a water heater, and then a water lift muffler in front of it, thereby limiting access and making anode or element replacement impossible (a real-life example). Creative designers, engineers, and boatbuilders find ways of having the systems and the accessibility.

Vessels that are chockablock with the latest gear can become slip queens while awaiting repairs. It’s best to go with the tried-and-true.

A similar and common scenario involves fuel tanks. Too many builders give too little consideration to the need for cleaning them. These tanks need inspection ports. There should be access ports too—ideally, one in every baffled chamber. These features are easy and inexpensive to include while the tank is being built, but typically difficult and costly to add after the tank and vessel are complete.  

If you are boat shopping, your search should include reliability along with a reasonable balance of comfort and complexity. Vessels that are chockablock with the latest gear can easily become slip queens while awaiting repairs.

It’s best to go with the tried-and-true for most systems, particularly those that are critical, such as propulsion, steering and electrical.  

While the reputation of the builder is important, the experiences of existing owners are also valuable. Seek out those owners, and be sure to ask about service friendliness as well as systems reliability. —Steve D’Antonio

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

The post Striking the Balance: Comfort, Complexity, and Accessibility appeared first on Cruising World.

The wind is building. So are the waves. A great day on the water can turn into a problem, but with some foresight, calm thinking and methodical actions, sailing in strong wind can be an exhilarating experience. 

First, be aware of weather conditions. Preparation before sailing will indicate what kind of weather to expect. Thanks to satellite technology, weather forecasting is generally reliable. Good online services include the National Weather Service, The Weather Channel, SailFlow, Windy, and PredictWind. 

I check more than one source and frequently see differences in forecasts. After a day on the water, I go back and compare to see which forecast was most accurate. 

Once out sailing, keep a careful eye on the weather. In open water, you can see weather changes developing. Keeping a boat under control in strong winds is a function of setting the correct sails and steering a comfortable course.  

Trouble develops when boats pound hard in waves or when the helmsperson loses control. It’s important to concentrate while steering. Standing on the windward side is better than sitting. Keep an eye on the approaching puffs and waves. Turn the boat slowly to avoid pounding. Being subtle at the wheel is more comfortable for the crew.

Also keep a crewmember ready to adjust the trim of the sails. In a strong gust, be prepared to ease the sails to reduce heeling. The trimmer and helmsperson need to communicate about each other’s actions.

A third member of the crew needs to keep eyes outside the boat to watch for any problem such as a strong gust of wind, a big wave, a fouled line, a failing piece of equipment or a line dragging in the water.

Everyone should wear the appropriate clothing for the weather. Foul-weather gear, boots, gloves, a head covering, sunglasses, sunscreen, and life jackets or safety harnesses are a few necessary items in blustery conditions. When a crew is dressed for the weather, life on board is good. 

Also note that it is hard to hear when the wind is howling. Speak up and look directly at someone when making a comment. Ask for acknowledgment that the message has been understood.

If you are struggling, slow down the boat. Reducing sail area by taking a reef in the mainsail or setting a smaller jib—or even rolling it up—will make the boat easier to sail.  

I’ve had occasions where the best action was simply to stop sailing until the sails were set for the conditions. A boat needs to be balanced to maintain control. If the boat is spinning into the wind and there seems to be too much weather helm, you can adjust sail trim. 

Move the jib leads aft to open the top of the leech of the sail. This ­depowers the force of the sail. Drop the traveler to leeward. Steer a higher course to feather the boat into the wind. Your sails might luff a little, but the goal is to keep the boat from heeling over too far. A boat that heels dramatically slides sideways, and cavitation between the hull and rudder causes the boat to lose steerage.

A common mistake is to overtrim the sails, which causes extreme heeling. Maintaining a consistent angle of heel keeps a boat under control. 

To help depower the sails, flatten them by tightening the outhaul and downhaul. Make the halyards tight to reduce the wrinkles in the sail. Tighten the backstay to keep the rig from moving. A tight backstay will also open the leech of the mainsail.  

Tacking in heavy air requires preparation. Let the crew know well in advance that you plan to maneuver. Make sure the traveler is cleated in the middle of the track so that it does not slam across. The sheets should be clear to run. Avoid letting the sail backwind in a way that puts pressure on the rig. 

Look for a soft spot in the waves to make your turn. Don’t turn the boat any faster than the trimmer can pull in the sail on the new tack. It helps to keep the bow on a high course so that the sail can be trimmed more easily.  

Once the sails are trimmed properly, head onto your desired course. I’m always amazed at how your perspective changes when you tack onto a new course. The sun comes from a different angle, as do the waves. There is a new view to study as you sail upwind.

Downwind sailing is fun, especially when you can ride the waves. In strong winds, avoid sailing directly downwind to prevent an accidental jibe. Sailing by the lee is a potential problem and also should be avoided. Reaching with the wind from the side is the most stable point of sail. It is also the fastest.  

Avoid letting water from the bow spill into an eased-off headsail. Sails can rip under great load. Again, sailing with a slightly eased sail or moving the headsail sheet aft will help ease the strain.  

Steering can be hard work on a heavy-air beam reach. Keep your neck and face clear so that you can feel what the wind is doing. 

Pick a reference point up ahead for which to steer. The reference can be ­another boat, a cloud, an object onshore or a buoy. Just like when sailing to windward, avoid overheeling, which creates leeway. 

Sailing with a spinnaker is a special treat in strong wind. The boat comes alive, and crew morale goes up. 

Still, setting a spinnaker should be done with care. Every crewmember should be assigned a specific job during the spinnaker hoist. 

The helmsperson sets the pace by steering a course to allow the spinnaker to be hoisted to the top of the mast before the sail fills. Once the sail is at the top of the mast and the sheets are ready for trimming, you can head the boat on your course.

Jibing must also be done carefully. Start by making sure everyone on the crew knows their specific job. Look for a smooth set of waves to make the turn. The helmsperson needs to watch the sails carefully during the turn. If the turn is too quick, a spinnaker can get wrapped. If it is too slow, the sail can also twist.  

The key for the trimmers is to keep the clews separated. A slow turn is preferable so that there is adequate time to adjust the sail. Be careful not to ease out the sheets too far. 

Most important is to keep control of the mainsail. Be sure everyone ducks as the main boom crosses the boat. A mainsail trimmer can help by trimming the sails amidships. I also recommend easing the boom vang to keep the pressure off the rig during the maneuver. 

When it is time to take down the spinnaker, I have learned that it is always better to drop the sail a little early. The helmsperson bears off on a course so that the sail can be lowered behind the mainsail. Racing sailors have fancy techniques of taking down the spinnaker to windward as the boat rounds a turning mark, but for cruising sailors, safety and ease of handling are preferred.  

Gather the foot of the sail before ­lowering it to the deck. Many hands make light work. I prefer dropping the sail into the cockpit or middeck. Lower the halyard at a controlled rate so that the spinnaker does not fall into the water.

If the wind is expected to be strong, be sure everything is secured below the deck. Assign specific duties if an all-hands call is needed. If it is too windy to sail, simply take down the sails and head back to shore. 

But remember: When the breeze is up, careful sailing will make the day a joy.

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Don’t pity me, but in September, I traded my usual rum rations in Florida for some fine rosé wine in the South of France as I attended the Cannes Yachting Festival. 

Beyond the stout contingent of glimmery sailboats making their world premieres, a common theme was tangible on the docks: Everyday sailors are finding ocean voyaging more attractive than ever, and boatbuilders are responding with capable, comfortable, safety-oriented models to meet that demand.

It’s rare that I get to do any actual sailing during the Cannes show—the boats are locked in with so many lines and anchors that to leave the docks would require a tactical team of surgeons who understand the art of Med ­mooring—but this year, I was invited on a daysail aboard my San Diego-based pal Nico Jonville’s Pegasus 50, Sine Finis. 

If you’re not yet familiar with the brand, Pegasus builds robust bluewater cruisers in Slovenia with a powerful sail plan designed for fast, easy sailing. Interiors marry luxury and practicality. Minutes after stepping aboard, I could imagine toting my wife and kids across the Atlantic on this boat, as Nico plans to do with some buddies this spring.  

What struck me more so was how Sine Finis also seemed as if it would appeal to everyday coastal cruisers, with sizable social spaces and modern amenities. Even on a morning with less than 10 knots of breeze, we clocked 6 knots easily with the code zero and mainsail alone.   

I’m not trying to sell you a boat, but I am tipping my cap to the growing design trend that’s nudging everyday cruisers a little farther beyond the reef with confidence and in comfort. In my world, that’s très chic.  

Even still, no level of onboard comfort can fully prepare us for the realities of extended offshore sailing. The rewards of going way out into the blue can be immense, but the risks are also real. The ocean can be a spiteful beast, which means safety and preparedness are paramount. 

Navigating the open sea requires a deep understanding of weather patterns, ocean currents and, yes, sometimes even celestial navigation. Technology has made these tasks easier, but traditional skills remain essential. It’s not just about being ready for a crisis; it’s also about having the right mindset. Even the most experienced sailors continue to learn and adapt. 

Back in March, many of us cheered as 29-year-old sailor Cole Brauer crossed the finish line of the Global Solo Challenge after 130 days at sea, becoming the first American woman to race solo, nonstop and unassisted around the world. You might recall the iconic photo across every news site: Brauer leaning against the cockpit rail of her 2008 OCD Class40, First Light, arms extended with a lighted flare in each hand. 

History books might show a second-place finish next to Brauer’s name, but one reader who wrote to us had a different take that, brilliantly, put it all in perspective: “I think these races should be judged differently. The winner crossed the line on a headsail with an inoperational boom—snapped in half, if I remember ­correctly. As an ocean crosser, I pride myself in survival and bringing the vessel to the destination in one piece. I think points should be given for sailing safely and prudently, and for bringing your rig to the finish line in good working condition. 

“Cole slowed down to avoid storms,” the reader continued. “Whenever possible, she sailed out of harm’s way. She crossed the line with all the rigging intact, as any safety-minded sailor should. Aggressive sailing should never be encouraged. If there’s a lesson to be learned from Cole’s experience, it’s that offshore sailing should prioritize safety and survival at all costs, not limping across the finish line first with half a boom. I congratulate Cole for ‘winning’ the race by properly caring for herself and her vessel—and having fun doing it.” 

When it comes to future sailing endeavors, I expect we all can get on board with that—no matter whether we’re along the coast or far offshore, and no matter what kind of boat we choose, to go just a little bit farther than last time.

The post Cruising with Confidence: How Modern Boats Are Measuring Up appeared first on Cruising World.

Over the years, I’ve had rewarding ­opportunities to meet many boatbuilders. The most successful ones—and by “­success,” I mean not only regarding the vessels they ­produce, but also the ­satisfaction they derive from perfecting their craft—all share a ­common trait: passion. 

During this past fall’s 2024 Boat of the Year contest, the most passionate of all the talented designers and builders was quite easily a lean, energetic fellow named Jens Quorning, the current CEO of the long-standing Danish outfit that produces Dragonfly trimarans.

As our judges toured the company’s latest creation, the Dragonfly 40 Performance Cruiser (which ultimately earned the title of Best Performance Trimaran), Quorning said something that rang especially true to me after we sailed the ­three-hulled wonder: “We sell fun. Fun means speed. That’s what we do.” 

Quorning’s father, Børge, launched the company, mainly focused on building wooden powerboats, in 1967. But he was also a sailor, and was smitten when a friend took him for a daysail on an old Arthur Piver-designed trimaran, so much so that he began dabbling in tris too. It wasn’t until Jens joined the family enterprise around 1980 that they dropped the power line entirely to focus on sailboats, starting with a 25-footer. 

“The name Dragonfly came because of the elegance of the insect, its wings, and how easily it flies over the water,” he said. “That’s the image we were looking for.”

The Quornings were (and are) inveterate tinkerers, and there was plenty of ­experimentation in the early years. At first, it was apparent that the rigid, fixed structure of their boats was ­problematic. That discovery led to the development of the Swing Wing system, which quickly and easily folds the amas (or, as Quorning says, the “floats”) and reduces the beam by half (from more than 27 feet to 13 feet). It became the ­signature feature in the entire Dragonfly line, which now encompasses five models from 25 to 40 feet.  

When it comes to speed, with all boats (but especially multihulls), light means might. Saving weight in the rig and laminate translates to power and quickness underway. To that end, there are four versions of the 40, all of which sport trim carbon rigs of varying heights, depending on each owner’s particular need for speed. 

The Touring and Ultimate versions are cruising-oriented and laid up with a foam core, vinylester resin, and biaxial fibers. The C Ultimate and C Performance models are no-holds-barred rockets that employ carbon in the central hull, bulkheads and centerboard trunk. If you’re going to race, you’ll go for the carbon construction. Then hold on to your hat. 

Aesthetically, to me, this is a pretty boat: low, lean and understated. I was surprised to see the twin wheels, but they position the driver outboard of the central hull and ­provide easy access to the open transom. Of course, all the running rig is led aft for quick and simple maneuvers. The reverse, wave-piercing entries on the bows of the floats no doubt are efficient, but they also look cool. The bow on the central hull tapers into a natural bowsprit (a dedicated sprit is an option) for the twin headsails and the ground tackle, and there’s a bow ladder to disembark forward, apparently a common practice in Scandinavian waters. 

I mean this next bit in the best way possible: If you look up the word “obsessed” in a Danish dictionary, you might come across a photo of Quorning. There is nothing, not a single feature, that he hasn’t considered, tested and reconsidered. The various sheet leads, barber haulers, and preventers for the mainsail, jib, and code zero are ­perfection. Below, the furniture and joiner work are executed to a high degree, and the space is beautifully maximized. The centerboard trunk doubles as a long dining table. The forward cabin is accessed through a lovely oval doorway. There’s even a nifty double berth abaft the companionway steps beneath the cockpit.

All that said, the boat’s ­purpose is an exceptional sailing experience. During our dock inspections, Quorning set a high bar when he said: “This is a fast, comfortable, easy-sailing cruising boat where you can make double-­digit speeds most of the time, which means 10-plus knots. In 15 knots, you do 15. That’s where the fun starts. In 20 knots, I can’t guarantee 20, but with 22 knots, I can guarantee 20 knots.”

Alas, our test-sail day dawned with a mere zephyr of breeze, only 5 or 6 knots. Little did I know, the fine sailing would still leave quite an impression.

The Elvstrom EPEX sails (a blend of carbon and Technora fibers) were superb. The full-battened main was a powerhouse, and the twin headsails, set off by a pair of recessed Facnor furlers, allowed quick gear shifts depending on the point of sail. The steering was pinpoint accurate. And lo and behold, in just over 5 knots of breeze, we made better than 6 knots. Yes, faster than the wind. 

I was shocked, but Quorning wasn’t. Like the man said: It’s what they do.

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large and was a 2024 Boat of the Year judge.

Dragonfly 40 Specifications

Take the Next Step

PRICE: $800,000
CONTACT: dragonfly.dk

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We were sailing in French Polynesia, exploring Raiatea and nearby Taha’a, about 130 miles from Tahiti. For all six Lake Superior sailors aboard Gauguin, our chartered Beneteau 43, this was living the dream. We’d all imagined sailing to the South Pacific in our own boats someday. In reality, we’d finally conceded that chartering was the next best thing. Even better, it allowed us to live a shared dream with friends.

The sailing was as spectacular as our dreams. Never before had we seen such beautiful expanses of water. We had our choice of pristine anchorages to explore. Everywhere, we met friendly, French-speaking people. All this, combined with the heady scent of tropical flowers nearshore, made us downright giddy. We were still enthusing about a sight we’d seen during a stopover on Tahiti, en route to Raiatea by air: Boxes sat outside homes like Western mailboxes—not awaiting mail, but the daily baguette delivery! We all agreed we’d prefer fresh baguettes to junk mail any day.

After a couple of days sailing and exploring, our starter provisions were running low. Critically, we were out of ice. The next day, we planned to cross to Bora Bora—a longer sail—so we headed to Raiatea’s main town, Uturoa, which has a supermarket. 

Provisioning the next morning would prove challenging. The shopping list was divided among the crew so that we didn’t overwhelm the store by appearing en masse. Everyone had assigned items, but my husband, Radd, had been given only one: ice. 

There was a reason for this. On past cruises, he’d earned a reputation for returning from provisioning runs with large quantities of everything except what was on his list. Once, he’d returned with an enormous bag of lemons, because, as he proudly exclaimed: “They were a good deal!” (We made lemonade.)

On past cruises, Radd had earned a reputation for returning from provisioning runs with large quantities of everything except what was on his list.

In Uturoa, we soon realized that provisioning would take longer than we’d thought. All the labels were (of course) only in French, so none of us were completely sure what we were buying. Locating lighter fluid for the stern grill was particularly ­interesting. Thankfully, the produce section was easier.

By the time five of us had regrouped on board and stowed our assigned supplies, Radd the iceman was still nowhere to be seen. His absence didn’t bode well. Before long, he appeared on the dock, carrying a large white bag with no label. 

“The iceman cometh!” somebody shouted. We let out a ­collective cheer. 

He quickly popped the bag in the fridge below as we got ­underway. After a perfect day’s sail, we were safely anchored in Bora Bora, ready for a swim and an icy cocktail. 

We waited with anticipation as the precious white bag was slit open. Glasses were at the ready. And inside, we saw…frozen french fries. About 2 pounds of them. 

After the moans, groans, laughter and ribbing subsided, we weighed our options. There were exactly two: warm cocktails, with a side of plain fries as our hors d’oeuvre. 

The next day, I decided to get creative. I had aioli on my mind. Its origins are in France, and we were in French territory. Why not use it as a dip for fries? 

Traditional aioli is made by blending olive oil, garlic and a bit of acidic lemon juice, sometimes with raw egg yolk added. We had mayonnaise, which contains oil, eggs and acidic vinegar. We had garlic. I decided to try an improvised version. For color, I added a bit of ketchup, and for zing, a little spicy mustard. I served the “easy pink aioli” on a platter surrounded by oven-baked frozen fries. It was a hit. 

We’ll certainly never forget French Polynesia, but some of our best cruising memories are intertwined with food. Every year, we gather to reminisce about that trip, to share laughs and memories. We snack on (you guessed it) frozen fries and pink aioli. With frosty cocktails, we toast to far-flung sailing adventures with good friends—and to Radd, our iceman, who now makes sure we always have plenty of cubes.

Easy Pink Aioli Dip 

• 1 cup good-quality mayonnaise
• ½ cup (or less, to taste) good-quality ketchup
• 2 tsp. spicy brown or Dijon mustard
• 2-4 cloves garlic, or to taste
• ½ tsp. salt
• ½ tsp. black pepper
• Squeeze of fresh lemon juice (optional)
• 1 small bunch parsley, for garnish (optional)
• 3 oz. frozen french fries per person
• Yields: 1¼ cup of dip

Place mayonnaise in a small mixing bowl. Mix in ketchup and mustard. Stir to combine. 

Smash garlic and then finely mince. Add to bowl and mix well. Season with salt and pepper, stir, then taste and adjust ­seasonings, if needed. Add lemon juice (start with a small amount and add more to taste). Chill for 30 minutes to 1 hour to let flavors blend. 

Prepare frozen fries according to package directions. Alternatively, you can use fresh potatoes to make fries. This dip is also great with chips, crackers, bread and sliced raw veggies.

To serve, transfer aioli to a bowl, place on a platter, and surround with fries. Garnish with sliced lemon and parsley.

Cook’s Note: Aioli will keep for 3 days in the fridge in an airtight container.

Prep time: 15 minutes plus chill time
Difficulty: easy
Can be made: at anchor or underway

Calling all boat cooks! If you have a favorite galley recipe, we’d love to see it. Email your recipe, the story behind it, and two or three high-resolution digital photos of you aboard your boat to editor@cruisingworld.com.

The post Sailor & Galley: Easy Pink Aioli Dip appeared first on Cruising World.

Matuku has beautiful reefs and a wide variety of fish, but if you keep fishing like you do now, I’m afraid you’ll get into big trouble soon.” 

Twenty pairs of eyes zeroed in on me. Polite smiles turned to grimaces. I had the room’s full attention. 

About a hundred people had gathered at the assembly hall. I was part of a Red Cross workshop at one of seven villages on the island in Fiji’s Lau Group—and I had hijacked the event for my own purposes. Knowing that the island’s dignitaries would attend, I asked the main chief if I could address the audience before the lunch break. I had intended to speak with the entire group, but the chief sent out the women and children. Only the village leaders remained. 

I started by praising their island, hospitality and beautiful nature. I explained that my husband and I had visited many island nations in the Pacific and had dived on countless reefs. I showed them pictures of healthy reefs where communities had used the resources sustainably. 

Then I shocked them with footage of lifeless deserts. “If you don’t want Matuku to end up like this,” I said, “you should start protecting it now.”

Every wizened old face in the room looked surprised or concerned. 

“Set aside an area of the lagoon, and declare it a tabu—a nonfishing zone,” I said. “Not for the government, not for tourists, not for me, but for your children. For the future.”

I expected some pushback, especially because I am a woman, but the chiefs and headmen were genuinely alarmed and grateful for my concern about their island’s future. They invited me to join them for lunch, where we agreed that measures must be taken.

Worldwide Problem

Ever since we started cruising in 2011 on our S&S 41, my husband, Christian, and I have been avid snorkelers and divers. Sailing from the Med via the Atlantic and Caribbean and on to the Pacific, we’ve experienced a large variety of underwater landscapes and ecosystems. 

At first, we were impressed by every snorkeling trip, but soon we became aware of differences. In the Caribbean, we spent a week diving in the Bonaire National Marine Park, one of the oldest marine reserves in the world, and were enchanted by the teeming wildlife. After swimming with large, fearless fish there, we sailed on to the Kuna Yala province of Panama. 

The contrast could not have been more extreme. The Kuna people rely heavily on fish as a source of protein. Near their villages, we encountered only small, timid specimens that scattered at the sight of a human silhouette in the water.

We continued to the Pacific in 2013 and spent the next nine years exploring the five archipelagos of French Polynesia, with tours to the Cook Islands and Tonga. We used every opportunity to check the state of the underwater world. Often, the correlation between human interference and the quantity and variety of underwater wildlife was obvious.

Tonga’s fish-free and often algae-overgrown reefs shocked us. The local fishermen turned to reef-fishing after foreign fleets depleted the pelagics—a field study by the Global Reef Expedition found that fish more than 16 inches long were essentially absent, and the biomass of the reefs was only one-fifth of those in French Polynesia.

The positive statistics for French Polynesia are most likely due to a lack of humans in remote areas. Parts of the Society Islands where the majority of the population lives are just as devoid of life as Tonga. In the lagoon of Tahiti, we watched countless fishermen go out every night despite the fact that only a few, small specimens were left. Underwater lights and spear guns have made fishing so efficient that a single diver can empty a whole area—picking off the sleeping, helpless fish one by one. 

“When I was young, we went out fishing, and it was like ­visiting a blooming garden, and we just took what we needed, just a few fish for the family,” a 60-year-old Polynesian told us. “Now it’s a massacre. They go out at night and leave a desert behind.” 

More and more villages and communities in French Polynesia realize that the current use of resources is simply not sustainable. They turn to a system their forefathers used before the arrival of European traders and missionaries: The village elders used to put a temporary ban on certain areas or species whenever their numbers were declining. They called this a rahui.

Many of the rahui along Tahiti’s coasts are short-term: six months to two years. Afterward, the fishermen go out for one big harvest that leaves the reef empty again. Others came too late. It is only logical that a few isolated fish will take a long time to repopulate a reef. 

A recent study by Georgia Tech found that fish and coral spawn are attracted by the scent of healthy reefs, and are repelled by the smell of water from damaged coral. This means there is basically a point of no return after which a reef will not recover by itself, despite the installation of protected areas. 

The key is that a reef needs fish to keep it clean, just as the fish need the shelter of the coral. This mutual dependency means that overfishing can cause coral collapse.

Two Different Tales

We visited beautiful little Rapa Iti, the southernmost inhabited island of French Polynesia, three times. We were impressed by the spirit of tradition, community and autonomy that the 500 inhabitants have. They were the first community of French Polynesia to reinstate the ­tradition of the rahui, in 1984. 

“My father, who was the mayor then, went to Hawaii and was very impressed by the lively underwater world there,” said Katsumi Watanabe, the principal of Rapa’s primary school and a member of the local environmental organization, Raumatariki. “He ­convinced the people here to set up a protected zone as well. At first, many were against it, but soon they understood that everybody would benefit from better fishing all around the protected area.” 

The rahui has been going for 40 years and now comprises the whole eastern half of the island. The rest of the waters are teeming with fish, and everybody on the island is proud of their success. They hope more islands will follow their example. 

By contrast, in 2021, we sailed to Fiji. Jumping into the water, we were first impressed by the great variety of hard and soft coral, and dazzled by myriad tiny colorful fish—but looking closer, we met hardly any fish bigger than a hand, and many of the species we were familiar with from French Polynesia were missing. 

The statistics are alarming. A survey going on in Fiji since 2014 found that half of the 29 most commonly fished species are below a reproduction rate that ensures sustainable use. Some 14 of them are below the international reference point for expected population collapse. Spear-gun fishing and gill-netting pose the biggest threat to reef fish sustainability in Fiji.

With the reefs around the main islands nearly empty, fishing boats venture out to more-remote islands. At the same time, the export from those islands has increased as newly installed solar-panel arrays and diesel generators make it possible for the ­islanders to store fish.

Raising Awareness

Conservation International and the Lau Seascape Initiative are setting ambitious goals to protect the ocean and its wildlife, but when we talk to people in the villages, we find that sustainability remains an abstract concept. 

“God will provide,” they say, then blame climate change and pollution with a helpless shrug. 

While the ocean provided for centuries to the islanders who were doing subsistence fishing (and farming), modern fishing techniques and export deplete the resources of a small island within a few years. Even in Fiji’s remote Lau group, we find many reefs nearly empty and overgrown by algae. Quite often, we return from a dive depressed, but sometimes we find a healthy reef. We try to talk to the fishermen. If they are interested, we are happy to share what we have witnessed elsewhere.

The people of Matuku in the southwestern Lau have made a big step toward sustainable fishing by installing three tabu zones around their island. In November 2023, we installed marker buoys (sponsored by the Tradewinds Marine Group and community members). A week later, the chief and the priest of the island made things official.

It took effort and education to get to that point. Matuku has fertile gardens, but fish is a cornerstone of nutrition. At first, they contemplated small, short-term tabus or just a ban on nighttime fishing. We managed to persuade them that having a complete, permanent fishing ban for a big area is the most efficient way to ensure good fishing for the community. 

If you cruise in the Lau Islands of Fiji, stop at Matuku to enjoy the wonderful snorkeling. Praise the islanders for their environmental efforts. Leave a donation to help them maintain and patrol their no-fishing zones. Or visit pitufa.at to leave a donation.

As cruisers, we live close to nature. Too many of the reefs are overfished as it is. Aboard our boat, we troll during passages, but we don’t fish within lagoons, we don’t buy small or rare specimens from locals, and we ask at restaurants what species they use for their dishes—parrotfish are delicious, but their role in the ecosystem makes them too precious to eat. If we get lucky and find an anchorage that’s still full of life, we don’t see it as an all-you-can-eat buffet. We enjoy the opportunity to watch the diversity of life. 

Even if you take just one grouper and one coconut crab, imagine what happens if all boats following in your wake do the same.

Sailors should still take nothing but pictures, and leave nothing but footprints.

Birgit Hackl and Christian Feldbauer have been cruising aboard their S&S 41, Pitufa, since 2011. Read more about their travels and projects at pitufa.at, or check out their books, Sailing Towards the Horizon and Cruising ­Know-How, on Amazon. 

The post Reefs at Risk: How Cruisers Can Champion Ocean Conservation appeared first on Cruising World.

I held my breath as I pulled up the sock to unfurl our spinnaker in Haro Strait. Of the five headsails we’d brought aboard our Santa Cruz 27, this enormous black parachute was the only one I hadn’t bonded with before we’d cast off dock lines in Victoria, British Columbia. We were 50 miles into the 750-mile Race to Alaska—a somewhat insane wilderness adventure where 30-odd teams pedal, paddle and sail a hodgepodge of random crafts from Port Townsend, Washington, to Ketchikan, Alaska—and I was about to learn how to fly a kite for the first time. 

Sure, I’ve been aboard other sailboats a handful of times when spinnakers were flown. It always involved male captains wanting to go faster around buoys in big winds; zero discussion of how we would raise, douse or jibe the giant sail; and terrifying ­near-disasters that elicited lots of confused yelling. So I’d learned only to fear spinnakers, not fly them. 

I hoped that this time would be different. The wind was a measly 5 knots, barely filling our genoa. We had a destination that was still days away. And we were a crew of three mid-40s women who were cautious, conscientious, and considerate of one another’s fears. 

Our team, Sail Like A Mother, almost didn’t bring any of the spinnakers that came with the boat because none of us had much experience flying them. But we knew we’d likely need at least one in our quiver to navigate the fickle winds of the Inside Passage—especially if we wanted to finish the race before the “Grim Sweeper” tapped us out. 

We decided to bring the asymmetric spinnaker, but only after we attached a sock to douse it quickly. We also made sure at least one crewmember, Melissa Roberts, practiced rigging and sailing it in Bellingham Bay prior to the race.

Melissa let out a whoop from the cockpit as the beautiful black sail snapped taut and Wild Card surged forward: “I knew we could do it! I’m so proud of us!” She played out the working sheet and told me to “just steer to fill the sail when it luffs.” Katie Gaut, our team captain, took photos to memorialize the moment.

I stood with the tiller between my legs to feel our course rather than overthink it. It was lovely and sunny, humpbacks were spouting on the horizon, and we were cruising along at the same speed as the wind. After a half-hour, I decided that the spinnaker was my new favorite sail.

That is, until we had to jibe. In the middle of a shipping lane. While three other Race to Alaska teams were watching. 

We promptly lost the lazy sheet under the keel, along with our pride. After a few (quietly) yelled questions, I retrieved the ­sodden rope while Katie took the tiller. This time, we put a ­stopper knot in it. Then we kept puttering north at jogging speed.

That is, until it got gusty at sunset, and we got nervous and doused it. Which meant the wind promptly died, of course. We gave up on sails and took turns pedaling the bike instead (it’s a contraption attached to our stern that turned an airplane propeller and moved us at 2 knots). Around 1 a.m., we finally made it to Tumbo Island, British Columbia, dropped anchor, crammed ourselves into our coffin berths in the damp cabin, and got four glorious hours of sleep. 

Then we rinsed and repeated for 10 more days.

You might be thinking that the Race to Alaska sounds like your personal version of hell. It’s actually hell intermixed with pockets of pure heaven. 

Unlike other races that are fraught with complex regulations, the Race to Alaska—or R2AK—is purposefully simple. There are no motors. No outside support. The Northwest Maritime Center first hatched the race in 2015 with this well-thought-out plan: “We’re going to nail $10,000 to a tree, blow a horn, and whoever gets there first, gets it,” says Jesse Wiegel, the center’s race boss. 

Second prize? A set of steak knives. This tongue-in-cheek reward, Wiegel says, drives home the point that people choose to compete in this maritime endurance event for plenty of reasons that are more valuable than cash. Or cutlery.

For me, those reasons were threefold. I wanted to prove to myself that I could sail offshore without my husband, who had recently decided that he wanted a break from boats. I wanted to inject some adrenaline into my domestic life, and to show my two young kids that their mother does (way) more than their dishes and laundry. I wanted to become part of the inspiring, adventure-prioritizing, 800-person-strong R2AK community. 

Oh, and I wanted to see a lot of whales.

Even though the coveted steak knives would look lovely beside my set from Goodwill, our team had no desire to win them. Our goal was simply to finish the race in one piece, hopefully still friends at the end, and to suffer as cheerfully as possible along the route.

Navigating the mind-bending logistics to get to the starting line was the hardest part. Once our threesome decided to enter, 10 months prior to the race, we began calling and texting one another approximately 128 times per day to iron out details: What boat should we buy? How do we get said boat back from Ketchikan after the race? What will we eat for five to 25 days at sea without a kitchen or refrigeration? Where will we pee without a head? How much drinking ­water should we bring, and where will we store it? How will we keep our sleeping bags, socks, gloves, and other sundries dry amid a constant deluge of rain and sea spray? 

Answers to those questions: We bought Wild Card, a 1976 racing boat with a turquoise hull that had previously completed the R2AK and was a minor celebrity in the Pacific Northwest racing community. We found a brave volunteer to sail Wild Card back from Ketchikan to Bellingham, and would ship the outboard up on the ferry for him. We would eat dehydrated meals donated by Backpacker’s Pantry, and oodles of snacks such as jerky, chocolate and nuts. We would pee in a bucket and dump it overboard. We would bring 28 gallons of water in four jugs. And we would pray fervently that oversize plastic bags and good luck would keep our gear sort of dry.

But first, we had to see if our application would pass the race committee’s muster. The R2AK’s laissez-faire attitude on rules doesn’t extend to letting just anyone compete. 

“The vetting process is something we take really seriously,” Wiegel says. “It ultimately boils down to: Do you have what it takes to keep yourself from getting killed? Do you have the judgment to make good calls, even if it’s sometimes going to be the call to quit?”

Our team definitely took the “keep yourself from getting killed” part seriously. We’re mothers, after all. We borrowed a life raft, installed personal locator beacons and lights on our life jackets, mounted a SailProof tablet in the cockpit to navigate easily in all conditions, attached an AIS transmitter so that cargo and cruise ships would see our tiny boat in big seas, and practiced a lot of woman-­overboard drills. We had extra pedals, extra tools, backup navigation lights, backup batteries to charge them, and a medical kit that could outfit a small village.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t worry. After sailing more than 10,000 miles across various oceans, I know that stuff goes sideways. Like that time a decade ago when I had to dive overboard in a shipping lane to pull bull kelp out of the engine’s intake while the boat spiraled in a whirlpool amid pea-soup fog. Or the time our mainsail ripped while my family was sailing closehauled in a motorless Sea Pearl in the Bahamas (with me four months pregnant and our 3-year-old napping in the cockpit). That time, we managed a controlled shipwreck on a sliver of sand amid sharp coral to avoid getting sucked out to sea. And don’t get me started on all the times our engine has died, the electrical system has fritzed, or a line has jammed at the worst possible moment—usually right around 2 a.m. in a squall.

When things get hairy, I’ve learned to deal calmly. To think carefully about potential next steps. To rely on the skills of the friends or family beside me. And, most important, to pull the plug if our combined skills are no match for the problem at hand. Our team motto for getting to Ketchikan was easy to agree upon: “Push ourselves, but be safe and have fun.”

Of course, fun is relative on the R2AK. My first time flying the spinnaker was a perfect example of that: Wait five minutes, and the weather will change. Wait another five minutes, and your sky-high confidence will plummet to the seafloor. We faced big winds and opposing tides. We beat for hours and hours (and hours) up Johnstone Strait in 25 to 30 knots of wind—which was, in all honesty, harder than childbirth. We accidentally jibed in the middle of the night way, way too close to a rock in the roily waters of Hecate Strait while careening down 6-foot swells. We ran out of water in the Dixon Entrance and were too tired to eat after sailing 40 hours straight to the finish line. And we changed headsails 7,458 times, give or take.

But we also saw orcas at ­sunset and bioluminescence under a full moon. We hobbyhorsed happily over the whitecapped swells on an easy reach all the way across the Strait of Juan de Fuca. We laughed a lot more than we cried. And by the end, we flew that beautiful black spinnaker like it was second nature. 

On Day 9, we decided to head offshore in hopes of riding steadier south winds the last 140 miles to Alaska. We also, it turns out, got surprisingly competitive at the end. A handful of teams had been leapfrogging us the last half of the course, and we knew that we could beat them if we took the open-ocean route instead of the winding inside channels. 

But keeping pace with those teams also boosted our morale along the way, especially our daily VHF radio chats with soloist Adam Cove on Team Wicked Wily Wildcat. 

“One of my biggest wins from this race was the level of camaraderie,” says Cove, who snagged two R2AK records this year: fastest singlehanded monohull and fastest ­monohull under 20 feet. “It’s nice to know that if something goes wrong, we’ve got one another’s backs.” 

As an avid offshore and coastal racer on the East Coast, Cove said that the R2AK was the most challenging race he’s ever done. The captain of this year’s first-place winner, Duncan Gladman of Team Malolo, agrees. 

“The R2AK has every ­difficult element,” Gladman says. “You’re constantly navigating. The weather is constantly shifting. And it just gets harder the farther up the course you get.” 

Gladman is well-versed in the unpredictable nature of the R2AK. He attempted the race aboard the same trimaran twice before, only to be crushed (literally) by logs. The third time was the charm: His team finished in five days this past June.

On Day 10 of our voyage, we saw the light at the end of the tunnel—or, in this case, the narrow channel that was our exit for Ketchikan. Dall’s porpoises ushered us through the last rolling swells of the Dixon Entrance. Even in my disheveled, hangry-zombie state, it still took all of my willpower not to push the tiller to starboard and head south to Hawaii. I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye to the rhythm of our days aboard. But we held our course, enticed by hot showers, a real toilet, dry beds and the warm welcome awaiting us. 

When we rang the bell at the finish line at 1:03 a.m., the dock was brimming full of fellow racers and well-wishers. I cried happy tears and hugged my teammates. 

And then I promptly started planning my next sailing adventure.

Fear the Grim Sweeper

The R2AK committee isn’t playing around. It’s a race, not a leisurely stroll. The trusty sweep boat, affectionately dubbed the “Grim Sweeper,” is on the move as soon as the first racer reaches Ketchikan, or by June 21, whichever comes later. From Port Townsend, it cruises north at about 75 miles a day. If you see it heading your way, you’re out of the race. They’ll collect your tracking device and say hi, but don’t expect a free ride to Ketchikan. They can help you figure out your next steps though. —CW staff

The post Spinnakers, Sweat, and Survival: A Race to Alaska Adventure appeared first on Cruising World.

I was in the galley preparing lunch, thankful for the ­gentle heel to port. Six plates stacked with my famous quesadillas, and a large bowl of sliced apples and ­bananas, were staying put on the counter.

After more than 20 years of sailing my Kaufman 47, Quetzal, through just about every condition imaginable, I can sense her mood in my ankles. We were moving nicely but were not overpowered. It was breezy, so we had two reefs in the main, a tuck in the genoa, and the full staysail drawing smartly. Earlier, as we had trimmed for this sweet reach, I’d boasted to the crew how nice it was to sail fast and flat with small, balanced sails and minimal drama. 

I was ready to pass the plates and fruit up to the cockpit when I heard an odd bang to starboard.  

Then the shouting began.  

I flew to the companionway and saw wide eyes in the cockpit. I pivoted and looked forward. It took a moment to comprehend what had happened. 

Then the earth stopped spinning. The clamor went silent in my head. 

The mast had buckled just below the lower spreaders. The broken section, still connected to the standing part of the mast, was ­dangling off the port side. My beautiful boat looked like an albatross with a shattered wing.

Staring at the crumpled spar and mangled sails, I was more dazed than distressed. I was also surprised that I had not sensed it coming. I noticed the starboard upper shroud and sheered chainplate flailing in the wind. Apparently, my first words were, “That’s not good.” In my subconscious, I blamed the bananas. 

We had to act quickly but calmly. I spoke quietly, steeling my nerves.

“Is everybody OK?” 

Everyone was, although we were in a state of disbelief. 

“We are going to be fine,” I said—and I meant it. We were not in imminent danger. It was clear that the hull, at least at that moment, was intact. We were not taking on water.

“We have to work together to cut away the rigging and sails, and see if we can get the broken section over the side,” I said. “Then we can motor back. Be careful because the mast might break loose at any moment.”  

I knew that I had a good crew. It had been a week’s passage from Tenerife in the Canary Islands to Sal, the easternmost of the Cape Verde Islands. Tim and Sarona, Russ, Peter and Tom had signed aboard for this 1,000-mile offshore training passage. They’d been hoping for strong winds and maybe an adventure.

Running before lively trade winds, they had learned the nuances of flying the whisker pole in big seas, along with techniques for reefing the main off the wind. On the final sail of the passage, what should have been a nice, 24-hour reach from Sal to the port of Mindelo on Sao Vicente, they’d found their adventure.  

From the moment the mast broke, everyone reacted with resolve. No one panicked. I knew that we were lucky. We were just a few miles offshore. Our dear friends Nathan and Vivian, and crew aboard their 47-foot sloop, Ultima, were less than a mile away and standing by to help. We had sailed together from the Tenerife. 

As with most emergencies, coping with a dismasting requires on-the-job training. We quickly learned that cutting away the rig on a 47-foot boat with a keel-stepped mast is nearly impossible without serious equipment. Wire cutters and hacksaws are essentially useless. Quetzal’s cap shrouds are 13 mm stainless wire, and the D-1 lowers are 14 mm.  Trying to cut them at awkward angles on a pitching boat was futile. 

Tom had a better idea: “Let’s loosen the turnbuckles and punch out the clevis pins.” 

I agreed. “Keep looking up,” I said as Tom and Russ hurried forward. We needed to get as much of the rig overboard as possible to be able to jettison the broken section before we lost control of the situation or the weather turned ugly. 

Salvaging furlers, sails and running rigging was not an option. If the broken mast began to slam into the hull, we’d have a serious problem. 

Tim and Pete worked to secure the broken mast ­section alongside. We sacrificed cockpit cushions and fenders to protect the hull. Sarona lashed them into place. 

The hours wore on. I completely underestimated the strength of our Seldén mast; the upper section was not going anywhere. Even after I managed to pound the final clevis pin out of the heavily loaded aft shroud (it exploded like a gunshot), the mast refused to part. 

We needed help. 

“I CAN Help YOU”

I hailed Ultima, and Nathan skillfully maneuvered downwind of us. We floated a 300-plus-foot polypropylene line with a fender. Vivian and crew plucked it out of the water and secured it. 

We then began a very slow ride back to safe harbor. Nathan needed a lot of power to drag Quetzal; our underwater rig was the mother of all sea anchors. 

Finally, just before midnight, Vivian released the tow line. We hauled it aboard and anchored just ­outside the small harbor of Palmeira. We were safe, if not sound, and collapsed into our bunks.

I was in an odd ­mental state. I was not devastated; I am too old to be devastated. A dismasting is a detour, not a disaster.

In the morning, I went overboard and released the pins on the head and backstays, freeing the standing rigging. We saved what we could and motored into the anchorage with the broken section still alongside. 

In the chaos of the dismasting and tow, I had not allowed myself to contemplate the future. Clearly, the big one—our epic Atlantic voyage that would take Quetzal from the Arctic to the Antarctic by way of Cape Horn—seemed doomed. But I was trapped in the moment. I needed to figure out how to cut away the broken mast section. I would think about my next steps after that.

Cruising sailors always help cruising sailors. Soon, a dinghy zoomed our way. “I can help you,” the man said. “I have the tools you need, but first I need a rest. I will come by in the afternoon.”  

With that, Bernard, a French sailor who lived aboard with his family, returned to his catamaran anchored nearby. A few minutes later, a local mariner came by in an overloaded skiff. I thought he was trying to sell us vegetables, and I was not in the mood to buy anything. It took me a few minutes to realize that he was trying to help. He ferried me to the small commercial port office. The port manager suggested we come alongside that afternoon, and arranged to have a crane ready.

We limped alongside the wall, and Bernard and I went aloft in a wire basket. He was not a young man, but he wielded his grinder like one. I used all my strength to steady the basket in strong winds. 

The two of us flailed away at the mast for nearly two hours, but the thick alloy along the mainsail track had twisted in a way that made it difficult to cut. After upping our game to an industrial 8-inch grinder, Bernard finally managed to cut the mast free, and we lowered it to the wharf.  

Quetzal returned to the anchorage. Our crews ­graciously adjusted their travel plans, and Bernard sailed away before I could properly thank him. Russ stayed for a few days to help work on the boat, and Nathan and Vivian took good care of me. 

I was in an odd mental state. I was not devastated; I am too old to be devastated. A dismasting is a detour, not a disaster. Still, I knew that my story had changed. Seeing your life in story form, as part of an ­evolving narrative, keeps dramatic events in ­perspective. I had been reading Homer’s Odyssey—really reading it for a change, all 549 pages of Robert Fagle’s excellent translation. Staring at my battered but still beautiful boat, I wondered what Odysseus would do.

The answer, of course, is that he would press on, and so would I. A crumpled mast couldn’t compete with a creepy cyclops, swirling whirlpools and vengeful gods.  

I persuaded Nathan and Vivian to sail to Mindelo. They had a transatlantic crossing to prepare for, and I didn’t. Recruiting Nathan and Vivian to be part of our sailing business was one of the best ideas from my wife, Tadji. They’re not only terrific sailors, but they also have become dear friends. 

Now, from Paris, Tadji was already working on finding a solution for Quetzal. She was in contact with Mindelo-based Boat CV, which had assured her that its team could handle installing a new rig.  

I checked the makeshift stays that Nathan, Russ and I had rigged to keep the 20-foot mast stump from pumping. I topped the diesel tanks, hauled aboard the dinghy, and weighed anchor. Passing the breakwater, Quetzal rolled wickedly in beam-on seas. So this is life without a mast, I mused.

A few dolphins came by to pay their respects, darting off the bow as we steamed west. I gave them a salute of gratitude. Then a few more arrived, then more, and soon the sea was alive with hundreds of dolphins gamboling alongside. Hour after hour, they paced Quetzal. I was trying hard not to see their presence in a self-absorbed anthropomorphic light, but I just couldn’t blot out the notion that they were keeping an eye on me. 

We’ve got this, old man, they seemed to say. Follow us. You’ll be OK.

As the marina came into view, the swaying masts seemed like a mirage in an otherwise tawny, wind-scarred landscape. The reality seemed daunting of needing to round up a new mast, standing and running rigging, sails, and loads of other gear in this faraway land. I also wondered how I would reschedule a year’s worth of training passages that would take us all the way to Cape Horn. 

It seemed overwhelming. My resolve was foundering. 

MINDELO’S Magic

Cape Verde has always been one of my favorite landfalls. Cabo Verdeans call their peaceful vibe morabeza. The mix of soulful music; delicious, blended flavors from African and Portuguese cuisines; and helpful, self-­reliant people make it an ideal spot to linger for a week or two before an Atlantic crossing. 

But was it the place to try to rerig Quetzal? My mind buzzed with alternatives. 

I could load the boat with fuel and motor 1,000 miles dead to windward back to the Canary Islands, where there were plenty of boatyards. I could seriously stay my stumpy mast, rig a makeshift square sail, and drift with the trade winds 2,000 miles across the Atlantic. 

As it turned out, I just needed patience. I would soon learn that Mindelo was an ideal place to put Quetzal back together.  

Quetzal moored alongside Ultima, and soon Gilson Maocha from Boat CV was aboard examining the damage. The starboard upper chainplate had failed catastrophically, and the reason was obvious: An unnecessary weld just belowdecks that secured a support plate to the chainplate channel had failed, fracturing the chainplate above it. The break was so clean that the deck was not even cracked.

“We can build new chainplates,” Gilson assured me. “It’s just a matter of getting the material. And the mast, well, we can do that too. We are waiting on a couple of new rigs right now.” 

He added with a laugh: “We are kind of mast specialists. We did four last year. It’s windy here.”  

His smile was reassuring.

Boat CV was founded by Kai Brossman, a German national who sailed to Cabo Verde 30 years ago and never left. Kai built the marina in Mindelo in 2007 that helped make Cabo Verde a waypoint for sailors crossing the Atlantic.  

“Our problem is shipping,” Kai told me. “We can do the work, but getting the mast here, and the stainless for new chainplates, that’s the part we can’t control. It will take some time for Seldén to build the mast, and then getting it here is, well,” his voice trailed off,
“…harder to predict.”   

Fortunately, I had met Jonas Gamborn a few months earlier when we’d stopped at Gothenburg, Sweden, after our northern voyage in autumn 2022. Jonas has worked for Seldén there for many years and is a vastly experienced sailor. Calm and capable, with the shade of blue eyes reserved for Swedes, he exudes quiet confidence. He’s a good man to have as a friend. Tadji suggested I call him.  

“Hmm,” he said softly, “that’s a bit tough. We are currently eight to 10 weeks out on new mast builds. Seldén Holland might be the best bet. Let me see what I can do.”  

Jonas called back the next day. He told me that he would personally build my mast in Gothenburg, and would start immediately if the company would permit it. He suggested that I reach out to Seldén CEO Peter Rönnbäck. 

I emailed Peter, who graciously responded that he would make sure Seldén did all it could do to help. Eight days later, the two-part mast and three large crates filled with bits and pieces were loaded onto a truck bound for the port of Rotterdam. Incredible service from an incredible company.  

Back in Mindelo, the crew from Nathan and Vivian’s upcoming Atlantic training passage were aboard Quetzal removing all the old chainplates. It was tedious work because all the teak trim had to be carefully cut away. At the same time, Elden and Calvin from Boat CV removed the cockpit railing that had been mangled, hauled it to the shop, repaired it, and reinstalled it the same day. It looked like new. 

I was beginning to realize that the Boat CV crew was talented and incredibly hardworking. 

Carnival, a wild celebration that rivals the festivities anywhere in the West Indies, helped boost my spirits as I watched Ultima sail away, bound for the Caribbean. Unfortunately, the ship carrying the new mast detoured to Lisbon before turning up in early May. Once it arrived, Gilson and his team carefully assembled the two sections.

They ran halyards, lifts, runners, antenna wires, and all the parts that make up a modern mast. The ship also carried stainless steel from Germany. Back in the shop, Elden—a wizard with a welding machine—shaped beautiful new chainplates, sans the unnecessary belowdecks plate. We stepped the mast in the commercial port with gusty 30-knot winds, then gingerly motored back to the marina to finish the job. 

Bob Pingel, my best friend, flew to Mindelo and assembled two new Furlex roller furling units. He also tuned the rig. Bob has been involved with Quetzal from the beginning; he’s essentially my project manager, and our bond is unshakable. 

Peter Grimm and Bob Meagher at North Sails somehow got new sails delivered to Mindelo. Not a simple task. 

Less than four months from what we now call The Great Mast Disaster, Quetzal was ready to sail again.

OFF To BRAZIL

I am grateful to the various crew who adjusted their schedules time and again, and who worked with me as I rerigged Quetzal and created a new itinerary on the fly. The people who find their way aboard Quetzal for passages come from all over the world and are invariably the best of shipmates. They might start as clients, but they end as friends. The sea does that to people. 

The circuitous route that I planned would test the new rig, make up for canceled passages and, finally, find us back in Cape Verde. From there, we’d head across the Atlantic to Brazil, and then keep going south. Cape Horn was back in my sights. 

Alessandro, Charlie, Jorge and Greg—all Quetzal veterans—tossed their sea bags aboard, and we shoved off. Charlie, a lawyer and an artist from Louisiana, had come a few days early and helped me provision. He was surprised by how seriously I dismissed the idea of bringing bananas aboard.

We share stories, jokes and sometimes a confession. The ocean washes away any hint of hubris. bullshit just doesn’t float.

Maybe I hadn’t slain all my demons, but I deny that I slapped them out of his hand.  

September, the heart of the Atlantic hurricane season, is not an ideal month to sail from Cape Verde to Brazil. We had no option; the window for rounding Cape Horn coincides with the austral summer. We had to get moving. 

The gloom of the doldrums seemed endless as we angled south-southwest toward the equator, looking for the trade winds. Our log was filled with hope and despair. 

Could this be the trades?

This miserable rain will never stop.  

While we dutifully noted our course and position in the logbook, Charlie’s daily renderings were a better record of the crossing. Every day, he treated us to a new painting from his journal. The paintings were a treat, from the more than 50 shades of gray that defined the oppressive dome of clouds in which we seemed trapped to the incandescent blue of a mahimahi as Jorge yanked it aboard. 

Eight days into the passage, we crossed the equator and sailed into the sunshine.  

Captain’s hour is a much-loved ritual aboard Quetzal. Before dinner, we gather in the cockpit. We have a glass of wine, or not, and share stories, jokes, and sometimes a confession. The ocean washes away any hint of hubris. Bullshit just doesn’t float.  

Alessandro, a dear friend and accomplished solo sailor who can sense a wind change from the pilot berth, became the maestro of captain’s hour.  His penetrating hypothetical questions and emotional honesty often triggered a hilarious joke from Charlie, a quirky story from Greg, and boisterous laughter from Jorge. They also helped us appreciate the splendid isolation that an ocean passage affords. Time unfolds naturally, and distractions are caused by building cloud formations, not incessant cellphones.

Fernando de Noronha laughs at gravity. The jaunty peaks of this emerald isle 200 miles off the coast of Brazil thrust skyward as if drawn by a child. We hadn’t planned to stop, but I was glad we did. I was able to talk to my daughter Annika the day she delivered her baby girl, Adeline, our first grandchild. 

When we carried on for Rio de Janeiro, we were rewarded with great sailing. Blasting before amped-up northeast trade winds, we often punched out double-­digit speeds while surfing down 13-foot waves. 

The majesty of Guanabara Bay was obscured by an early-morning rain, but the satisfaction of crossing the Atlantic never dims.  

Tadji met me in Rio, and we made an overland ­excursion to Lima, Peru, and took a short Amazon River cruise. Lima is intoxicating with great food, but the placid Amazon didn’t stir either of us, maybe because I was itching to point Quetzal’s bow toward the bottom of the world. 

Back in Rio, I kissed Tadji goodbye. We were ­scheduled to meet again in Mar del Plata, Argentina, our next stop, but not before she continued her own expedition traveling all over South America. Rachel and Danny, and Sam and Ed, all from the United Kingdom, joined me for what promised to be serious sailing. 

CAPE HORN, At Last

Waves are the wind’s messengers, and a slumbering swell rolling in from the south greeted us as we made our way offshore. We knew that strong winds were coming. We needed sea room.

The decision to shove off, knowing that we’d have two tough days, was not as haughty as it sounds. A deep low-pressure system 500 miles south of us was moving slowly offshore. A big high was poised to fill in afterward and give us favorable northeast winds. But if we waited for fair weather to depart, we’d never catch the wind and would languish in calms.

Lessons learned in those unforgiving waters endure. The realities of life at sea make those miles so damn rewarding. 

Our first two days were a slog. We managed to claw our way 200 miles south, tacking and fore-reaching into the worst of it. Then the fun began, and Quetzal took flight.  

Ed was at the helm, hooting with a mix of joy and terror as we streaked down a wave. The GPS flashed 17.5 knots. 

Tadji and I tarried in Argentina for weeks. We visited my friend Santiago and his lovely family in Buenos Aires, and flew up to Iguazu Falls. Our daughter Nari and her husband, Steven, came down for a visit. 

Santiago was indispensable in helping me prepare Quetzal for her most challenging passage. There’s something about Cape Horn that helps focus your preparations.    

It had been 40 years since I had first set off for Cape Horn. I was a college dropout, a kid from the suburbs masquerading as an old salt. I desperately wanted to be a sailor, to have grand adventures and write about them. It all seemed so romantic.

I had put together an audacious plan: to retrace the route of the famous clipper ships of the 1800s in a Contessa 32 sloop, Gigi. In the process, my partner and Gigi’s owner, Ty, and I would become the first American yachtsmen to double infamous Cape Horn. Gigi would be the smallest yacht ever to make the passage. 

Yes, I had been in way over my head, and my dream nearly shattered time and again. We just kept pushing south when common sense and proper seamanship suggested that we should give up. We were too inexperienced to realize how miserable we were. 

When we finally rounded the Horn in January 1984, we didn’t whoop and yell. We felt small, humble and fortunate. We may have been the first this or the ­smallest that, but it didn’t matter. 

Today, I realize that hard lessons learned in those unforgiving waters endure. One that has sustained me through these past 40 years of ocean voyaging and more than 400,000 miles is that the hard realities of life at sea make those miles so damn rewarding.  

I had an ideal crew for the Cape Horn leg. Chris, at age 77, is still fit and capable. He turned up with his usual smile and sharp eye. 

“Quetzal looks ready,” he said as he hopped aboard. An Aussie who has lived in the States for many years, he has sailed with me often. His judgment is always sound. 

Kate, also a previous shipmate, is a terrific sailor with a high misery index. She slept in the forepeak the entire passage.

Miles and Tige met aboard Quetzal on a ­previous ­passage, and we became fast friends. Tige is razor-­smart, strong, and up for any task. Miles, who has a 53-foot cutter that he’s raced to Bermuda several times, has that rare ability to see through the fog of the moment and make sound decisions. 

Another lesson that I have learned for successful offshore sailing—and this one took awhile to ­understand—is to surround yourself with talented people, listen to what they have to say, and trust them. 

We shoved off in early December and sped south with fair winds. Bound for the infamous latitudes of the 40s and 50s, we were bracing for westerly gales and infamous line squalls called pamperos. These southwest winds are associated with cold fronts that form south of the Andes. They gather steam over the low-slung Pampas of Patagonia before streaking out to sea. Joshua Slocum, who sailed the same route 127 years before us on the first solo circumnavigation, encountered a wicked pampero and survived by climbing the mast as a wall of water washed over his intrepid yawl, Spray. We had survived a 50-knot pampero aboard Gigi. Aboard Quetzal, we had sunshine and starry nights.  

We chose the inshore route, staying about 100 miles offshore to take advantage of a favorable current. We stopped in Puerto Deseado, Argentina. Everybody had been there before: Magellan, Drake, Cavendish, Fitzroy and Darwin. We found it a bit bleak and were happy to shove off a few days later, bound for the Le Maire Strait, 400 miles to the south.