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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The post Exploring the Tuamotu Atolls in French Polynesia appeared first on Cruising World.

We sailed into the Kingdom of Tonga at dawn after five days at sea. The verdant shores looked like broccoli tops through the wet haze. Huddled under my rain jacket, I stood at the helm of Compass Rosey, a 43-foot Polaris older than me, with my Nescafé. I breathed a sigh of relief when the hills blocked the ocean swells. During my watch, our speed had dropped to 3 knots in the light air, making the broadside rollers particularly nauseating as we pitchpoled between them.

During the past six months, my husband, Rob, and I had bobbed for 33 days from Panama to the Marquesas, and crewed on several multiday jaunts between anchorages in French Polynesia and the Cook Islands. You’d think that after crossing 4,500 miles of the world’s largest ocean, I would be a seasoned bluewater salt, right? Immune to rollicky seas, with legs of steel? Happily singing chanteys while munching on canned veggies and soggy crackers? 

Nope. This passage had been just as uncomfortable and monotonous as the last several.

Sipping my tepid coffee, I reminded myself why I’d upended my life at age 33 to hitch rides across the Pacific. To see the infinite blues of the sea and sky. To marvel at the fact that two hunks of canvas can cart us across hundreds of miles. To embrace the solitude of gliding alone across watery wilderness. To take pride in managing my mind, body and boat at sea. And the cherry on top, the real reason I’d signed up for all these ocean crossings: to visit crystal-clear lagoons and postcard-perfect islands.

The trade-off was having to pass by anchorages we desperately ­wanted to explore, yield to questionable ­decisions, and rely on others’ ­navigation skills.

We’d made it to the reward again. As the water under our keel turned from cerulean to jade, the boredom and discomfort from the passage evaporated. 

I steered us toward the biggest horseshoe-shaped island in the clump of 30-odd specks that comprise Vava’u, one of four island groups in Tonga. In the center of the horseshoe sat Neiafu, the second-largest town in the kingdom, with 3,900 people. All told, Tonga’s islands take up nearly as much ocean real estate as the Caribbean islands but have a tiny fraction of the Caribbean’s humans. I grinned, excited to explore the deserted beaches and miles of teeming reefs.

I set our autopilot and roused the rest of the crew. Our captain, Mark, called the customs office on the VHF radio to announce our arrival, and then perused the charts for moorings. Rob groaned as he hefted himself into the cockpit, draping himself on the bench beside me. He suffered from seasickness, so the slow rocking last night hadn’t done him any favors. 

“Smell that?” I asked as I gulped in an exaggerated breath. The pungent scent of flowers and fruit was striking after days offshore, both pleasing and overwhelming. “Dirt, baby.”

“Mangoes, here we come!” Rob said with a fist pump. It had been a month since we’d been anywhere with enough soil to grow food. 

Compass Rosey was the fifth boat we’d crewed aboard since leaving our home in Montana. Originally, as we plotted our midlife escape from landlocked 9-to-5 jobs, Rob and I had dreamed of buying our own boat to sail the South Pacific. We’d created budgets and voyaging itineraries, researched trade winds and provisioning ideas, and saved as much money as we could. 

One year into planning and scrimping, we realized that it would take many more years to make our dream a ­reality
—unless we used someone else’s boat. We altered course and decided to crew instead. Cruisers often look for an extra pair of hands to help with watches and chores during long passages.

We posted on Cruisers Forum, advertising our services in exchange for a lift to French Polynesia. A family of five from New England answered our ad. We spent two months aboard their 53-foot steel ketch, transiting the Panama Canal from Colón and then sailing downwind to Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas via the Galápagos. That 33-day Pacific puddle jump included endless games of Scrabble, a visit from a lone orca, and a lot of jumping jacks on the stern.

After our first prearranged ride, we relied on hitchhiking to hop between islands. Or hitch-sailing, as I dubbed it. Many cruisers follow the same route on the “coconut milk run,” leaving around March from the Americas and traveling the trade winds east to west to make it to New Zealand or Australia before cyclone season starts in December. That means we saw the same two dozen boats at most anchorages. Though pickings were slim for hitching a ride, it also meant that we became friends with the people on these boats, and they were more inclined to give us a lift. 

Our second ride from the Marquesas to the Tuamotus was a C&C 40 with a young couple. Third, we hopped on a Choate 40 with a retired couple to get to Tahiti. Fourth was a short ride with a British singlehander to Huahine in French Polynesia. Then we joined Mark, who was delivering Compass Rosey to Australia for the boat’s owner. 

I like to think that Rob and I are easygoing folks. But even the most flexible adults would start to feel weary after adapting to five different captains who each had a set way of doing things—and varying degrees of openness to suggestions. We’d learned a ton about bluewater sailing and saved hundreds of thousands of dollars by volunteering as crew. The trade-off was having to pass by anchorages we desperately wanted to explore (we’ll be back for you, Maupiti), yield to questionable decisions (like sailing with no running lights one night off Tahiti’s busy shipping channel), and rely on unfamiliar equipment, and others’ navigation skills (which once plowed us into a reef while sailing at 7 knots).

Rob and I were ready to be the masters of our own destiny. We were jumping ship in Tonga and had planned to stay ashore for a bit. We’d hoped to rustle up a boat-sitting option during the upcoming cyclone season.

As Neiafu’s deep, protected harbor came into view, I took in our new digs. Shiny yachts mingled with dilapidated wooden skiffs. Onshore, crumbling concrete ruins slumped next to brightly painted houses. On one hill, a white church sat picturesquely, its bells ringing. A taller hill, crowned with a radio tower, rose behind the bay, with a path winding up the side. I couldn’t wait to climb to the top to stretch my atrophied legs.

We pulled up to the customs dock, and Rob greeted the official who ambled toward our boat: “Malo e lelei.”

He always made sure he knew how to say “hello” and “thank you” in the local language before we arrived. Along with a smile, those two phrases worked like magic in most countries.

In our cruising guide, I’d read that Tongans use three languages in their kingdom: one for royalty, one for nobility, and one for everyone else. Luckily, we’d be able to get by with English because most Tongans are fluent in that as well. After our passports were officially stamped and we’d picked up a mooring ball, Mark dinghied us to shore with our belongings: a few backpacks and one beat-up guitar. We bid him farewell, then turned to walk the six blocks of Neiafu’s main street. Kids in navy-blue-and-white uniforms walked to school. The market was coming to life, with mounds of spinach, pineapples, eggplants and tomatoes as music to my eyes. The largest building downtown, made of whitewashed brick, housed a souvenir shop, a beauty parlor and an open-air Italian restaurant. A shop called the Tropicana promised ice, laundry services, and pay-by-hour computers. The grocery store had mint-green walls and sold either vanilla or strawberry ice cream by the scoop from a wrought-iron window. Chocolate came by boat once a week, we learned, and sold out fast. An ATM on the corner shelled out pa’angas, valued at 2 to every 1 US dollar. Chickens cock-a-doodle-dooed in rising crescendos, and pigs roamed the streets. Yes, pigs. Big fat ones, little baby ones, pink-and-gray and speckled ones. They grunted in the gutter, scarfed down garbage, and scuttled through the foliage in search of rotting fruit.

We headed back to the Italian restaurant for espresso with real cream (a treat I hadn’t had in months) and asked the lovely Tongan waitress about the roving pigs. “We roast them to celebrate birthdays, weddings, funerals,” she told us, setting down my fruit smoothie and coffee. “The more pigs you have at your funeral, the more important you are.” 

Rob toasted me with his cappuccino after she left. “I think Tonga will fit us just fine.” After our snack, we found a room. It had a shared balcony overlooking the harbor, a bed with a significant sway in the middle, a tiny bedside table, and one electrical outlet. 

It was 10 times bigger than any of the berths we’d occupied during the past six months. It didn’t move. No one would wake us at midnight for watch. Supposedly the internet worked too. A dream come true. 

Brianna Randall hitch-sailed aboard seven sailboats with her husband, Rob, in 2013. They visited 25 tropical islands in nine countries and learned that they really like being the captains of their own destiny.

Hitch-Sail  (´hĭch-sāl)

1. Soliciting free rides at marinas, anchorages or ports where sailboats congregate.

2. Working as volunteer crew on a private yacht in exchange for passage across the sea. 

Sailing off into the sunset is a common dream. Actually buying a sailboat and navigating it to foreign shores is less common. One compromise for those antsy to get a move on—or for those looking to gain bluewater experience—is to hitch a ride on someone else’s boat. With a bit of forethought and a healthy dose of patience, you can get a lift to your desired destination. Here are a few tips:

• Get to know the captain, virtually or in person, before you commit.
• Negotiate up-front ­whether you’re sharing food and mooring expenses.
• Chip in early and often with chores such as night watch, cooking and cleaning.
• Pack light; one waterproof backpack should suffice.
• Bring your own ­seasickness meds.
• Be resilient, ­adaptable, and at peace with uncertainty.

—BR

The post Hitch-Sailing: A Ticket to Cruising Paradise? appeared first on Cruising World.

Watch out for that branch!”

Christian hurried to the starboard side, boat hook in hand. He fended off the threatening greenery while I slowly steered us through a 20-foot-wide entrance fringed by limestone cliffs. Our 41 Sparkman & Stephens, Pitufa, is narrow, just 12 feet, 7 inches wide, but the rocks felt close enough to touch as I made a U-turn. Finally the basin opened up, and we anchored in 23 feet on a sandy bottom. 

Next came taking the ­dinghy around the basin, looking for a place to attach chain and wire loops around rocks to secure our boat in a spiderweb of lines. Fortunately this was a dress rehearsal—no cyclone was forecast—but we at least knew where we would hide in a worst-case scenario as we enjoyed our summer cruising in Fiji.

When we arrived in the South Pacific in 2013, we’d planned to visit the island groups in one season and be in the safe harbors of New Zealand before cyclone season, as most cruising boats do. But after talking to fellow cruisers and locals in French Polynesia, we realized that the risk of a cyclone there is extremely low. We then spent nine years of gorgeous summers in French Polynesia, ­thinking that the island nations farther west would pose an unreasonably high risk during cyclone season. Then we got to Fiji, learned more about the ­options, and ended up staying for two years.

The Pacific Ocean takes up almost half the globe. It’s hard to grasp its size when you’re sitting on the sofa planning a cruise.

The Pacific Ocean takes up almost half the globe. It’s hard to grasp its size when you’re sitting on the sofa planning a cruise. We used Jimmy Cornell’s World Cruising Routes as our main reference from French Polynesia to the Cooks, Tonga and New Zealand, but it wasn’t until our first seriously long passage—23 days from Galapagos to French Polynesia—that we ­understood the vast ­dimensions of this ocean.

We met many French cruisers who had spent years, or even decades, sailing unscathed by cyclones among the many islands of the Societies, Marquesas, Australs and Tuamotus. Our own research showed that the whole area of French Polynesia has a very low risk—but that can change during strong El Niño events.

The 1982-83 season was one of the most active and longest South Pacific tropical cyclone seasons on record, with 14 tropical cyclones. Five hit French Polynesia, with Orama devastating the low-lying atolls of the Tuamotus, which had not seen a severe cyclone since 1906. The next strong El Niño season, in 1997-98, brought two severe tropical storms. Osea destroyed 95 percent of the infrastructure on Maupiti in the Society Islands. During El Niño of 2009-10, Oli badly damaged the Societies and Australs.

We decided to cruise throughout the five archipelagos during neutral seasons, or with La Niña dominating the weather patterns. In the Society Islands, we avoided November to May and the rainy season, instead cruising in the breezy, dry Gambier and Australs. The strongest winds we experienced were around 60 knots—bumpy but no problem, with good holding in a sheltered bay. We did not dare to linger in the Tuamotus because low-lying atolls would give no shelter during a cyclone. The surge can enter a lagoon unhindered. Friends in Maupiha’a told us how they climbed up coconut trees, cut off the leaves to reduce windage, and tied themselves to the stems, hoping not to be swept away. No thank you.

In 2015, we were still enjoying French Polynesia, but we were on high alert with an extra-strong El Niño building. We started early for the Marquesas—the only area that has never been affected by a cyclone, because while storms might form near there, they move away before picking up strength. Our passage was relatively easy from the Tuamotus in the southeasterly trade winds that dominate until October, but if you wait too long, the winds shift to the northeast, from November or December onward. Most other crews had the same idea, so the anchorages were full. The 2015-16 South Pacific cyclone season was one of the most disastrous on record, but no cyclones came close to French Polynesia.

During our nine years in French Polynesia, we sailed to the Cook Islands and Tonga, but we always returned to our base for summer. We did not check weather forecasts for only our immediate surroundings; we looked across this vast ocean to get a feeling for patterns. Watching cyclones leaving a trail of destruction over Fiji, we ruled out spending a summer, but we were surprised to meet quite a few old salts who had sat out numerous cyclone seasons there. Many crews leave their yachts in Vuda Marina on the west side of Viti Levu, the main island of Fiji.

Adam Wade, manager and CEO of the marina, told us that Winston was the worst cyclone they had endured. “In fact,” he said, “this was the strongest storm to ever make landfall in the Southern Hemisphere since records began. There are estimates that the windspeed at the marina was around 160 knots. The last recorded windspeed on a yacht was 130 knots, and then their wind instruments blew off, but it got even stronger after that.”

Wade hunkered down in his house up the road from the marina during that storm. There were about 50 yachts in cyclone pits, and about 100 more in the water and on the hard.

“Most boats fared very well,” he said. He figured that the boats in the cyclone pits together had about $7,000 in damage; two boats in the water failed to deploy fenders properly and had about $12,000 in damage each; while four boats on the hard fell over. The wooden ones were written off, but the steel ones had only minor scratches.

Boats that go into a cyclone pit have to stay there for the whole season, which is a great option for crews who want to fly out anyway. We met a female sailor who spends ­summers as a liveaboard in a pit. We didn’t want to stay close to the marina all the time; another option would have been to sign up with Denarau Marina, which takes boats up the mangroves and secures them there, but we found the western side of Viti Levu too touristy.

We instead sailed east to the remote Lau group of Fiji—with beautiful nature, authentic villages and hardly any tourism—but during July and August, it was uncomfortably cold and windy. We met Tony Philp, owner of the Tradewinds Marine Group that includes Vuda Marina, the Coprashed Marina and the Yacht Shop in Vanua Balavu, a northern island in the Lau group. The septuagenarian has spent most of his life in Fiji, is a three-time Olympic sailor, is a boatbuilder, and has ­circumnavigated the globe.

He laughed when we suggested staying in this area during the summer months: “Of course,” he said. “Summer’s the best time to cruise in Fiji. Calm seas, beautiful weather—you just need a cyclone hole you can run to if severe weather is forecast.”

He recommended the anchorage in Lami Bay within Suva harbor and pointed out a list of bays he deems safe enough to sit out a cyclone, so we stocked up on additional lines and chain and started scouting.

Some of these cyclone holes were too shallow for our 7-foot draft, while others seemed too wide to tie up to trees and mangroves, or the holding wasn’t good enough, or we found potentially dangerous rocks and reefs on the fringe. Finally, we found one that seemed perfect: a narrow entrance to a wide basin. It was basically a private marina made by Mother Nature.

Thus reassured, we explored the many islands of the Lau group, with the picturesque anchorages all to ourselves. We anchored out on exposed reefs and spent several hours a day snorkeling, sometimes just to escape the January and February heat. We studied forecasts twice daily and were prepared to run to safety, never more than 24 hours from our hidey-holes. A few times we got nervous, but in the end, the storms stayed away. The next summer posed a considerably higher risk—conditions had switched to El Niño—but again, we got lucky.

We’ll spend this summer in the Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea, which rarely see cyclones—but due to climate change, the weather has become less predictable, so it’s good to be prepared for strong winds even outside the official cyclone belt.

Birgit Hackl and Christian Feldbauer have sailed year-round on Pitufa since 2011. Visit pitufa.at or check out their books, Sailing Towards the Horizon and Cruising Know-How.

The post Cyclone-Ready Cruising: Lessons from the Pacific Islands appeared first on Cruising World.

Caribbean

Windward Islands

Tropical rainforests, barrier reefs, secluded anchorages: In the Windward Islands, you’ll get a taste of all that the Caribbean has to offer, and plenty of fine trade-wind sailing to boot. For sailors, there are multiple choices for your Windward Islands adventures, and from any of them, you can choose to make your sailing vacation as laid-back or as challenging as you’d like.

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Leeward Islands

The Leeward Islands are full of cruising hot spots, with much to offer to sailors, making passing through the Caribbean. lush scenery, vibrant reefs and a laid-back vibe make for the ultimate sailing destination.

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Lesser Antilles

The Lesser Antilles, in the Eastern Caribbean, are among the best charter destinations on the planet. Why? Diversity and conditions. The winds, seas and harbors in the Lesser Antilles are nearly ideal 99 percent of the time, and landfalls are perfectly spaced. In many of the most popular chartering waters, destinations are 30 to 40 miles apart — or less. This means you can get up at a reasonable hour, have a thrilling sail, and still manage to clear customs by happy hour.

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Cuba

Cuba is one of those mysterious destinations for US-based cruisers: close, intriguing, but seemingly out of reach. In 2017, when regulations were a bit more relaxed for cruisers, Cruising World hosted a rally to the island nation. The verdict? Cuba is everything we expected, and so much more.

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USA, Canada and Atlantic

Bahamas

The islands of the Bahamas are a cruiser’s playground — clear water, colorful communities and great sailing. The Bahamas offer endless islands to sail between and explore; from the Abacos to the Exumas, each island is unique.

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Intracoastal Waterway

Those with a mast height under 64 feet can also take advantage of the beauty and convenience of the Intracoastal Waterway on their trip north or south through the East Coast. While navigating the ICW requires lots of motoring, when conditions are good, the sailing is spectacular.

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Southern New England

Cruising through Long Island Sound, anchoring in the Great Salt Pond of Block Island, exploring the coast of Cape Cod – there are endless opportunities to enjoy a romp through Southern New England.

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The Great Lakes

Some of the best freshwater cruising in the world, the Great Lakes offer endless opportunities for exploration. Each lake offers unique cruising grounds, ports and conditions, from uncharted rocky inlets on the Canadian shores, to bustling cities.

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Bermuda

For as long as ocean-going sailors have been sailing the North Atlantic, Bermuda has been the crossroads and a popular race destination. But Bermuda is so much more than just a waypoint—it’s also a wonderful cruising destination.

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Nova Scotia

Packed with geologic and cultural history, the beautifully quiet coast of Nova Scotia is a nature lovers dream. Spruce trees, granite, grasses, sea, seals and terns, there is no shortage of excitement here.

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Europe

Greece Isles

The sailing can be challenging, but the landfalls — full of history, diverse towns and tasty cuisine — are worth it. Greece boasts thousands of islands, spread across an enormous geographical area stretching from the Aegean to the Ionian sea. Four of Greece’s five island groups are prime cruising areas: the Cyclades, the Saronic Islands, the Ionian Islands and the Dodecanese. Each group has its own unique character and charm, making each one worth exploring.

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South Pacific

Fiji

Cruising yachts from all over the world come to Fiji to anchor in the crystal-clear waters of the South Pacific. This Pacific crossroads is a refreshing break, with world-class snorkeling, beach combing and hiking.

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Marquesas

Smack dab in the middle of the South Pacific, the remote and untamed Marquesas are an unforgettable sailing stop – if you can get there. The topography of these young islands ­reflects the dawn of time; the exquisite drama of the islands’ violent, volcanic origins has not yet been smoothed and worn, with towering peaks rising above anchorages.

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Tasmania

Tasmania offers world class cruising, friendly, welcoming people, and a rich sailing history. The beautiful anchorages are uncrowded and private, and the sailing is world class. Just ask anyone who has ever sailed a Sydney Hobart Race.

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Whitsunday Islands

Pristine white sand beaches begging for footprints; the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park just waiting to be snorkeled; and our charter catamaran tugging on her mooring lines, ready to set sail. Who could resist such a tempting welcome from the Whitsunday Islands? Not us.

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Southeast Asia

Phang Nga Bay

Towering rock sculptures rise out of the water in Thailand’s Phang Nga Bay, providing a surreal backdrop for cruising. Anchor among the hongs and hope into a dinghy for an unforgettable experience exploring hidden caves and uncovering secrets from the 10,000 year history of the bay.

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Africa

Cape Town

From the blustery southeaster that can blow 45-60 knots for days on end, the “table cloth” on Table Mountain, to the waterfront with all its great seafaring tales and bars and the beaches of the suburb of Clifton, Cape Town has it all. The weather is like Southern California; you can stay active in the great outdoors year round.

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Madagascar

Madagascar is a true cruising gem. Its culture is a delightful convergence of Europe, Africa and the Middle East, as evidenced by the gourmet French meals, baked goods, mélange of rum drinks, vibrant materials for both traditional and modern dress, and the combination of French and local Malagasy language.

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South America

Chile

The Cape Horn archipelago conjures images of heroic voyages through inhospitable landscapes and harsh, raw conditions, the true beauty Chile is that it’s remote enough to be pristine, but not isolated enough that you feel completely cut off from the rest of the world.

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Antarctica

Antarctica

Cold, unforgiving and a challenge for even the most seasoned sailor, there isn’t quite any place on earth like Antarctica. Just ask anyone who has been, though, and you’ll find that the journey to the bottom of the world was unforgettable.

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When it comes to securing our boat in an anchorage, we usually prefer setting our own, reliable anchor instead of grabbing a mooring. But in the bay of French Polynesia’s southernmost island, anchoring is a real challenge. The few sailboats that make it to remote, storm-ridden Rapa Iti have the choice of anchoring in 80 to 100 feet of water with bad holding in mud mixed with coral rubble and a good chance to foul the gear, or anchoring shallow in live, fragile staghorn coral. 

During our three visits to Rapa Iti, we worked with the local community to install two sailboat moorings to protect nature and ensure the safety of visiting cruisers.

Not that many cruisers come here; those who face the challenge of the rough ride are rewarded with more bad weather, but also wonderful nature and Polynesian hospitality. Rapa Iti is a little gem with steep volcanic mountains, sheer cliffs, a wonderfully protected main bay and friendly, welcoming locals. About 500 people live in two villages that stretch out on both sides of the wide, main bay, Ahurei, that reminds me more of an Alpine lake or Norwegian fjord than the South Pacific.

My partner, Christian, and I visited Rapa for the first time in December 2017 on our Sparkman & Stephens 41 Pitufa. We had read that the anchorages had dead coral with bad holding. We anchored in 50 feet of water and were horrified when we dived on our anchor and saw the destruction our chain was doing to the staghorn coral. We usually take care to anchor in sandy spots and float our chain, but that was simply not possible here. That’s why we approached the community with a plan to build a mooring. We had a piece of chain, a rope and some swivels we could donate. We hoped to find the rest ashore. 

First, we had to persuade the mayor. We went to the post office (the mayor works there as a second job), expecting a long discussion. Much to our surprise, the mayor agreed immediately when he saw our underwater photos, but he didn’t want a temporary solution like we had had in mind. He wanted a sturdy, well-made mooring.

Life on Rapa is still more traditional than in the rest of French Polynesia, and many of the islanders lack formal education, but the people of Rapa are very aware of environmental issues and sustainability. They have a strict rahui, or ban, on fishing on the whole eastern side of the island. The fuel station has a containment basin to prevent contamination of the bay. Trash is separated for recycling, and the smallest kids learn at school how to keep the island clean. Our mooring project matched their mindset nicely.

 We started brainstorming with a man named Alex, the head of the community workers. None of us had ever installed a mooring, but after some research online, we agreed that a 2.4-ton cement block with extra-sturdy mountings (we cut up a decommissioned digger) would accommodate most visiting boats.

The ordered parts took their sweet time getting delivered from Tahiti, but when we returned to Rapa in December 2018, everything had arrived and the block was ready, too. We assembled the mooring, and then thought about how to transport it more than a mile out in the bay.

Alex got out welding gear, and we built a raft of empty diesel barrels and iron bars. The advantage of this construction was that we could lower it together with the mooring in a controlled way to exactly the spot we had chosen: a hollow on top of a coral head in only 25 feet of water—shallow enough for the islanders (and cruisers) to check and maintain the mooring.

Just after Christmas 2021, we sailed back to Rapa to spend yet another cyclone season on our favorite island. The mooring was still there, numerous sailboats had used it, and the villagers greeted us with friendly smiles—they had not forgotten our labor for the sake of their coral. During our first stroll ashore, the community workers waved us into the maintenance depot with mischievous grins. They had found old mooring blocks that were meant for fish aggregating devices, but were never installed. They weren’t big, but there were two of them. The attachments had rusted off, but couldn’t we make another sailboat mooring out of them? 

Friends from the sailboat Garulfo arrived soon after, and together, we got cracking, again with Alex supporting the project. We bent rebar “cages” for the two blocks. There was still a piece of chain left from the first mooring, and we and Garulfo’s owners donated missing bits. After some sweaty workdays at the maintenance depot, we were ready to go. Again, we would set the mooring in a shallow spot; tied together, the two blocks would weigh enough to hold a medium-size sailboat. 

Unfortunately, the raft we had built for the first mooring had been disassembled and used for other purposes, but as we’d be able to transport the blocks separately, we simply went alongside the dock with Pitufa. Alex lowered the block into the water with the digger, we tied it to our bow, and we held our breath as the lines over the bow roller took the weight with a creak. Sturdy little Pitufa hardly bowed with the 1,600 pounds dangling from its nose.

We moved slowly across the bay, and then lowered the first block over the bow roller to the chosen spot with divers to guide us. Back with the second block, we tied the two together with chain, added a strong line and floats, and voilà: second mooring made.

Moorings Location and Specs

Mooring 1 is suitable for boats up to 25 tons. It is a 2.4-ton weight with oversized chain, shackles and rope. It’s located at S 27° 36,808′ W 144° 20,034′.

Mooring 2 is recommended for boats up to 15 tons. It consists of two 1,600-pound blocks linked with 14 mm chain and a 25 mm rope. It is located at S 27° 36,700′ W 144° 19,872′.

Birgit and Christian have been cruising on their Sparkman & Stephens 41 Pitufa for 12 years from the Mediterranean via the Atlantic and Caribbean to the South Pacific. Visit their blog www.pitufa.at for information. Their book Sailing Towards the Horizon is available on Amazon.

The post Installing Moorings in French Polynesia’s Rapa Iti Bay appeared first on Cruising World.

When we arrived in French Polynesia in May 2013, we saw the island group as a stopover on our way across the South Pacific. We’d heeded the advice of Jimmy Cornell’s World Cruising Routes and arrived after the end of the cyclone season, but we found lots of contradictory information in our research about everything from temperature to ocean swell to rainy seasons. 

As it turned out, there’s a good reason for all the confusion. French Polynesia is a big place. It has 118 volcanic islands, makateas (raised atolls) and atolls that stretch out over an expanse as big as Europe. The five archipelagoes—Society Islands, Tuamotus, Gambier, Marquesas and Austral—have different languages, different cultures and quite different climates. 

Based on our pre-arrival research, we expected to find a tropical climate year-round. That turned out to be true for the Society Islands but not the Gambier, where we shivered in temperatures below 68 degrees Fahrenheit. In August, we fled northward from the Gambier to escape the cold Southern Hemisphere winter, only to roll miserably in the Marquesas during the season with the highest swell.

Despite these rookie mistakes, we fell in love with French Polynesia and decided that we needed more time than just one season to explore this vast and diverse cruising ground. The temperatures and seasonal variations can be quite different across the five island groups. If you know your way around (like we do after eight years), you can find a pleasant corner for each season.

The distances between the archipelagoes are considerable—sometimes 800 to 900 nautical miles. What we’ve learned during our years cruising the region is that you can use the weather patterns to your advantage for fairly comfortable, easy passages. 

With the benefit of hindsight, we would plan our arrival and itinerary for the first year in French Polynesia quite differently from what we did in 2013. Wind patterns and seasonal shifts play a major role in planning west-to-east passages between the island groups (see sidebar on page 55). Here’s more of what we have learned about each archipelago.

Marquesas

Sailboats crossing the Pacific in December or January from Central America or the Galapagos Islands should have fairly reliable wind on the way to the Marquesas. The northernmost group of French Polynesia, the Marquesas ­archipelago lies outside the cyclone belt, so there is minimal risk of running into a developing storm underway. 

An early start means that you will arrive before the fleet of puddle jumpers starts crowding the anchorages. The islands’ high, rugged mountains are great for hiking, but the often murky, dark water discourages snorkeling—even though you may have impressive encounters with manta rays, pelagic sharks and groups of dolphins around the anchorages. Southerly swell, which makes the open anchorages very uncomfortable during southern winter, should not be a big issue at this time of the year. 

With a bit of luck, you’ll spend quiet nights even without a stern anchor. No-nos (biting little flies) are always a nuisance, but the situation is better during the dry season from October to April.

Tuamotus

Continue toward the Tuamotus in April after the end of the cyclone season, when the region is still warm and not too windy. That’s a good time of year to explore the motus and lagoons, and to enjoy snorkeling the spectacular passes. The low atolls give access to an incredible underwater world (take nothing but pictures; the resources of atolls are limited), and from June to October, humpback whales are often sighted on the outer reefs and even in the lagoons. 

Cyclones are rare in this archipelago, but sitting one out in the unprotected anchorages would be a nightmare, so we avoid cruising here in the cyclone season. During the strong trade winds in July and August, it gets quite cool. High waves and swell fill up the lagoons, so the currents in the passes are faster. Snorkeling is less fun, and the choice of anchorages is limited.

Society Islands

Head to the Society Islands in July, in time for the Heiva i Tahiti festival, which is filled with spectacular dancing and drumming events. The pleasantly dry, breezy winter weather (Southern Hemisphere winter) is ideal to go hiking on the high, mountainous islands of Tahiti, Moorea, Huahine, Raiatea, Taha’a and Maupiti. 

Unfortunately, the coral in the lagoons is mostly dead, but there are some nice dive spots on outer reefs. Humpback whales roam the area between July and October.

Before the onset of cyclone season in December, it is time to leave again. The following months will be hot, humid and oppressive in the Societies. During an active South Pacific Convergence Zone, many lows pass over the islands and bring a certain risk of cyclones. 

Austral Islands

Start looking for weather windows to sail to the Australs in October and November. The islands of Rimatara, Rurutu, Tubuai, Raivavae, and Rapa are spectacularly beautiful and have a thriving culture. 

They are also the least-visited islands of French Polynesia. While southern summer between December and March would be the most pleasant time there, it’s also the cyclone season, and these islands are right in the path, particularly when the South Pacific Convergence Zone is active. The best time to visit is November and December, when it’s already warm but the cyclone season is only in its beginnings.

After March, it’s already southern autumn, when frequent depressions start moving by, sending high swell, strong winds and cold air masses. 

Gambier Islands

Finding a weather window to sail to the Gambier Islands with favorable winds might require some patience. Convergence zones often bring northerly winds that facilitate easting. If you arrive in the Gambier in December or January, you can spend the pleasantly warm summer months exploring the numerous anchorages. 

The Gambier has a mixture of high, mountainous islands with clear lagoons, healthy coral reefs and low-lying motus on the barrier reef. For us, it is the highlight of French Polynesia. 

This archipelago has well-protected anchorages and a low risk of cyclones, particularly during El Niño-neutral periods, when the temperatures can rise to the mid-80s Fahrenheit, but the days are usually pleasantly breezy (there can be rainy days or even weeks). 

Leave before the southern winter hits from July to September and the temperatures drop to 60 degrees, which feels much chillier than it sounds when it’s blowing hard and raining.

On the way west, there is still time to see more of the Tuamotus and Societies before heading on in the next sailing season, or you might even decide that you need another year or two to enjoy French Polynesia, just as we did.

Wind Patterns of the South Pacific

As a general rule, the trade winds blow predominantly from the east between February and April, from the east to southeast between May and November, and from the east to northeast in December and January. Disturbances are common: During southern winter, fronts of strong low-pressure systems move far in the south. During southern summer, convergence zones influence the weather patterns.

Sailing westward in the trade-wind belt is most comfortable during a stable period of easterly trades. Frequent troughs interrupt the trade winds in the Pacific, which is annoying during a long passage westward. It’s best to have a series of possible stopovers in mind in case the window does not last long enough to reach the planned destination.

When sailing eastward, we use those interruptions to gain easting. When a trough passes, the wind shifts from east to northeast, then north/northwest, followed by a calm period and sudden southern wind (when the convergence passes over your location), or back to east (when the trough moves by to the south). With some patience, it’s possible to sail from Tahiti eastward to the Tuamotus and then hop from atoll to atoll. The predominant southeast wind facilitates passages northeastward to the Marquesas from May to November.

Passages southeastward to the Gambier archipelago are better undertaken later in the year, when phases of northeast wind become longer and more predominant from December on. —BH

Birgit Hackl and Christian Feldbauer have been cruising for 10 years, eight of them in the South Pacific. They have explored westward to the Cook Islands and Tonga on their 41-foot S&S-designed Pitufa, but French Polynesia is their home base. They are currently in Fiji. Check out their blog for weather information, cruising guides and more.

The post How to Use Weather Patterns and Seasons in French Polynesia to Optimize Regional Cruising appeared first on Cruising World.

French Polynesia is big. An overseas collectivity of France, the region’s 118 islands and atolls—the Society Islands (Tahiti is home to the capital city, Papeete); the Tuamotu Archipelago; and the Gambier, Marquesas, and Austral island groups—are spread across more than 1,600 square miles of the South Pacific. From the West Coast of the US, the passage stretches 3,000 to 3,400 nautical miles to the Marquesas, the northeasternmost islands. And from the Panama Canal, it’s a 3,800-mile voyage. The last thing you want is to sail all the way there and be denied entry, which happened to a gaggle of yachts in 2020 when French Polynesia locked down. Cruisers had few choices—peel off north to Hawaii, look for a sliver of a weather window to sail back against the trade winds to Panama, or come up with another option.

But all that was pre-vaccine. Going into the 2022 May-to-October cruising season, over 70 percent of French Polynesia residents have had at least one vaccine dose, and testing and treatment are available across the region. Still, to clear into French Polynesia, you’ll need to observe the French government’s requirements.

Do It Yourself: It’s possible to do all the legwork and the clearance process on your own. Cruisers are allowed to enter the territory provided they follow the steps listed on the government’s Entry Maritime flyer, a one-page PDF (see box). The document lays out the conditions of access, and steps to follow before your departure for the region and for the steps needed 48 hours before and after arrival. In general, if your crew numbers fewer than five people and everyone is fully vaccinated, you can enter French Polynesia without the need to quarantine. If your boat has more than five crew, there are options.

Official ports of entry are Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas, Tahiti in the Society Islands, and Mangareva in the Gambier Islands. You’ll need to contact the French Polynesian Authority for Maritime Affairs (DPAM) and the Department for Maritime Affairs of French Polynesia (SAM) and send your vaccination certificates. You’ll also need to email a Maritime Health Declaration 48 hours before making landfall. See the box above for information.

Upon entry into French Polynesia, the maximum allowable stay is three months. But there is much to see and do. On Ocean, our Dolphin 460 cruising cat, we applied for a Long Stay visa at the French embassy in Panama City in hopes of securing a six-month stay. This is a ­multistep online and in-person undertaking. See the box for websites and contacts. 

Use an Agent: Employing a yacht agent costs money, but their expertise with the clearance process will spare you some hassles and help non-French speakers navigate the language barrier. Yacht agents such as Tahiti Crew (tahiticrew.com) offer an array of services for different boats, budgets and cruising plans. 

Pacific Puddle Jump: The Pacific Puddle Jump is an offshore sailing rally with a cruiser-friendly entry fee of $125. It has been drawing boats from US West Coast ports since 1997. Rally founder and director Andy Turpin notes, “The government’s maritime agency, DPAM, has approved a special arrangement whereby participants in the 2022 Pacific Puddle Jump may obtain advance approval (several months before arrival) to enter French Polynesia, regardless if the maritime borders remain officially closed.” The Pacific Puddle Jump website offers lots of up-to-date clearance information for cruisers.

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Part of the preparations for any cruise to the South Pacific is considering what to bring for gifting and trading. We’re expecting to visit two countries in the South Pacific this year—French Polynesia and Fiji—so we are going to tailor our trading plans for those two distinct cultures.

In the Society Islands of French Polynesia, there’s access to “stuff.” As a result, local people want cruisers to deal in cash, not goods. The kind of trading romanticized in the pages of decades-old cruising memoirs mostly doesn’t exist anymore. The Society Islands are well-connected to the population hub of Tahiti. If you can’t find a product in Papeete , it can be shipped or flown in, and then shuttled out in a mail boat.

Now, if we were heading to Fatu-Hiva in the Marquesas Islands, our plan for trading would be different. Fatu-Hiva is 125 nautical miles upwind from Nuku Hiva, and the locals prefer to trade goods instead of cash. Cameron Vawter, visiting there aboard the 43-foot Ta Shing Banyan, recalls how a boat in the anchorage that could trade received copious amounts of fruit for days on end. “It just kept showing up,” he said. He was happy to accept the trickle-down extras.

And no matter the location, there’s a difference between gifting and trading. Gifts from visiting cruisers show appreciation and build bridges, while other goods that cruisers keep on board are for bartering. 

A model for understanding the idea of gifting as a cruiser can be found in one of my favorite memories from our month in the Marquesas in 2010. Anchored inside Baie du Contrôleur, we followed the sound of church bells into Taipivai with our bungee boat, Capaz. After the service, a family invited us to their nearby home. We broke out a deck of Uno cards, and we played a game with the Marquesan kids. Then, we gifted them the deck. Small stowage required, priceless memories, good feelings all around.

Aboard the Allied 39 Jacaranda, Chuck Houlihan says, “we quickly came to realize that we wanted to have nicer gifts for folks that invited us home for dinner, took us fishing and just befriended us.” He and his wife, Linda Edeiken, recommend trading practical items, such as Luci lights, jiggle-hose fuel transfer devices and carving tools such as Dremels and sandpaper. 

Greg Bridges aboard the Gulfstar 50 Beach Flea has also learned that carving tools, as well as multihead screwdrivers, pliers and hammers, are local favorites. He finds that 90- and 60-degree V-gouges and small skews are the most useful.

Our favorite gift to trade

Our favorite icebreaker gift (and occasional trade item) is a soccer ball. We started engaging in Soccer Ball Diplomacy—trademark pending—after leaving Australia in 2012. From Papua New Guinea to Madagascar, the soccer balls we brought to shore replaced carved, ball-sized fishing floats. Our gift amped up many a dirt field game. I cannot emphasize enough the joy these brought.

Something else I am excited to stash for literally brightening lives is headlamp-style utility lights (they snap onto a solar charging block and turn into a flashlight). Yes, the same folks who make those awesome Luci lights make these. In more remote communities in the North Pacific, lights like this can have a meaningful, positive impact on everyday life for a family.

What’s a trade item worth?

One of the big questions a new-to-trading cruiser in the South Pacific has is: How do you establish relative value? 

Back in the intensive trading culture of Papua New Guinea, I came up with a way to think about establishing a fair trade. Some thoughts adapted from our 2012 post: 

Think about what you’d pay to buy something if you could, and what it cost you to get what you’re offering. Is that pineapple, which might be $5, a fair trade for the 1 kg bag of sugar that might have cost you $1.50? You can think about it in terms of the value of the items, but think of it this way, too: When the only way for you to get a fresh pineapple, and the only way for them to get a bag of sugar, is to trade, that’s a way to estimate how close or far you are from what’s reasonable. I remember giving a guy in Kavieng, Papua New Guinea, a 2-kg bag of rice for a couple of lobsters one day. He was thrilled and insisted it was too much, then showed up the next day to give us three huge, beautiful papayas from his garden. Wow!

Trade items to bring

For the list-makers (cough “me” cough), here’s a summary of what to stow: Dremels, diamond bits and other carving tools; commonly used hand tools; rope that still has life in it (just maybe for a horse instead of a halyard); headlamps and solar-powered lights; fishing gear, such as big hooks for tuna, little ones for reef jigging; small-woven line for fishing (not fishing nylon); snorkeling masks and fins; soccer balls (and pumps with spare needles); perfumed lotions, nail polish and lipstick (these can add value to a trade for pearls in the Tuamotus); and fuel and jerry cans.

More on trading

If you’ve liked reading about trading in the South Pacific, where actually there’s not so much trading going on (sales for cash are vastly preferred), you might enjoy reading these other posts about the trading we did in Papua New Guinea. In those islands, trading with the latest dugout to tie off your transom is part of everyday cruising life.

What to bring to Papua New Guinea. This list that diverges a bunch from other South Pacific gifting and trading lists. It’s based on real need and lack of access to what we consider basics, such as flour, sugar and yeast.

What you’ll be trading for in Papua New Guinea: Sometimes, the ability to trade what islanders need is what matters most. It can also be the only way to get fresh produce in islands without stores.

Alternative trading: When a new friend wanted flour and yeast, we had to trade, but with nothing to exchange, I traded for a cooking lesson on how to cook coconut-steeped yams. This strategy would work great anywhere.

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