There’s nothing quite like the first sip of rum at anchor, the light dimming on the sea, the scent of salt and sugarcane in the air. For me, the daily craving started with a gallon jug of punch on a bareboat charter back in 1979. Since then, Caribbean rum and I have had a long, spirited relationship—one sip at a time, one island at a time.

The seventh-annual Caribbean Rum Awards were held this past fall on St. Barts. This competition is all about ­sipping rums, not the more-pedestrian versions used for mixing evening cocktails, where most any good rum will do. Out of 60 rums entered, Martinique’s Trois Rivières Triple Millésime was crowned world ­champion. Kudos to the French.

One of the great joys of sailing the Eastern Caribbean is sampling various island rums as you go. I’ve been doing this for 46 years, ever since a two-week bareboat charter in the Virgin Islands. The boat, a Morgan Out Island, was wide-beamed, lumbering, and about as elegant as a camper van in a cocktail dress. But tucked beside the chart table sat a complimentary gallon jug of rum punch, sweating in the tropical heat.  

That did it. It’s been rum ever since.

Rum is the Caribbean in a glass: sun-warmed sugarcane, salt-laced breezes, and the echo of steel drums somewhere ­onshore. Made from local sugarcane or molasses, rum reflects its birthplace in flavor and color, from crystal clear to ­molasses black. West Indian rum is available in clear or in shades from gold to amber to black. Mix the amber fluid with pineapple and orange juice, add a splash of grenadine, and the drink takes on all the colors of a West Indian sunset.

In the early days, it was always Mount Gay and orange juice for me: simple, cheap, and potent enough to cut through the heat after a long sail. That was in the 1980s, when I could buy a bottle on St. Barts, duty-­free, for $2. And while my rum locker still contains a few bottles of select sipping rums, in more recent times, Cruzan Aged Dark has supplied my daily ration. This reasonably priced amber rum is distilled on St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands. 

I start with a 24-ounce insulated Yeti coffee mug—it keeps the morning coffee hot and the evening rum chilled, both for hours. Drop in four cubes of ice and 4 ounces of rum, and top it off with 18 ounces of tonic water. A squeeze of lime is ­optional, and dash of nutmeg is nice. 

Each island down here has a distillery or two. Some of these island rums are excellent, most are good, and a few should come with a fire-hazard warning. I once tried a bottle from a roadside shack in Dominica that could’ve doubled as outboard fuel. 

On Grenada, Clarke’s Court and River Antoine produce their own rums. On Bequia, I found Sparrow’s, a rum from St. Vincent. It was just right for mixing my evening libation. On Bermuda, Goslings makes a dark rum that, when combined with ginger beer, becomes a Dark ’n Stormy. Guadeloupe and Martinique have their own distilleries, producing robust French-style rums. On Sint Maarten, Guavaberry and Topper’s offer a dozen spiced and gussied-up varieties. Callwood Rum Distillery in Cane Garden Bay on Tortola has been making rum for more than 200 years. The stone buildings, scorched copper stills and weathered casks feel frozen in time. Callwood’s signature 80-proof cane-based rum—named Panty Dropper—is as famous for its label as its lingering kick.

Rum is the ­Caribbean in a glass: sun-warmed sugarcane, salt-laced breezes, and the echo of steel drums somewhere onshore.

Antigua Distillery Limited offers a variety of sipping rums. Its Cavalier Gold is a fine choice for any West Indian rum punch. If you’re lucky—or persistent—you might find yourself invited to join the Royal Navy Tot Club of Antigua and Barbuda. Under the glow of nautical lanterns in a dockside pub, a band of expats gathers nightly to toast the Crown and history itself. A Royal Navy tale is read aloud, and a full tot of rum—2.4 ounces, not a drop less—is downed in one steady gulp. Saturdays come with the toast: “To our wives and ­sweethearts, may they never meet.”

In 1999, I made my way to Cuba and found myself a few blocks behind El Capitolio in Central Havana, at a place called El Floridita, which Ernest Hemingway once haunted like a regular spirit. This pink, one-story restaurant and bar is eight blocks in a straight line down Obispo Street from the Hotel Ambos Mundos, where Hemingway lived for a while. He would drink a dozen daiquiris in one sitting while chatting with fellow writers such as Ezra Pound, John Dos Passos, Graham Greene, Jean-Paul Sartre, Gabriel García Márquez and Tennessee Williams. The photographs on the walls tell a more complete story from the 1930s to 1950s.

My red-aproned bartender—sleeves rolled, a practiced flick of the shaker—lined up daiquiris like a gunslinger. Rum, lime, grapefruit juice, sugar syrup. Shake. Pour. Repeat. According to William Grimes’ book Straight Up or On the Rocks: The Story of the American Cocktail, this traditional drink is made with Bacardi white rum, fresh lime, grapefruit juice and sugar syrup. It’s shaken, not stirred, with ice, and is served in large goblets. Add six drops of maraschino liqueur for more color. If the bartender skips the sugar, it’s the Hemingway Daiquiri: stripped down, no-nonsense and a little dangerous. Where the classic version is limey and sweet, this one doubles the rum, earning the nickname “Papa doble.” It’s a drink that doesn’t smile back, and after two, neither will you.

Bacardi rum is not available in Cuba now, yet the name is still in Havana, carved into a granite facade—the family’s former headquarters. Today, the rum in Cuba is Havana Club. The Bacardi family set up shop in nearby Puerto Rico and is doing just fine.

Puerto Rico’s piña colada is a sweet, slushy anthem to ­vacation-­mode excess. It’s served in ­hurricane glasses taller than your forearm, usually with a cherry and a paper umbrella. It tastes like sunblock and joy. I once ordered one that came in a hollowed-out pineapple—and briefly considered renting a ­cabana and staying forever. 

For sailors, there’s Navy Grog, made with Pusser’s Rum, water and lime juice. This daily tot was first doled out to British crews in 1655 and then stopped in 1970. The Royal New Zealand Navy still continues the tradition. 

The Painkiller is the BVI’s answer to the mainland’s ibuprofen and acetaminophen—a creamy, coconut-laced concoction that masks its potency behind pineapple sweetness and a dusting of nutmeg. I had my first Painkiller at the Soggy Dollar Bar, slumped in a hammock after a beach landing that required no shoes and one waterproof dry bag. The drink originated at White Bay on Jost Van Dyke, where there’s no dock. Sailors swim ashore with dollar bills stuffed in their swimsuits. The Painkiller goes down really easy. By the second round, the name starts to make perfect sense. It comes in grades: one, two, three—and the fourth should be outlawed. 

On the other hand, rum punch is the Caribbean’s catchall cure: orange juice, pineapple juice, grenadine, a dash of lime and whatever rum’s on hand, often two or three kinds. I’ve had versions so smooth that they sipped like juice, and others that lit up my sinuses like wasabi. The only ­constant? You don’t stop at one. The recipe starts with ice in a tall glass, ­followed by white or amber rum, then tropical citrus fruit juices such as lime, lemon, papaya, mango, pomegranate and orange. I prefer pineapple and ­orange juice with a splash of grenadine syrup for color.

On Bequia, a variation of rum punch goes like this: one of sour, two of sweet, three of strong and four of weak. That’s lime juice, sugar syrup, rum and tonic water.

The mojito is Cuba’s contribution to the rum drinker’s delight. In my opinion, having done the Hemingway Pub Crawl, Hotel Ambos Mundos makes the best one. Hemingway wrote 1932’s Death in the Afternoon here, about Spanish bullfights. He also started writing Green Hills of Africa here, and worked on To Have and Have Not. The mojitos at this bar come with a sprig of mint so fresh, it still holds the scent of the garden. That mint goes into a tall glass with a lime wedge and a spoonful of sugar, to be mashed into a fragrant pulp by a mallet worn smooth from good use. Then it’s ice, Havana Club rum, soda water, a straw, and a nod from the bartender. The mojito is a refreshing drink with the fiery taste of rum tamed by sugar, lime and grass. One usually leads to two. 
Of course, not every rum drink comes in a frosted glass. Sometimes it’s a tin mug of grog—rum, water, lime and not much else—passed around at anchor as the sun drops. No umbrellas, no fanfare. Just sailors, stories, and a slow burn in the chest.

As I sail among the islands this winter, I’ll be hunting cocktails as much as coves. It’s a ritual now. As the hook sets and the light fades, I head below, reach for the rum, and pour my daily ration. The sea sighs against the hull, and the scent of lime is on my hands as I raise a glass to the islands, to Hemingway, and to another day well-lived under sail. 

For more than 20 years, author and ­photojournalist David H. Lyman has sailed the Eastern Caribbean islands. His Hemingway Pub Crawl is detailed in his forthcoming book, A Maine Yankee in Castro’s Cuba. Find more of his writing and photographs at dhlyman.com. 

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In the early 1980s, Marc Van Peteghem and Vincent Lauriot Prévost were a couple of young naval architecture students in Southampton, England. They decided to merge their talents, and their initials, to create their own design firm. Today, VPLP is a global ­powerhouse with more than three ­dozen employees. It has designed everything from America’s Cup winners to round-the-world record-setters.

VPLP’s first big break came in 1987, when a fledgling French boatbuilder called Lagoon commissioned the firm to draw the lines of a 55-foot cruising catamaran. It was the start of a long and productive relationship. VPLP has produced many more Lagoons since then, including the company’s latest model, the Lagoon 43. It’s a collaboration with exterior designer Patrick le Quément and interior ­designer Nauta Design. 

This background is important for a couple of reasons. First, it speaks to Lagoon’s distinctive, consistent look and style over the intervening years. Second, it helps to explain Lagoon’s DNA. It’s a builder whose cats combine plenty of creature comforts with the performance for which VPLP is known.

Interestingly, VPLP took ­until the late 1990s to introduce what I consider to be Lagoon’s signature design ­feature: the distinctive coachroof treatment that overhangs the ­forward windows and resembles a gun turret. It came with the introduction of the 410 and 470. It’s readily recognizable here on the 43, and the roof itself extends aft and over the cockpit to provide protection from the sun and elements. 

Aesthetically, the lines are clean and uncluttered. The ­waterline is maxed out, the freeboard is ample, and there’s a noticeable chine in the hulls—a nod toward expanded ­interior volume in the staterooms. The raised steering ­station, beneath a hard Bimini top, is to port. (For some unknown reason, this setup is to starboard on most cruising cats.) A series of sun pads and a wraparound settee are adjacent to the helm, a sensible solution to adding upstairs lounging space on a boat not really large enough for a flybridge. The side decks are wide and, with a molded-in bulwark, safe and secure. One of the cooler elements of the exterior plan is the cutouts aft in each hull for side boarding from a dock or dinghy. There are also nice sets of steps in the transoms for swimming or coming aboard.

The interior layout truly ­maximizes the space, making the boat feel much more expansive than its 45-foot-5-inch length overall. (A 25-foot-3-inch beam doesn’t hurt matters.) There are a few innovative items I haven’t seen before, starting with adjacent dining tables in the salon and cockpit that can be configured a dozen (yes, 12) different ways. For example, with the sliding doors open, they can be paired to seat a dinner party. With the doors shut, the salon table can be dropped down with cushions inserted to create a roomy berth. About half of the 43s built are expected to go into charter service, so this flexibility is a necessary feature.

Along those same lines, in the double-berth stateroom aft, there’s a “high-rise” single berth perched over the double. The single can fold down when not in use. Also, that stateroom and the owner’s space, to starboard, can each be accessed from separate entrances in the cockpit, along with access down a few stairs from the main salon. (A charter layout has four double-berth staterooms as opposed to the dedicated owner’s space on our test boat.) Forward is the commercial-grade galley with a four-burner stove. Nearby is a flat-screen TV that can be raised or lowered, and there are fridges inside and outside. Gracious living and entertaining were clearly top priorities. 

Construction is an infused laminate incorporating E-glass and polyester resin that employs a balsa core in the hull, deck and coachroof. The twin auxiliaries are 57 hp Yanmar diesels with saildrives. There’s a solar array topside as well as a generator to meet power needs, and all equipment is top-notch: Raymarine instrumentation, a Quick windlass, Harken winches, Spinlock clutches and Elvstrom sails (including a square-topped mainsail).

During Cruising World’s 2025 Boat of the Year ­contest, we sailed the 43 on a fall Chesapeake Bay afternoon with a pleasant northwest breeze of 10 to 12 knots. Closehauled, the cat clipped along to weather nicely, making just shy of 7 knots. Easing sails and falling off to a beam reach, the 43 still registered nearly 6 knots. The helm was light and responsive, and the boat was quite fun to sail. 

The 43 replaces the popular Lagoon 42 in the brand’s current lineup. That model is a tough act to follow: More than 1,000 of the 42-footers were launched after its introduction in 2016, making it one of the company’s all-time bestsellers. Lagoon has ambitious goals with the new boat, hoping to build a hundred a year. As of this past fall, the yard was off to a great start, with 70 units sold. 

The partnership of VPLP and Lagoon has been a long and lasting one. It shows no signs of slowing down.

Take the Next Step

Price: $710,000
catamarans-lagoon.com

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

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Chartering is guaranteed to teach you something. Sometimes it’s a gentle lesson, such as discovering the pure joy of a quiet anchorage that wasn’t even on your itinerary. Sometimes it’s more like a slap from a wet halyard. Either way, every charter adds a few notches to your sailing know-how—and your humility.

Over the years, I’ve come to think of charter trips less as vacations and more as continuing education. Each time out, there’s a new wrinkle: a mystery beep from the nav station, a stubborn mooring ball, a provisioning mishap that results in 5 pounds of cheese slices and no coffee. And so I’ve started keeping an informal mental list—call it the “charter charter.” These aren’t hard rules, exactly, and they’re certainly not gospel, but they are things I’ve learned, usually by doing them the hard way.

Like provisioning. Charter boats are ­often floating paradises, but they are not bottomless pantries. Let your crew loose in a shoreside market without supervision, and you might end up with nothing but snacks, mixers and a healthy debate about whether Coffee mate counts as a dairy substitute. My advice? Appoint a provisioning captain, make a list and, above all, do not forget the coffee. Pro tip: Paper towels can double as coffee filters. You’re welcome. 

Packing falls into a similar category. Every charter begins with someone dragging an oversize rolling duffel onto the dock like they’re about to fly to the French Riviera. Don’t be that person. You’ll end up wearing the same pair of shorts, the same salt-crusted T-shirt and the one hat that doesn’t fly off in 20 knots of trade wind. The rest of it? Deadweight. But if you’re a coffee connoisseur, do pack your favorite beans. Just trust me.

Your crew—whether familial or familiar​—have their own internal ecosystem too. There’s always someone who insists on organizing the itinerary down to the minute, complete with tide tables, wind models and backup anchorages in three languages. Let them. Every crew needs a logistics geek. But every crew also needs a “just happy to be here” type, and someone who insists on helping out with the daily onboard chores. Like dishes. This person is a saint. Extra grog rations might be in order.

As for sailing itself, the gear might get fancier every year, but the sea doesn’t care how many USB outlets your boat has. Batteries still run down, anchorages still get rolly, watermakers may or may not decide to stop making water halfway through the voyage, and marine toilets still operate on black-magic principles. Explaining “pump, pause, pump” to a landlubbing friend is a rite of passage. So is the awkward moment when someone insists that they never get seasick—right before turning the color of Key lime pie.

Then there’s the matter of anchoring. Modern catamarans are wide, comfortable and basically floating condos—but they still swing on a single hook, and scope is not a vibe. Learn the anchoring system. Communicate. Don’t be the crew who drifts too close to the boat flying the dive flag. 

Charter boats these days come tricked out with more amenities than ever. I’ve chartered some that were better equipped than my last apartment. But that doesn’t mean the experience has lost its charm. In fact, the beauty of chartering is in the freedom. You’re not locked into a set itinerary. You don’t have to tick off every must-see beach bar. Some of the best moments come when you go off-script—when weather changes your plan, or when you decide to linger an extra day in that perfect little bay because the breeze feels just right.

And those moments stick with you. That’s what chartering does. It gives you stories. Like the time we set out for what we thought would be a mellow downwind sail and ended up motoring through a dead calm, dodging squalls and learning how to make cocktails with exactly three ­remaining ice cubes. 

The memories that matter aren’t always the picture-perfect ones. They’re the ones where you figured out something together, adjusted on the fly, and laughed about it at the dinner table. Smooth sailing is nice, but a little friction makes the lobster tails taste better and the stories funnier.

Whether you’re eyeing the Med, the Caribbean or the Pacific Northwest—or you’re not quite sure where to begin—if this is your year to finally book that long-awaited charter, get it done. Book the boat. Gather your crew. Toss your flip-flops into a duffel bag and go. The boat might be borrowed, but the dream is all yours.

May you see fair winds, light packing lists, and just the right amount of ice for your Painkillers.

The post The Charter Charter: Lessons from Sailing Adventures appeared first on Cruising World.

For many sailors, the dream of owning a yacht in the Virgin Islands is as picture-perfect as the Caribbean itself. But for some, that dream is also a strategic move that blends lifestyle, business and, in some cases, tax-smart investing. Crewed charter-yacht ownership can be a viable path to spending real time on the water while defraying the costs of boat ownership.

Cruising World Editor-in-Chief Andrew Parkinson sat down with charter expert and BVI Yacht Sales broker Ted Reshetiloff for a deep dive into the world of charter-yacht ownership, based on his personal interactions with client-owners, brokers and charter operators. 

AP: Let’s start with the basics. Why would someone choose to own a professionally crewed charter yacht instead of using the boat solely for private enjoyment?

TR: It’s a great question, and one we hear often from potential buyers weighing their ­options. The truth is, there are a number of compelling reasons why someone might choose the crewed charter model over traditional private ownership—starting with lifestyle and access.

For many people, the idea of owning a 50-plus-foot catamaran is incredibly appealing, but the financial and logistical realities can be a deal-breaker. Purchase price, insurance, dockage and annual upkeep add up quickly. Then there’s the challenge of managing the boat—often located in the Caribbean or Mediterranean—while living thousands of miles away. It’s a full-time commitment that doesn’t align with most owners’ lifestyles.

That’s where the crewed-yacht model offers real advantages. By placing the vessel into a professional charter program with full-time crew, many of those burdens are lifted. Owners can enjoy peace of mind knowing that the boat is being actively maintained and operated by professionals. In fact, we often see better long-term care in crewed yachts than in those that sit idle between seasonal owner visits.

Financially, there’s an upside as well. Most crewed yachts for sale come with existing ­bookings in place, providing immediate revenue and an established client base. While it’s not a get-rich scheme, the ­charter income can offset a ­significant portion of the ownership costs​—and in some cases, even ­generate passive or semi-active income.

But beyond the dollars and logistics, what really motivates many owners is the lifestyle enhancement. Charter ownership offers flexibility, access to a premium yacht, and the ability to share unforgettable experiences with friends and family, all while knowing that your asset is working for you when you’re not aboard. For many, it’s the gateway to a yachting life that they otherwise couldn’t justify or afford.

AP: What do the numbers really look like? How do owners balance personal use with ­generating charter income?

TR: Once you own a crewed yacht in the Caribbean, the dream starts to take shape. You’re planning your next getaway and imagining anchoring off secluded beaches, with a ­cocktail in hand. But then comes the real question: How many weeks a year do you actually plan to spend on board? And is this primarily a lifestyle play or a financial one?

Owners need to decide early on how much charter activity they want. Some aim to maximize income, booking 20 or more weeks per season to make the most of high-demand charter windows. Others take a more balanced approach, modeling out their expenses and choosing to charter just enough to offset annual costs while preserving prime weeks for personal use.

Charter rates vary based on the boat, but to give you an idea, a crewed Leopard 50 catamaran can bring in around $25,000 per week for an ­all-inclusive charter. So, if you’re asking yourself, Is it cheaper to own or to charter? then you need to compare apples to apples. Let’s say you want to spend eight weeks a year sailing the islands. Chartering a comparable crewed yacht for that amount of time could easily cost you upwards of $200,000 annually. But as an owner, those weeks can be paid for by your charter income—and you’re spending them on a professionally crewed, well-maintained yacht that’s yours.

So the financial equation ­really comes down to how much you use the boat and how you value the lifestyle. For many owners, it’s not just about the numbers. It’s about accessing a level of experience that they couldn’t otherwise justify or afford without the charter model in place.

AP: Are there any tax benefits to owning a crewed charter yacht?

TR: Absolutely—and it’s one of the most important parts of the conversation for US-based ­buyers. Under the right circumstances, there are several tax strategies that can significantly reduce the cost of ownership, particularly if the yacht is operated as a legitimate business with the intent to generate profit. That said, these benefits are complex and must be carefully structured in consultation with a tax professional who understands maritime assets.

One of the key areas where owners might find advantages is bonus depreciation. This has been one of the most powerful incentives in recent years. If a yacht qualifies as a business asset, owners might be able to depreciate a significant portion of the purchase in the first year. Under the Tax Cuts and Jobs Act, that meant up to 100 percent depreciation, though this percentage has started to phase down. Still, there are signals that it might return to the full deduction under new legislation. To qualify, you must be operating the yacht as a ­bona fide business.

Another advantage can be the Section 179 deduction. Similar to bonus depreciation, Section 179 allows for the immediate expensing of certain business assets, including—​under the right conditions—charter yachts. It’s subject to limits, but it can be a valuable tool for those looking to reduce taxable income early in ownership.

There’s also deductible operating expenses. If the yacht is actively chartered and treated as a business, many ongoing costs might be deductible. That includes dockage, maintenance, crew salaries, insurance, fuel, provisioning, marketing, and even travel expenses ­related to managing the yacht.

Loan-interest deduction is another possible advantage. If you finance the purchase, the interest on that loan also might be deductible—again, provided the yacht is used for legitimate business purposes. This can ease the financial load, especially in the early years of ownership.

With sales tax, depending on how the purchase is structured and where the vessel is delivered, some owners can defer or even avoid paying sales tax altogether. Some take delivery in tax-advantaged jurisdictions or form ownership entities in states or territories with more-favorable laws.

Also worth noting is that the IRS draws a line between active and passive income. If you’re materially involved in running the charter business, you might be able to offset losses against other active income. If it’s considered a passive activity, the benefits are still there but ­applied differently.

There’s also the 1031 like-kind exchange. This applies mostly to real estate, but there have been instances where commercial yacht owners have successfully used this strategy to defer taxes when upgrading to a newer vessel. It’s not common, but it’s worth exploring with your CPA if you’re scaling up.

Bottom line: The tax advantages can be substantial, but they require intentional planning, proper documentation and professional guidance. For many owners, the savings can help make the numbers work and turn a luxury purchase into a viable investment.

AP: What’s the deal with buying a crewed charter yacht that’s already up and running, with bookings already lined up?

TR: For buyers looking to step into the charter world with minimal friction and maximum financial upside, purchasing a turnkey crewed yacht with existing bookings is a smart move. These yachts are already up and running, often with a full calendar of charters secured months in advance. That means you’re not starting from scratch. You’re stepping into a revenue-generating business from day one.

One key benefit of that approach is immediate cash flow. Yachts with active charter schedules typically come with prebooked weeks—sometimes a full season or more. That gives new owners immediate income, which can help offset expenses right out of the gate.

There’s also the established market presence. A boat that’s been operating successfully has something money can’t easily buy: reputation. Repeat clients, positive reviews and name recognition all can lead to consistent bookings year after year.

Also, most turnkey yachts are sold with a seasoned crew already on board and a trusted management company running day-to-day operations. That means you’re buying into a system that works: Everything from maintenance and provisioning to client service is ­handled by professionals.

If you want hands-off ownership, this is a way to get it. Not every owner wants to be involved in the logistics of running a charter business, and with a well-managed operation, you don’t have to be. Many owners simply enjoy their owner-­use weeks and let the team handle the rest.

In the Virgin Islands especially, many of these operations are supported by experienced clearinghouses, which are local charter hubs that manage bookings, hold client deposits, oversee crew contracts and help navigate local regulations, ­including work permits and customs compliance.

For buyers who want a blend of lifestyle and financial return, a turnkey charter yacht offers one of the most efficient paths to ownership. It’s a proven model with fewer unknowns—and a faster route to making your dream yacht work for you.

AP: How do owners structure their yacht purchases?

TR: There’s no one-size-fits-all model, but many owners have built successful operations by combining smart tax planning, realistic income goals, and a clear understanding of what they want from ownership, whether it’s lifestyle, income or both.

Some owners set up legitimate yacht-charter businesses, allowing them to take advantage of tax incentives such as depreciation and deducting operating expenses. Others get creative with financing and ­entity structures to optimize their tax position and cash flow. The common thread is that they’re working with experienced professionals—brokers, tax advisers, maritime attorneys—who understand how to structure things properly.

From the clearinghouse perspective, I agree with Dick Schoonover at CharterPort BVI. He says that for most crewed catamarans, the typical break-even point for a 40- to 50-footer is around 10 to 12 charters a year. At that size, annual crew costs for a captain and chef can run around $1,800 per foot. Many crews aim to book 20 or more weeks per year, motivated not just by salary but also by guest gratuities.

With the larger luxury cats, such as Lagoon 620s and 70- to 80-foot Sunreefs, the owner will need more-experienced crews and bigger budgets. Those boats can charter for $100,000 or more per week. Owners might see only 10 to 15 charters a season, but at that rate, the math can still make sense.

Schoonover does caution that after about five years in charter service, a yacht typically needs a refit. At that point, owners either invest in the upgrade or list the boat for sale—often with a strong charter track record and client base that adds real market value.

And one other note: A small number of top charter brokers control the majority of bookings. So aligning with the right team—on the dock and in the marketplace—is key to ­long-term success.

For anyone considering this path, hearing these real-world stories can make the possibilities feel a lot more tangible. With the right setup, it can be both a smart investment and a deeply rewarding lifestyle.

AP: Any parting advice for someone thinking about taking the plunge into crewed ­charter-yacht ownership?

TR: At the end of the day, owning a crewed charter yacht—­especially one based in the Virgin Islands—is about finding the right balance between lifestyle and financial sense. Some folks are drawn to the tax benefits, others to the idea of stepping into a business that helps offset the cost of owning a beautiful yacht in paradise. And for many, it’s a bit of both.

But here’s the real ­takeaway: This isn’t the kind of thing you want to figure out alone. Between the charter ­regulations, tax angles, crew ­logistics and quirks of Caribbean ownership, there are a lot of moving parts. It just makes sense to talk to people who’ve helped others do it ­before—ideally folks who live and breathe this world year-round.

Whether you’re looking at a ready-to-go yacht with bookings already on the calendar or dreaming about refitting a boat into your ideal floating getaway, getting the right info up front can save you time, money and headaches down the road. 

Owning a crewed yacht can be incredibly rewarding. It just helps to go into it with your eyes wide open and a good chart to follow. 

The post The Charter Equation: How To Unlock Yacht Ownership Benefits appeared first on Cruising World.

Moose McClintock—with whom I attended Sunday school a millennium ago before he became an America’s Cup sailor and local racing legend in my home waters of Rhode Island’s Narragansett Bay—asked me a pointed question: “Did you actually see this boat before you bought it?”

I glanced at my forlorn old Pearson 365, August West, still all nicked up after this past fall’s Hurricane Milton, which creamed the marina in Florida where I’d lived aboard the previous three winters. McClintock’s inquiry was completely understandable. The boat was many things, but pretty wasn’t one of them.

We were standing alongside it at Safe Harbor New England Boatworks in Portsmouth, Rhode Island, where Moose works, in early May. August West’s bow pulpit, anchor platform, headsail furler and forward stanchions had been swept away. The gelcoat in the bow appeared as if someone had whacked it repeatedly with a sledgehammer. The teak in the amidships rub rail and topside cap rail was splintered aplenty. 

This was nothing new to me, and I’d cleaned it up as a ­temporary measure the best I could. But now, seeing the damage from ­someone else’s perspective? Yeah, it looked pretty dismal.   

Still, I’d known all that before I’d hired a trucker to haul the boat north from my slip in Longboat Key, from which I’d recently been ejected so that the docks could be repaired. With limited options—post-Milton dock space is extremely hard to come by in greater Sarasota Bay, and August West was in no shape to sell—I’d decided to bite the bullet (gulp, $10,000, not counting getting the boat hauled and launched), bring it home and slowly resurrect it. Down below, the accommodations were still comfy. And there was sentimental value too. The previous owners were friends. It felt like their legacy was in my hands. 

This is when matters quickly, irreversibly, began to go sideways. 

Let me preface all this by stating emphatically that I’m not here to assign blame to anyone other than myself. For example, on the morning of departure, the friendly and helpful trucker took one look at the mast prep and shook his head. He thought that the shrink-wrap surrounding the shrouds was inadequate. He was also in a hurry. I did my best to address the situation quickly, but long story short, somewhere one of the spreaders went missing. Had it actually been wrapped with the mast and fallen off en route? I’d accounted for only one of them. Did it ever make it out of the boatyard? Its answer was an emphatic yes. Either way, it meant that the mast couldn’t be immediately stepped once it arrived in Portsmouth. Strike one. 

Next, I’m no electrician, but I’d bought new batteries, and they were well-charged when I dropped off the boat at the yard in Florida. Once in Rhode Island, the house batteries were discharged and then flatlined completely. What? How? A solar panel and onboard battery charger couldn’t address the situation. The electrician at New England Boatworks couldn’t sort it out quickly. And the boys at the yard made it pretty clear that they were a bit too busy to deal with an issue-plagued vessel from 1977. I couldn’t leave it there, sail it or motor away. Strike two.

Finally, and most importantly, I was committed to delivering a boat from Newport to Ireland. The clock was ticking. I’d run out of time, money and patience. Strike three. 

I was on the verge of turning August West over to a salvage yard to extract the engine, windlass, lead, and other bits and pieces when I got a call from one of the chaps at New England Boatworks. He’d been looking for a fixer-upper for this family, had a mooring in nearby Bristol, Rhode Island, where he could get the thing towed, had been stashing some teak that could address the damaged brightwork, and would be more than happy to get the boat back up to snuff. 

Luckily, I still had my old Pearson ensign to hang off my mooring. All things considered, this seemed like the happiest of quick, immediate endings. August West would live to sail another day. 

And that, my friends, is the story of how my old classic-plastic cruiser got, well, all trucked up. 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Trucked Up: A Classic Pearson 365’s Fateful Ride North appeared first on Cruising World.

I called my brother Dan, who is my go-to guy for half-baked, far-flung sailing ideas. “The time is now,” I said, using an ominous voice. “Time for us to head north for some serious sailing adventure.”

No, I was not talking about the San Juan Islands, that delightful archipelago in the far northwest corner of the contiguous United States. I wanted to cross the border, where the magic continues with Canada’s Gulf Islands.

Like a baby whale tucked safely up against its mother’s belly, the 200 or so Gulf Islands are clustered around the southeast corner of Vancouver Island at the western terminus of the world’s longest international border. They benefit from the rain-shadow effect of the mountains there, with a mild, sunny climate and limited rain and snow. It’s a perfect place for two guys who spend their ­summers wilting in the heat of Florida and California.

I reminded myself, as I searched for a charter company, to ask questions and do actual research about boat maintenance and more before sending the check. This credo led me to the good people at NW Explorations, who had excellent customer reviews and a gently used Bavaria 35 available for our preferred dates in September. The ­company also scores big on ­convenience: It’s all of 10 minutes from Victoria International Airport.

One thing I kept reading on ­social media is that recreational boats need to be wary of the many ferries and floatplanes that use these ­waters. With shock, I watched a 2023 ­video of a floatplane colliding with a ­powerboat in Vancouver Harbour. And ferries are always going faster than they look. So I paid close attention on arrival day at Port Sidney Marina as I learned all about the Bavaria Immaterial Girl. 

A company rep helped us review safety gear, electronics and engine operation. She produced maintenance checklists. This was comforting compared with previous charters I’ve been on, where the company neglected to empty the holding tank or make sure all the battery cables were tight. 

Another rep then demonstrated the finer points of operation, navigating and anchoring. “The few problems we’ve had,” he said, “were customers who hit a rock and said it was unmarked. There are no unmarked rocks in this area. They’re all on the chart.”

Dan arrived from the airport a little before dusk. After loading up on food and drinks, we reviewed tides and weather, and we set the alarm for dawn. We would try to catch a break with the wind early in the week, get as far north as possible, and then pick our way south through the islands. For wind and weather forecasts, we had the internet and real-time updates. 

We motored out of the marina the next morning and were ­treated to a sublime display of rocky islands and mountains backlit by a golden sky. The florid writing of Muriel “Capi” Blanchet came to mind. She sailed these waters on a small motor launch with her five children almost 100 years ago, using the experience as ­inspiration for her Canadian classic, The Curve of Time.

I’ve spent a lot of time on boats, mostly on the US East Coast and in the Bahamas. I can tell you now that the only thing that those locations have in common with these waters is salt, storms and tides. In our warm waters, you’ll see birds and the occasional ­manatee, but up here, you’re constantly goose-necking to see pelagic life, to take it all in. I’m embarrassed to say that in all my sailing, I’d never seen a whale and was quietly hoping that a pod would make an appearance. And the soundings can go from 300 feet to less than 10 in a New York minute. 

The wind was foul but the mood was fine as we picked our way through the many isles and tidal streams. For navigation, we had paper charts and a chart plotter. The Navionics app on my phone proved the most useful; it instantly plotted our way through minefields of rocks and narrow passes. Still, I frequently cross-checked our position on all three redundant systems.

Archipelago sailing is great. You sail as long as you like and then pull over wherever you are for the night. Weary of the strong northwesterlies, we gingerly entered Princess Cove on Wallace Island, dropped a single anchor, and called it a day. At sunset, we were treated to a full harvest moon rising above the pines with a million stars above. 

The next morning, we listened to Environment Canada’s marine forecast on VHF radio Channel 21 and got underway beneath a beautiful sky on a falling tide, backtracking oh-so-slowly, with a sharp eye on the depth sounder as we reentered Trincomali Channel, bound for Gabriola Island. We raised the mainsail with the wind still forward of the beam.

Seas were smooth, and we maintained 5 knots with motor assist. Later, we passed a tug with a log boom—a reminder that we shared these waters with slow-moving working vessels. John Muir passed near here in 1879 on his way to Alaska and was astonished by what he saw. “Never before this had I been ­embosomed in scenery so hopelessly ­beyond ­description,” he wrote.

Good time is made catching the rising tide, and by afternoon, we had pulled into Degnen Bay on Gabriola, where we were disheartened to see boats chockablock on moorings. Dan took the helm while I scanned around. Canadian kindness is real: With a big smile and without being asked, a man offered his mooring to us for the night, then ran his dinghy out to show us where and took our bow line through the swivel eye. He refused to take any money. Then he got his car and offered us a ride to town. Wow, what a great place.

In Folklife Village, we picked up a few items for the larder and then caught “Gertie,” the public bus service. It makes continuous loops around the island and requires only a wave to the driver for a ride. And on this island, like all the others we visited, there were constant reminders that First Nations people had been there long before the Europeans arrived.

On day three, we threaded our way into Telegraph Harbour on Thetis Island, where two double-ended ferries regularly visit. They’re designed to get in and out of a terminal quickly; when they back out, they spin around, and it’s difficult to tell where they’re bound. I can only compare watching this to how a matador must feel when a bull stares him down. Olé and get out of the way.

The spring ebb compelled us to run at idle speed into Telegraph Harbour, then to Thetis Island Marina, where we took a just-deep-enough slip. Off we went to stretch our legs, and we came to one of the many “drying passes” in these islands. Known as “The Cut,” it serves as a risky shortcut between Thetis and Penelakut islands. We watched a small sailboat run aground trying to get through, and decided to cruise the long way when it was time for us to leave. Back at the marina’s pub, we scarfed down big bowls of clam chowder and enjoyed the warmth of a wood-burning stove, all with a great view of the boat traffic.

An incendiary sunset lit up the sky and harbor that night with radiant bands of yellow, orange and red, all burning away at the stratified clouds like a prairie wildfire. A wedge of frantic geese flew over the docks, and an owl awakened nearby, hooting its warning. It was one of those forever moments that’s all too short; within a minute, a long gray line advanced downward, pushing the colors beneath the horizon until nothing remained but a bloody glow between distant mountains. This is why I sail: It puts ordinary people like me in a position to witness the extraordinary.

Underway the next morning, we turned southeast and realized that the wind had swung to the south. Oh well, at least the skies were blue and the tide was going our way. The green mountains rose sharply, soon to be covered with snow. 

The Bavaria’s Volvo hummed contentedly. We found it to be a solid cruising yacht, albeit plastered everywhere with German imperatives such as: abwindstarke 6 sind alle kabinen-fenster zu schlieBen. That is:“In wind force 6, all cabin windows are to be closed.” Who says high school language classes don’t come in handy later in life? 

We took a sharp right at Southey Point and crossed tracks with a bulk carrier. Quickly, we steered to the side to let it pass, but a distant sailboat remained in its path. The five stentorian blasts of the ship had its crew scurrying aside. 

The small anchorage at Retreat Cove was nearby, but we carried on for the long western approach to Montague Harbour and the dock at Marine Provincial Park. From there, it was off to town to catch the bus to the famous Hummingbird Pub. Sadly, it had just closed for the season. In fact, most of the village had called it quits for the year. Back in the boat’s cockpit, as the harvest moon rose over the many anchor lights, Dan and I reminisced of days gone by in Ohio. We heard the plaintive cry of a loon. Could there be a better end to any day?

The sun rose and, despite the 44-degree temperature, it was another winner of a day with nary a cloud in the sky nor a soul moving in the anchorage. After dancing with several leviathan ferries and making the pass west of Prevost Island, we entered a massive fog bank. Dan was at the helm and I was at the bow, bleating the foghorn. Of the frequent fogs here, Blanchett wrote: “It would roll down the open channels in great round masses—­hesitate for an island, and then roll over it and on. It would fill up all the bays—searching and exploring.”

We made the turn into Bedwell Harbour and grabbed one of the many moorings at Beaumont Marine Park as the fog receded just above the tip of our mast. A hike up Mount Norman proved a lot more exercise than we’d anticipated; it was surprising that after two hours in the woods, we saw not a single critter. 

With the sun well across the yardarm, it was time for sundowners and a good meal. We zipped across the harbor to Poets Cove Resort & Spa, which was named, we were told, for the many marriage proposals that happened there. Dinner at the bar was awesome, enhanced by a spirited conversation with some patrons and the barkeeper about what makes Canadian football better than American. (Three downs instead of four? Are they kidding?)

Really, I’m not making this up: The sun rose again to a cool, clear morning without a breath of wind. Boats around us were frozen in place, clearly reflected in the water.

A seal snorted nearby, no doubt looking for a fish breakfast. Ours would be avocado toast with eggs and java. We let loose the mooring and were bound for Lyall Harbour on Saturna Island. We crept through the pass between Pender Island and Blunden Islet: very narrow, very nerve-wracking. Our Lady of Blessed Navionics got us through, with 20 feet to spare.

Later, Dan called down from the wheel: “Hey, bro, this ­powerboat is gonna hit us. What should I do?” 

I quickly explained the basic rules of the road, which in a crossing situation can be summed up as: When he’s right, you’re wrong. The fishing boat was crossing our path from the left side. “So we’re the stand-on ­vessel?” Dan asked. “Precisely,” I ­answered. “But let’s be ready to circle around his stern if he doesn’t know this too.”

We rounded the tip of Saturna and squeezed ­into the public wharf at Lyall Harbour. The cruising guide talked of a bike-rental shop nearby, but it had recently gone out of business. No car rentals either. We had our feet, but these islands are big; next time, we’ll bring bikes.

A hike eastward for a few clicks brought us to Saturna General Store & Freight, where we made our last grocery purchases of the cruise. My cash was getting low. Banks that provide foreign exchange are few and far between in the Gulf Islands, but major credit cards are accepted everywhere. And most places accepted our US cash.

Back at the wharf, we bought tasty bread from Vibrational Café and learned that it was closing for the season in a few days. As the moon peeked out from the distant trees, we enjoyed dinner from the deck of Saturna Lighthouse Pub and watched the last floatplane and ferry head off into the gloaming.

We were underway again on another no-wind morning and spotted basking seals on Saturna Beach, then motored past the dreadfully named Murder Point and wiggled through the many tidal rips along the international border south of Moresby Island. At Portland Island, we made a final ride to the beach for a hike, then called it a week.

It was time to refuel and then deposit Immaterial Girl back in its slip, where it would be cleaned and turned over to another party. Dan and I tied up and fist-bumped, happy for the great week together and all the special places we had visited. 

And then we walked away from one of the best sailing grounds on the continent.

The post Islands in the Strait: Sailing Canada’s Gulf Isles appeared first on Cruising World.

In not a lot of wind, maybe 10 to 15 knots, a square-top main and code-zero headsail had the Leopard 46 catamaran skipping across Chesapeake Bay at 7 knots and change, and sometimes quicker in the puffs. The steering was responsive. The helm, raised to deck level and protected from weather by a hardtop Bimini, was comfortable. From the two-person driver’s seat, I found good all-round visibility, and all sail-control lines were close at hand and easily managed by the electric Harken winches on the cabin top.

On a Boat of the Year sea trial of any other big cruising cat, the sailing capability alone of this latest model from South African builder Robertson and Caine would have had my full attention.

But even more than that, I found myself glued to a small display screen mounted near the wheel. On it, an easy-to-­understand graphic showed that we were not only hauling the proverbial mail, but we were also generating electricity and recharging the lithium phosphate batteries without expending a drop of diesel. In theory, with the assistance of an array of solar panels mounted on the Bimini top, if we sailed long enough, we’d arrive at our destination with the battery bank fully charged and without ever having to run the range-extending generator.

In a year when we ­encountered several approaches to ­hybrid or all-electric ­propulsion, the system that comes as an ­option on the Leopard seemed the ­simplest for an owner to ­master. My colleague Tim Murphy would conclude later in a story ­written by our fellow judge Herb McCormick: “We’re seeing more and more electric options, and this is a solid step in the right direction.”

The Leopard 46, designed by Alex Simonis and the team at Simonis Voogd, replaces a popular 45-foot Leopard that was also available for charter ownership under The Moorings and Sunsail brands. Introduced at the Annapolis Boat Show in 2016, the 45 had a model run of 379 boats, with the last one delivered in 2024. The brands, all owned by Travelopia, have an unusual relationship with R&C, in that they are the builder’s only customer. And for several years now, Simonis has been the chief designer of all R&C sail- and power-cat models.

During our dockside briefing at the most recent sailboat show, Franck Bauguil, senior vice president of yacht ownership and product development at Travelopia, explained some of the challenges in developing the new model. It had to offer new features to set it apart from its predecessor, and it had to come in at a similar price to remain attractive as a charter investment. It also needed to reflect the elements that private owners expect to find on a yacht with a price tag approaching $1 million—or even a couple hundred thousand more if equipped with the hybrid package.

For his part, Simonis has faced these tensions before. The 45, ­introduced in 2016, brought similar considerations and earned Cruising World kudos as Best Charter Boat. The 46, meanwhile, was named 2025 Best Full-Size Multihull 45 to 50 feet.

Apart from the hybrid propulsion system, there are a number of new features included in the 46, starting with its construction. Previous R&C boats have been built using three molds for the hull, with the pieces then glassed together along the bridge deck. The mold for the 46’s infused hull is one piece, a process the builder will employ in all future models, Bauguil said. And on this boat, aluminum mullions support the cabin top while glass windows replace the acrylic ones used in other models. 

Compared with the 45, the transition between the salon and cockpit feels more open. This was achieved by eliminating the after bulkhead and replacing it with a composite ring frame. Revamping the cockpit door with four glass panels that slide out of the way allows for a dining table indoors to be in close proximity to another one in the cockpit. In good weather, the crowd can have a banquet.

A nav station is forward and to port in the salon. With just about 360-degree visibility, it would be a fine place to spend night watches. Between it and the galley to starboard, a ­watertight door opens onto the forward cockpit. 

The 46 is available with several layouts. The boat in Annapolis included an owner’s stateroom aft to starboard and a VIP stateroom forward, each en suite with its own companionway. The port hull held a third stateroom aft; forward was a ­workshop/utility room with a washer and dryer. For chartering, four- and five-stateroom layouts are available.

On deck, a portside stairway just outside the cockpit leads to a lounge atop the Bimini top that has couch seating, a table and sun pads. Access to the raised helm is from the starboard deck or via steps up from the cockpit.

Boats for the Leopard brand have a lifting swim platform that can also hold a dinghy. Charter boats have a stainless frame to lift the tender.

The standard sail plan for all models is a regular-cut main and genoa from Ullman (a square-top mainsail is an option). Upgrades are available, and Leopard models have a spit for flying a code-zero reaching sail or a code-D downwind sail.

For power, the standard ­engines are 45 hp Yanmars with saildrives; 57 hp upgrades are available.

The hybrid system might be what appeals most to a buyer with early-adopter tendencies, but there’s also a lot to be said for the proven reliability of a couple of a modern, efficient diesels. Either way, the Leopard 46 offers loads of fresh ideas in an attractive cat that’s cruiser-­friendly and fun to sail.

Take the next step

Price $1.2 million (as tested)
leopardcatamarans.com

Greener Sailing 

The hybrid electric propulsion system being offered as an option on the Leopard 46 relies on technology developed in France by a company named Joool, which was launched in 1998 as Alternative Energies. It has systems installed on a number of European ferries and workboats. It recently became a part of the group that owns Fountaine Pajot and Dufour Yachts, and is working with other builders as well.

At the heart of its hybrid system is the OneBox, a sealed unit that the company says enables “energy conversion and distribution for your boat.” On the Leopard 46, the OneBox collects energy generated by multiple sources: four 400-watt solar panels, propeller pods capable of regeneration under sail, shore power, and electricity produced by a 24 kW diesel generator. The system then stores that energy in two 27 kW lithium phosphate battery banks—one in each hull. As it’s needed, power is transformed into DC and AC current of various voltages to run house loads and the two 25 kW electric motor pods.

When sailing, one or both motors can be set in regeneration mode to replenish the battery banks, along with power coming in via the solar panels incorporated into the Bimini top, according to an engineer aboard the day of our test sail. The system senses when the battery banks reach a certain level of discharge and automatically starts the generator.

It’s a complex system, but in practical terms, an owner needs only to monitor displays mounted at the nav desk and the helm station, then decide how much or how little power to draw from batteries or the diesel generator underway. The goal when passagemaking is to use as little fossil fuel as possible and still arrive with a topped-up battery bank that will take care of house loads which include LED lighting, efficient air conditioning and refrigeration systems, and cooking appliances such as a microwave/convection oven and electric cockpit grill. The boat we sailed in Annapolis had no propane gas aboard.

While the Leopard in Annapolis had a price tag of $1.2 million (compared with a sticker price of just under $1 million for a boat with standard diesel engines), most buyers of the 46 will want options that include a generator and a bank of lithium batteries large enough to cover overnight house loads, says Franck Bauguil, senior vice president of yacht ownership and product development at Travelopia, owner of the Leopard brand. 

When you factor in that additional equipment, plus diesel-engine upgrades, the difference in price might not be all that significant.

CW editor-at-large Mark Pillsbury was a 2025 Boat of the Year judge.

The post Leopard 46 Review: Innovative Cruising Cat with Hybrid Power appeared first on Cruising World.

It was shaping up to be ­another postcard-perfect day at anchor in Thailand. My husband, Jamie, was working on deck aboard our Stevens 47, Totem, when he let out a shout that made everyone’s spine snap straight.

“Hey! Hey! Look out!”

A bareboat charter catamaran was bearing down on us—fast—and the people aboard were too busy laughing and posing for selfies to notice. The skipper finally looked up from his phone just in time to veer away, clearing our anchor chain by maybe 10 feet. 

“I saw ya, mate,” he called out. 

Sure you did.

For anyone who dreams of cruising, chartering can be a brilliant first step. But the gap between dream and disaster can be alarmingly narrow. Done right, bareboating is a confidence-building adventure. Done wrong, it can be a deal-breaker.

If you’re thinking of chartering as a stepping stone to life afloat, here’s how to get it right, from the skills you’ll need to the surprises you’ll want to avoid.

Build the Right Skills 

A successful charter doesn’t just depend on your spirit of adventure. It also relies on your ability to handle the fundamentals. 

Even seasoned sailors can get tripped up when stepping aboard a vessel that’s significantly different from what they’re used to handling. Twin engines, catamaran maneuvering, electric winches, a ­heavier displacement hull—all these variables affect everything from docking to anchoring to systems management.

“If you’ve been off the water for a while, or if your experience has all been in smaller or simpler boats, consider brushing up before your trip,” says Tracy Sarich, owner of Voyage Makers Coastal Adventures in British Columbia, Canada. “One of the most common issues we see is a gap in skills that becomes clear only once a client is already at the dock. That’s hard on everyone.”

To avoid that last-minute scramble, consider taking a refresher or liveaboard course with American Sailing or the Royal Yachting Association, or through the charter base. Many companies offer training designed to mirror real-world charter conditions, often using the same types of boats you’ll be renting. Not only does this kind of refresher course sharpen your skills, but it also builds confidence and reduces anxiety for you and your crew.

“Research your charter company’s requirements early,” Sarich says. “Then plan your prep accordingly. We tailor training to match both the boat and the cruising area, so charterers feel ready when it’s time to go.”

The more solid your foundation, the more fun you’ll have—and the more likely you’ll be planning the next adventure before this one’s even over.

Be Honest 

It’s important to recognize that while your sailing skills might be top-notch in your home waters and familiar conditions, those skills might not translate seamlessly to a new charter-base location. Charter bases often vet those skills carefully—especially in areas with more-complex navigation dynamics.

Charter guests can get frustrated when required to sail with a checkout skipper. “Do they think I’m not experienced?” “Did they not believe my sailing résumé?” In reality, it’s not about mistrust—it’s about setting you up for a safe and enjoyable trip.

“Charter companies want your experience to be a positive one,” says Capt. Margaret Pommert, a veteran sailing instructor who conducts checkout orientations for charters in Puget Sound. “They know their boats and waters better than anyone, and they’ve seen what can go wrong.”

A checkout skipper’s role is to familiarize guests with the vessel and local conditions, ensuring comfort with handling, docking and onboard systems. At the end of the process, the skipper must determine whether the guest can safely manage the boat—and their crew.

Even seasoned sailors can be caught off guard by unfamiliar waters. Deepwater Puget Sound sailors might run aground in Florida’s shallows. A salty Southern California sailor might struggle when the “wind machine” kicks in on a summer afternoon in San Francisco Bay.

Pommert remembers a Chesapeake Bay sailor—and hopeful family cruiser—who was planning a Puget Sound charter with his anxious wife and young children. He ­proudly explained that he had interpreted the local tide tables and intended to sail through Deception Pass on a max ebb current. Recognizing this as a recipe for disaster, Pommert gently explained the danger of his plan and introduced the concept of a tidal gate. Together, they reworked the itinerary.

A month later, the family bought a sailboat. Six months after that, his wife enrolled in one of Pommert’s courses.

A good checkout skipper is a mentor and partner. They help you build on your strengths, identify knowledge gaps, and ensure that your charter is a success. It’s a rare ­opportunity to grow; embrace it.

Know the Systems

Even experienced sailors can find themselves flustered on a charter boat. The systems might be unfamiliar, the layout unexpected and the interface—bonjour, French chart plotter—less than intuitive. What you think of as basic sailing knowledge might not prepare you for the living ­systems that make a boat feel like a functioning home, even for a week.

On a charter, you might be managing a watermaker, monitoring battery-charge levels, or operating a macerator pump for the heads. These are things you might never touch on a daysailer or even your own coastal cruiser. Mismanaging these systems can lead to discomfort, stress and safety issues.

“In-mast furling systems, for example, are very common on charter sailboats,” says Tracy Sarich of The Voyage Makers. “Clients who say they know how to use them—because they’ve watched a YouTube video—are often the ones calling on day one when something goes wrong. These issues could be avoided if they gave themselves a little more time for discussion at the dock.”

Before you board, ask for a list of the boat’s equipment. Familiarize yourself with anything unfamiliar. Charter ­companies might be able to provide videos or manuals. If not, a little digging online—­especially on YouTube—can go a long way. Make a checklist of key systems that you want to understand: How do you monitor tank levels? Where are the breaker panels? How does the autopilot engage? And, yes, how do you flush the toilet?

Even details such as PFD comfort, dinghy operation and stove ignition can feel like small wins if you take the time to get familiar up front. The orientation provided by the charter base is valuable, but it’s not always enough, especially if you arrive rushed or distracted. A little homework before you go can make your entire week more enjoyable. 

Research and ­Prepare

Sailing in a new place can be thrilling—but also deceptive. It’s easy to assume that your sailing skills will transfer ­seamlessly. In reality, every destination has its quirks, risks and local ­knowledge. Maybe it’s the swift tidal currents and narrow passes of the San Juans, or the sharp katabatic winds that come screaming down Greek hillsides in the Med. Even the most seasoned sailors can be caught off guard when they underestimate the local conditions.

Nothing beats advanced planning and asking questions of your charter company ahead of time so that you can discuss your plan with a local expert upon arrival.

“Most accidents occur on charter boats because clients have overestimated their ability to read the conditions in a new area,” Sarich says.

She appreciates when guests take time before their trip—and during that first day of orientation with The Voyage Makers—to plan and prepare, making their vacation more relaxing. It can also save money, especially when security ­deposits are at stake.

Lara Ortiz runs Ocean Adventure Cat charters with her husband, Jason Decker, and has seen both sides of the coin when it comes to research.

“We met some nonmariners on a dive trip in Borneo who were super-interested in sharing a bareboat with us one day,” she says. “They joined us in St. Lucia, loved it, and went home to Germany to earn their sailing certifications. A year and a half later, they invited us on a sailing trip in Croatia, with Jason as the backup skipper.”

On that trip, their friend—the first-time charter skipper with an engineer’s mindset—brought along a 3-inch binder with divider tabs. It included detailed information on the cruising grounds, potential itineraries, summaries of each destination and port, anchorage and marina chart screenshots, explanations of local weather patterns, guidance on areas to avoid and how to identify risk factors, and diagrams of line and rudder configurations for different docking conditions.

Ortiz and Decker were the only experienced sailors aboard, but each day, their friend—the new skipper—would review ­relevant maneuvers with the crew and assign clear roles.

“He maintained great communication during sailing, docking and anchoring,” Ortiz says. “Preparation paid off, and the trip was a rousing success.”

Be Realistic

One of the most common causes of charter disappointment is an overstuffed itinerary. It’s tempting, especially on your first trip, to try to check off every beach, bar and snorkeling spot that you flagged in the guidebook. But cramming too many destinations into too few days almost always backfires. You spend your week rushing between anchorages, eyes on the clock, powering through squalls or skipping swims—all just to stay on schedule. 

The problem is mindset: We come from lives governed by fixed calendars and concrete deadlines, where a change in the weather just means packing an umbrella. But sailing doesn’t work like that. Weather shifts, boats need attention, and sometimes the best-laid plans give way to the perfect cove you didn’t expect to fall in love with.

Give yourself time, especially on day one. Settle in, get to know the boat, and slow your roll. Marla Hedman, a captain with The Voyage Makers, recalls a charter crew who arrived late, eager to cast off and make their first anchorage before sunset. In their haste, groceries were hurried aboard, the boat briefing was rushed, and they motored out without properly checking systems. 

Later, when they went to raise the main, the electric winch jammed—and they kept pressing the button. Pop. Pop. Pop. The halyard, still routed through the lifelines, ripped stanchions from the deck one by one. Their charter ended ­before it really began.

The lesson? Prioritize ease over ambition. Aim for fewer destinations, with more time at each. Let the weather and your mood guide your course. Savor the unplanned layover, the lingering lunch or the unexpected sunset in a bay you didn’t even mean to stop in. 

When you make room for spontaneity, that’s when magic tends to happen.

Bring Perspective

Your mindset is one of the most important pieces of charter prep—more than any checklist or chart-plotter app. 

Charter boats get used hard. Systems wear, cushions fade, things break. The air conditioning might groan in protest, the dinghy might have a sticky outboard, and the watermaker might be out of commission entirely. None of these situations is ideal, but none of them need to ruin your trip.

One of our coaching clients, fresh back from a weeklong charter in the BVI, told us: “It wasn’t exactly as advertised. Our boat was supposed to have a watermaker, but it wasn’t working. Yet for one week in the BVI, it was easy enough for us to manage on board.” 

His takeaway? A little flexibility and problem-solving made the trip feel more like an adventure and less like a resort stay. That’s actually pretty close to real cruising, where “something always needs fixing” is less a complaint than a mantra. If you treat minor hiccups as part of the story, then you’re already thinking like a cruiser.

There’s also another way to bring perspective: If you’re chartering and curious about the liveaboard lifestyle, look around the anchorage. Cruisers are easy to spot. They typically have laundry flapping from the lifelines, an array of solar panels, jerries lashed to the rail, and someone in the ­cockpit elbow-deep in an electrical panel or a winch servicing. Go say hi. Most of us remember exactly what it was like to be cruiser-curious, and we’re ­often more than happy to swap stories or offer a quick tour.

Just maybe don’t drop your anchor right on top of theirs.

Pregame Like a Cruiser 

If you’re treating your charter as a trial run for future cruising life, don’t wait until you’re aboard to start thinking like a full-time ­sailor. Use the planning phase to build real-world skills and gain confidence with the tools that cruisers rely on daily. Try this ­four-step checklist before you even book your flight.

Practice With Charting Software: Install a navigation app such as Navionics or Aqua Map on a tablet. Practice route planning manually to get familiar with chart overlays, depth contours, and hazard markers. No auto-routing.

Track Weather: Download a robust marine forecasting app such as PredictWind. Ask your charter base which forecast models they trust most for the local area, then begin following them days or weeks in advance. You’ll get a sense of how patterns evolve in your  destination.

Scout Anchorages With Cruiser Intel: Platforms such as Noforeignland let you explore anchorage reviews and track real cruisers’ movements. Study the footprints of others to get a sense of practical, comfortable routes, as well as ones to avoid.

Understand Local Phenomena: GRIB files don’t tell the full story. Learn about region-specific weather quirks such as katabatic winds in the Med, chubascos in the Sea of Cortez, and squalls that funnel between islands. Knowing what’s likely to catch you off guard helps you stay ahead of the curve.

The post How to Bareboat Charter Like a Cruiser appeared first on Cruising World.

A squadron of pelicans skims the sun-sparkled water. A bevy of black swans waddles across the ­exposed mudflats just to windward of us—no sight nor sound of city life, no other boats, nothing but us and the birds.

We’d sailed from New Zealand to meet my cruising companion David Haigh’s first grandchild near Melbourne, Australia, and to partake in family holiday madness. Westernport Marina, just a dozen miles from his daughter’s home, proved the only useful option for our time here. Being ­secured in the marina let us head off to lunches and evening entertainments without hesitation. But after three weeks of being tied cheek by jowl with 200 ­other boats and partaking of an overflowing ­social life, we needed a break, and this felt like utter bliss.

It would have been difficult finding this isolated anchorage without the aid of a chart plotter. Called Chicory Cut, it is just that—an unmarked cut in a vast area of mudflats. The nearest visible land is almost a mile away. Earlier in the day, when David got on his paddleboard at high tide, he found solid ground unreachable unless he was willing to wade for half a mile through knee-deep gooey mud. 

We’d chosen Chicory Cut because it’s one of the few places in the huge expanse of Western Port Bay that offers protection from southwesterly winds. We knew we could stay only two days. After that, northerly gales would make this anchorage untenable.

“Sure looking forward to sailing north to Queensland and the Barrier Reef in a few months,” I commented when David set out snacks for sundowners. “Great cruising up there.” He nodded in agreement, and then added, “Can’t see much to recommend this area.” As we watched the sunset, memories of our favorite cruising destinations filled our conversation. David spoke of his time exploring southern Turkey. I started with my love of Baja California, then moved on to the fun of western Ireland. 

Two days later, just ahead of the forecast gales, we returned to the marina. That evening, we met up with the Metheralls, who had a home nearby. I had become friends with these fun Aussies when my husband, Larry, and I anchored near their Salar 40 in French Polynesia 28 years ago. Our friendship had grown as we meandered farther along the “South Pacific Milk Run.” Their children, ages 8, 9 and 12 at that time, now had teenagers of their own. “Glad you found Chicory Cut. It’s our favorite anchorage,” Jan Metherall said. “Our kids loved getting covered from head to toe in mud, fishing, swimming, exploring all the cuts.” 

She described family excursions, first on a trailer-sailor, then on the small keelboat they sailed from one end of the notoriously windy Bass Strait to the other. The fun that the whole family shared led them to fit out the offshore cruiser that eventually took them right around the world. “Never found a more perfect cruising ground than right here,” Jan said. 

The Metheralls’ enthusiasm made me take another look at the photos I’d snapped during the four weeks it took us to navigate from southern Tasmania through the islands of the Bass Strait to Melbourne. We’d been frustrated by the ever-changing weather and the strong tides and currents. Only when we were stymied by foul winds did we relax for a few days at a time.

First there was Flinders Island: windswept, vastly underpopulated, not terribly inviting at first glance. My photos show another view of this story. Trapped by westerly gales at Lady Barron Island, we spent the first evening at the local pub. Its hilltop position provided a fine view of the myriad islands and channels around us. We were provided with long, hot showers. One of the locals offered us a pint, plus an invitation to join in for quiz night—if we were brave enough. Hanging on the bulletin board were two hand-drawn maps showing potential walks to a dozen ­viewpoints around Lady Barron and other good anchorages throughout this small ­archipelago. We might have found a dozen places to explore had we not been so goal-oriented.

Then there was our weather-enforced stop on the River Derwent. We’d ­motored 20 miles up the river to Launceston and secured the boat in the center of this humming little city. High above us, the clouds scurried before storm-force ­westerlies. But the bluffs along the river sheltered us as we walked through the Gorge, a ­dramatic jumble of rocks and river, and found a Victorian garden wonderland. We ­rented a car and explored the mountains of ­northern Tasmania. There, we encountered a snowstorm in midsummer, warmhearted rural people and spectacular English-style gardens. 

When the gales subsided, we day-hopped along the top of Tasmania, timing our departure to coincide with the west-going tide, arriving at a new anchorage each night, and never launching the dinghy—just eating, climbing into the bunk, and then getting underway each morning. Fortunately, when the next major blow was forecast, we were within easy reach of Port Stanley.

We motored slowly through the 50-foot-wide entrance to the tiny, stone-rimmed basin, then along the 600-foot length of the harbor toward the quiet fish factory at its head. There wasn’t a yacht in sight, only rugged fishing boats. Just when we began preparing mooring lines to go into one of the empty wood-lined pens, a call rang out from a bright-red trawler: “Go alongside that white workboat on the wharf. It’s not moving for the next week. You won’t have to put out fender boards that way. Harbor master? Gone fishing. No charges here. This is our harbor.”

A five-minute walk brought us to a ­tiny, picturesque downtown, where we were welcomed by friendly people who truly did want to know where we came from. Just feet from the boat, there was a track leading up a steep bluff and into the native forest restored by the local community. Wallabies hopped and birdsong filled the air. 

We sailed into Grassy Bay on King Island just an hour ahead of another westerly blow. Minutes later, a fisherman offered us the use of a car to get to a launderette. “And while you are at it, better take in a few of the sights,” we were told as he handed us the keys. 

Only about 1,400 people live here, ­farming and fishing. Tourism is almost nonexistent because transport from the mainland is limited. Yet there is an art gallery set on the rocky shore of Currie Harbour, a crayfish center. Colorful paintings adorned the outside of the old house. Windows revealed a cornucopia of colors inside. The door, closed but not locked, had a sign: Bring Your Own Lunch Cafe. There was no proprietor, just a handsome dining table set amid art and handcraft work from around the island. Another sign asked that washing up be done at the outside sink and the table reset as found. “Please put money for purchases in the box and write down what you took in the guest book.”

In hindsight, I can see why Jan and her family call this area a perfect cruising ground. How different our memories might have been had we approached this area like they did—not as an obstacle in our rush to get somewhere else, but as our destination. 

Reviewing my photos from the Bass Strait has reminded me once again that perfect cruising grounds are a state of mind, one that can be achieved only when you set aside the desire to keep moving on and learn to enjoy just being. 

After cruising more than 240,000 miles, US Sailing Hall of Fame inductee Lin Pardey is headed to sea again. Her latest book, Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond, ­encourages folks to go simple, go small, and go now.

The post Tangling with Reality in Australia’s Bass Strait appeared first on Cruising World.

The last time my husband and I met friends to sail out of La Paz, Mexico, all hell broke loose. A decade ago, Rob and I arrived in Baja with one giant backpack each, ready to hitchhike across the Pacific for a year. We began by spending two weeks with our good friends Mark and Katie, who were at the end of a yearlong cruise in the Sea of Cortez aboard a 28-foot Pearson Triton. On a star-filled March night, after copious fish tacos and rounds of margaritas, we lit a Chinese lantern and sent it to the heavens to commemorate the beginning and end of our journeys. We each made a wish as we watched the lantern lift high and ride the offshore breeze out to sea.

The lantern backfired. That night, Katie and Mark were puking with food poisoning. The day pack containing my brand-new laptop and iPhone and Rob’s new camera equipment was stolen as we slept on the beach. Katie and Mark’s car was stolen too, along with most of their worldly goods packed inside for their return trip to the United States.

Bleary and shocked, we stumbled across the remains of the lantern. Somehow, it had circled back and landed in a heap right where we’d launched it. We dubbed this dramatic spate of bad luck the Curse of the Chinese Lantern.

I thought the curse had been broken a few days later when we spotted a red lantern floating by while sailing. Red is a symbol of good luck in China, after all. The following day, Mexican police found Katie and Mark’s car, along with Rob’s fishing rod and my beach towel and flip-flops (the important things). We enjoyed a lovely few days cruising around the turquoise coves of Espiritu Santo before parting ways with our friends.

Now, a decade later—as our flight was ­delayed for a sixth time en route to our chartered catamaran in La Paz—I glanced at our children running sprints in an empty corner, then whispered to Rob, “Do you think it’s the Curse of the Chinese Lantern?” 

“Shhh!” He shook his head, eyes wide. “Don’t say it aloud.”

We’d chartered a 47-foot Fountaine Pajot with Dream Yacht Worldwide and invited friends who lived near us in Missoula, Montana, to join our crew. We’d planned a jam-packed week of hiking, snorkeling, and sailing lessons for the five kids and five adults. Because Rob and I were the ­co-captains, none of this could happen unless we got there. I crossed all my fingers and toes, and pictured cheerful, festive, benign red lanterns. 

Finally, at 9 p.m., we arrived at Marina CostaBaja, north of La Paz. The boat was fully stocked with food, and the rest of the crew had already unpacked. Kim, the other mom, greeted me with a hug: “You’ll be happy to know we bought a dozen Chinese lanterns,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Should we light one now?” 

The kids traipsed around the boat to ­inspect their quarters. A small berth tucked beside the cockpit was perfect for a couple of tween boys, while bunks beckoned the first-grade girls. Rob and I shared a nervous glance when we learned that the boat had six heads (otherwise known as six headaches). I laid down the most important law of sailing: “Anyone who flushes toilet paper will walk the plank.”

The next morning dawned sunny and bright—and very, very windy. Baja is known for its el nortes—strong north winds that funnel fast and furious down the length of the peninsula. I’d hoped we could leave the marina by late morning before the predicted 30-knot gusts hit. 

We grabbed a cappuccino at the cute marina coffee shop and hightailed it to the Dream Yacht office. Our chart briefing made it clear that La Paz was different from most other charter destinations: Bareboat captains need to be prepared to sail in the wilderness rather than bop between beachside bars. Once we left the base, there would be no cell service, no grocery stores and no marinas.

For Rob and me, this was a huge selling point of cruising in Baja. As the Dream Yacht sales pitch promised, this is the aquarium of the world. Nothing else compares to this unique landscape.

For the other adults, sailing off ­into a desert wilderness was a little more nerve-wracking. They ran to the marina store to grab extra snacks as the Dream Yacht staff prepared us well for the remote anchorages north of La Paz. They pointed out extra water stowed in the forward locker in case our tanks ran dry. They went over best practices for anchoring, and made sure we had handy color-coded information about the length of each mark on the 200-foot anchor chain. We also reviewed basic diesel maintenance, such as checking the strainers and oil levels.

Our plan was to keep longer sailing stints to a minimum. We figured we would make short hops between protected anchorages on the west side of Isla Espiritu Santo, a UNESCO World Natural Heritage Site and a national park 15 miles north of the marina. But then I stopped to chat with a captain on the docks. He recommended that we head farther north to islands along the Canal de San Jose, where he’d recently spotted five blue whales and hundreds of dolphins.

I pulled up my Windy and Navionics apps to calculate possibilities. We could tuck into the southernmost cove on Espiritu Santo that afternoon to wait out el norte, then take advantage of the next day’s calm to motor 25 miles to Isla San Francisco. It looked like we could ride the coattails of the next el norte back south at the end of the week. The new itinerary involved a lot more movement, but the crew gave an excited thumbs-up.

Before casting off dock lines, we gathered for a safety chat. I passed out Dramamine and instructed everyone to stay outside, in life jackets, to keep nausea to a minimum during our crossing to Espiritu Santo. With 25 knots of wind on the nose, we’d be ­slamming directly into the swells.

No one puked on the bouncy ride north, though everyone was relieved to reach the flat water inside Ensenada de la Dispensa’s cove. We shuttled crew to shore and taught the kids the “stingray shuffle”—dragging your feet through the shallows to scare away buried stingrays. The girls asked for ­piggyback rides after Kim shuffled into a crab that left a claw mark in her bare foot. We made a note to wear shoes on our next shore run. 

Once everyone was happily building sandcastles and combing for seashells, Rob and I donned wetsuits and braved the 66-degree water to snorkel. We anchored the dinghy beneath sheer pink cliffs and dived overboard. Enormous grouper darted into hollows, and schools of goatfish and sergeant majors carpeted the healthy coral.

By sunset, ours was the only boat left in the bay. We feasted on pasta and sipped tequila cocktails while the kids performed death-defying rope swings on the halyard. A Mobula ray jumped on the horizon, flipping twice as if to applaud the sherbet clouds streaking the sky. We cheered its performance. 

Everyone enjoyed smooth seas and ­desert sightseeing on the way north the next morning. Isla San Francisco’s rocky shores came into sight. So did a pod of dolphins. Our son and daughter sprinted forward to watch the bottlenose ride the bow wave, and drummed on the hull with their hands. Rob slowed the boat as I donned fins and a mask, and prepared to jump off the stern. 

“What’s going on?” Kim asked. 

“We’re kind of obsessed with dolphins,” I said. 

When Rob gave me the high sign, I dived overboard. Usually, my attempts to swim with dolphins are fruitless, but this time I was rewarded with glimpses of a few pairs swimming 20 feet below, as well as one ­curious bottlenose on the surface that came to check me out.

Just a few minutes after I climbed back aboard, we were ready to drop anchor. Ours was once again the only boat in a beautiful bay. After a lunch of ceviche, the kids collected agates on the beach while the grownups took turns hiking a loop over the rocky mountains to a lovely crescent beach on the opposite side of the island. 

The next morning, we circumnavigated Isla San Francisco to go whale-watching, stopping first at Isla Los Coyotes. This ­tiny rock, dotted with colorful homes, has a village of 15 people, the families of three brothers. We arrived just in time to buy a 20-pound yellowtail amberjack for $25 before the men took a boatload of fish to sell in La Paz. The kids bought necklaces and bracelets made in the village. Friendly ­locals pointed us toward a half-moon of ­guano-stained rocks nearby, ­recommending we snorkel there. We swam with ­parrotfish and triggerfish, and even coaxed the ­6-year-old girls into their masks to see the underwater wonders.

Just as we picked up the anchor, the wind started to build. Within minutes, it was gusting over 30 knots. Whitecaps formed in the bay, lowering the odds of us spotting whales from slim to none. Instead, we sailed to the protected side of Isla San Francisco and anchored beside a gorgeous crescent of white sand with a half-dozen other sailboats. We let out plenty of scope and backed down hard to set the anchor. Then we jumped into the water to swim through thousands of baitfish. Later that evening, the kids turned on the boat’s underwater blue lights and spent an hour casting into the cloud of fish swirling beneath our stern.

The next day dawned clear as a bell but even windier than the day before. We made good use of our layover day by exploring Isla San Francisco’s canyons and peaks. The boys scrambled over truck-size boulders and tucked into deep caves, then played stickball in the island’s low-lying salt flat. The girls enjoyed a dance party, pedicures and watercolors on the boat. We grilled more yellowtail for dinner because there’s no such thing as too many fish tacos.

The wind dropped into the low 20s by the following morning—perfect for a sporty downwind sail south to Isla Partida just north of Espiritu Santo. We practiced a few (very) controlled jibes and taught the crew how to hold a course while 5-foot swells pushed against the rudders. Our Fountaine Pajot cruised at a speedy 10 knots and ­handled like a dream. 

In the otherworldly green waters of Ensenada Cardonal, orange cliffs and a spit of mangroves surrounded us. We hiked to the windward side of Partida, where a few people snorkeled and others read or napped in the sun. The winds petered out by sunset, letting us stargaze from hammocks on the bow. In the morning, we took turns paddleboarding over the calm shallows. The kids spotted a fever of 50 Mobula rays gliding like birds through the gin-clear water, along with porcupinefish, jacks and two turtles.  

For our last night, we stayed at Ensenada Dispensa again. Everyone agreed that the solitude and scenery were worth the pain of a dawn departure back to the Dream Yacht base. The grownups finished the last bottle of wine while watching the kids’ wild rope swings. We snapped photos of their ­flying silhouettes against another ­spectacular sunset.

After dinner, I hosted an impromptu awards ceremony. Each member of the crew was given a luminous oyster shell to commemorate their sailing superpower: best provisioner, most improved snorkeler, best anchor mate, most valuable dishwasher.

Just before we entered the marina the following morning, Rob yelled, “Whale!” Everyone scampered up on deck, gasping in delight at a baby humpback’s spout a hundred yards off our bow. 

I put my arm around my husband. “Well, I’d say that curse is ancient history.”

“Agreed,” he said. “I’m back in love with Baja. But I’m still never touching a Chinese lantern again.”

Montana-based travel writer Brianna Randall is a frequent CW contributor. Follow her sailing adventures at briannarandall.com.

The post Sailing Baja: Second Chances in the Sea of Cortez appeared first on Cruising World.