Mark Synnott, a professional climber and mountain guide who’s been a member of The North Face athletic team for more than two decades, knows a thing or two about extreme adventures. His bestselling book The Impossible Climb is both a memoir and a page-turning account of his pal Alex Honnold’s first free solo of El Capitan. His riveting second book, The Third Pole, is the story of his harrowing 2019 expedition to Mount Everest to search for the remains of legendary mountaineer Sandy Irvine. Heck, his Stevens 47, Polar Sun, is named for a sheer rock tower on Baffin Island in Canada that took him 39 frigid, ridiculous days to ascend in 1996.

However, when I phoned Synnott this past April, he was anchored off Manzanillo, Mexico, with his wife and 9-year-old son, preparing to set sail for the Marquesas and points beyond. He sounded just slightly apprehensive: “Hampton and Tommy don’t usually go with me on expeditions. I’m usually with my buddies, and everyone’s signed up and wants to be there. This is different. Setting off on this passage and looking at three weeks offshore with my family is the most daunting thing I’ve ever faced.” It’s a literal sea change for the longtime adventurer, from dizzying heights to sea level. 

I met Synnott three years ago through our mutual friend John Kretschmer, when Synnott was preparing to attempt a Northwest Passage transit and we all set off on a bit of a training voyage. The Northwest Passage seemed like a pretty ambitious goal. Synnott not only knocked it off, but he also just released a terrific book about it. 

Into the Ice: The Northwest Passage, the Polar Sun, and a 175-Year-Old Mystery is a fantastic first-person tale of high-­latitude seafaring with a twist: Synnott’s side mission to uncover the ever-elusive truth of what exactly transpired during Sir John Franklin’s legendary, tragic Arctic expedition in 1845. No spoilers here, other than to say it’s quite possible, and also ironic, that the accomplished alpinist has written the best sailing book of 2025.

Synnott’s own journey as a sailor began back in 2005 on a climbing expedition to, of all places, Pitcairn Island in the southern Pacific Ocean. The climbing turned out to be subpar, but offshore on the 66-foot sailboat he’d chartered to get there, he had a revelation. 

“Ahead,” he writes in Into the Ice, “a full moon lit a corridor across the sea and the waves scintillated in a light so heavenly, it felt as if Neptune himself were drawing me down the path to enlightenment. At that moment, it washed over me that I had only ever felt such tranquility before when I was deep in the mountains.”

Returning home to New Hampshire, he bought his first boat, an Irwin 27, for a buck. Later, he upgraded to a 32-foot ketch. Itching to sail ever farther, he eventually purchased his “forever boat”: Polar Sun. Which is when he asked himself, If I could go anywhere in the world in this boat, where would it be? The answer soon became clear. Back to the Arctic. Through the Northwest Passage. What an odyssey it turned out to be. 

During our conversation, I asked Synnott what, if any, parallels there were between climbing and sailing. “Seafaring is so similar,” he said. “It’s like the flip side of the same coin. There’s just no limit to how deep you can go with it. You never run out of stuff to do; you’re always learning, always an apprentice. It’s all-consuming. The planning and preparation are exactly the same as mounting a climbing expedition. How well it goes has a huge amount to do with your logistics and how thorough, careful, and meticulous you were with your planning. The more I got into it and kept going, it was like, ‘Oh yeah, this is everything I dreamed it could be and more.’ The way it’s resonating is telling me that, deep down, maybe I was meant to be a mariner.”

Now, despite just a tinge of trepidation, Synnott is swapping the unforgiving ice for the swaying palms of French Polynesia. I’d be utterly shocked if it doesn’t all go swimmingly. The dude’s got a pretty great track record. 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large. 

The post From Everest to the Open Ocean: Mark Synnott’s Sailing Adventure Begins appeared first on Cruising World.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take the Next Step

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

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

There’s a certain beauty in the rhythm of cruising. The sun rises, the coffee percolates (usually with a slight list), and someone somewhere is wrestling a mainsail down while shouting a few choice expletives into the wind. The seas might not always be calm, but the rituals are familiar. Reliable. Comforting, even.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about change—not the dramatic kind that grabs headlines, but the subtler shifts. The way the anchorage looks a little more crowded than it used to. The way newbies at boat shows talk about Starlink like it’s a basic provisioning item, right up there with peanut butter and Poo-Pourri.

And yes, I’ll admit it: The growing number of multihulls here in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, has me rubbing my eyes at times, wondering when exactly we hit critical mass. The other evening, I was walking down a dock at Bahia Mar after sundowners on a buddy of mine’s boat and realized that every single boat on the row—port and starboard—had two hulls. Perhaps it was that “level 3” painkiller, but for a second, I thought I’d been whisked away to some charter base on Tortola.

Truth is, we’re deep into the era of the catamaran. For the first time, our Boat of the Year field this year had an even split between monohulls and multihulls. So in our annual Multihull issue, we wanted to dive straight into this cat fancy with two features that bring a little subjectivity to the matter. Tom Linskey, a seasoned cruising sailor with thousands of multihull sea miles behind him, lays out the real-world trade-offs of cruising on two hulls versus one. And reformed monohuller Pat Schulte and his family return to the world of multihulls—and discover a fresh take on comfort, purpose, and finding the right boat for life’s next chapter.

I won’t spoil either piece for you, except to say this: The multihull discussion isn’t ­really about hulls. It’s about evolution. People’s needs change. Families grow. Knees creak. The dog wants his own stateroom. Sailing adjusts to meet us where we are, and that’s a good thing.

Speaking of evolution, this issue marks a major moment here at Cruising World. After nearly three decades of reliably making us laugh, think, and occasionally spit coffee across the salon table, Cap’n Fatty Goodlander is handing off the helm of our beloved On Watch column.

For 27 years, Fatty’s been our resident rascal and philosopher. His stories came with equal parts wisdom and whimsy, often wrapped in a layer of self-deprecation that made us wonder how on earth he survived some of those adventures. (Answer: Because he’s brilliant, resourceful, and just a little bit nuts—in the best way.)

His departure leaves big sea boots to fill. Fortunately, we found a legend in every sense of the word who was ready to step in.

Lin Pardey, alongside her late husband, Larry, sailed more than 200,000 offshore miles—most of them engine-free, in boats they built by hand. Lin is a born storyteller, a skilled mariner, and a living reminder that simplicity and adventure go hand in hand. We’re thrilled to welcome her as the new voice of On Watch. Her debut column is everything you’d expect: warm, wise and quietly bold.

Personally, this transition hit me a little harder than I expected. Fatty was the first columnist I ever read in Cruising World—the one who made me realize that boat writing didn’t have to be dry or technical, that it could be joyful and human and a little irreverent. Or maybe it’s just because I hate goodbyes. Either way, I found myself this week flipping through back issues, rereading favorite On Watch columns like they were dog-eared letters from an old friend.

Sailing has always been about adapting to the ­conditions. Whether you’re changing course, changing boats or changing who’s at the helm of a column, the important part is keeping an eye on the horizon and a hand on the tiller.

As for Cruising World, our heading remains the same: to bring you stories that reflect the real lives of sailors today. Whether you’re a monohull traditionalist, a fresh catamaran convert or a dreamer still at the dock, we’re with you, ­always on watch.

The post The Changing Watch: Multihulls, Modern Cruisers, and a New Voice On Deck appeared first on Cruising World.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take the Next Step

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

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

Those old Dos Equis beer commercials featuring the fictional “most interesting man in the world” were catchy and hilarious. The suave, bearded protagonist reflected a serene wisdom born from quiet intelligence and outsize deeds.

In 2017, our Boat of the Year team had our first exposure to Xquisite Yachts, and the seasoned voyager and visionary who’d launched the brand with the X5, which was named that year’s Most Innovative Sailboat. Back then, I was joshing a bit when I referenced those beer ads, talking about Xquisite’s brash founder. But after 2022, when the reworked 53-foot X5 Plus was named Best Cruising Catamaran Over 50 Feet, and again after inspecting the Xquisite Sixty Solar Sail for our 2025 Boat of the Year contest, I’m not kidding anymore. Tamas Hamor might just be the most interesting man in the marine industry. 

“I like to solve problems,” he told us, which seemed to sum him up well.

Because of logistical challenges ahead of this year’s ­contest, the Sixty was late arriving to the Annapolis Sailboat Show in Maryland. The boat was still being prepped when we inspected and sailed it, so we didn’t get to put all its tech to a thorough test, something judge Tim Murphy alluded to in his notes: “The Sixty Solar Sail comes from an impressive company that we BOTY judges have watched grow from almost nothing in the past eight years. We’ve been particularly impressed by the service regime that creator Tamas Hamor has established among Xquisite owners; it’s adapted for true worldwide travel and maintenance. In the Sixty, Hamor his taken his explosive creativity to new levels in detail after detail. In this Hull No. 1, we found that his ideas sometimes seemed one step ahead of the available technology. But keep an eye on this boat and this builder—new and impressive things are happening here that we’re sure will trickle through the fleets of boats from other builders.”

All that said, stepping aboard the Bill Dixon-designed Sixty Solar with wide eyes was like entering some sort of otherworldly, waterborne version of The Matrix. In Annapolis this past October, there was simply nothing else remotely like it. 

It starts with the aesthetics. When we had our first gander at that original X5, I got a chuckle when a judging panelist said that the boat’s profile reminded him of a Nike basketball sneaker—all white and rounded, with massive freeboard, and black windows and accents that looked like a shoe’s markings. (He wasn’t wrong.) Perhaps it’s the extra waterline length, but the Sixty has shed any semblance of awkwardness. It has the sleek, streamlined, contemporary appearance of a nautical Starship Enterprise. 

The reverse bows and integral sprit give the forward entry a powerful, purposeful mien. A long, slashing window in the topside pairs nicely with an ­arrow-shaped window in the low-slung, streamlined coachroof, which is further accented by the black, hydraulic, carbon-­fiber “Park Avenue” boom and spar above it. The generous raised steering station, to starboard, has its own windshield and is adjacent to a sweet upper-­deck lounge, both accessed via a spiral staircase from the cockpit (it opens into the main salon, creating a seamless indoor/­outdoor floor plan with the doors opened).

The roomy cockpit is covered and protected by a hard Bimini top. Just abaft that, a sloping, beam-width arch from port to starboard hovers over the entire shooting match, and serves as the station for one of the boat’s four separate banks of solar arrays (there are almost 40 individual panels altogether). Aft, an optional hydraulic boarding platform doubles as a sort of back porch, and is flanked in the hulls by two sets of stairs leading from the waterline to the cockpit. Stainless-steel handrails running the length of the boat are a nice visual touch and offer extra security. To say there’s a lot going on is an understatement. 

The 7 kW package of solar panels, 60kWh lithium battery bank and 48-volt electrical system are designed to cover all house loads at anchor, including air conditioning, which negates the need for an onboard diesel generator. For ­propulsion, the Sixty has an optional hybrid setup with a pair of 110 hp Yanmar diesel engines with sail drives, and a set of 15 kW electric motors/generators that can run in regeneration mode under sail or propel the boat under power for extended stints before the ­diesels kick in to drive the boat and the high-output alternators.

The vacuum-infused foam-core laminate incorporates ­vinylester resin throughout and is laid up by hand above the waterline. Tankage is stashed under raised soles in the hulls, which have the added benefit of widening the volume in the staterooms. The grand owner’s hull, to port, has a king-size berth; a lounging area with a couch and desk; loads of stowage; and an en suite head and shower forward. A pair of guest staterooms with athwartships berths and attached heads are to starboard.

The main salon has a dining table that converts to a coffee table or a berth. There’s a 50-inch smart TV, and a galley with a full-size fridge, a convection stovetop and an oven. There’s also a cooking station in the cockpit, as well as a locker for stowing paddleboards. Under the cockpit stairs is a compartment for scuba tanks and a compressor. 

Throughout the boat, ­electric hatches can open for ­natural ventilation. And with the Sixty’s digital-switching system, owners can monitor batteries, charging rates and tankage levels from a laptop computer. They can even transfer fuel, and can access digital manuals that cover all gear, maintenance and systems.

For all its complexity, though, the Sixty is still a sailboat, and Hamor is mindful of building one that can be operated by a couple; after all, that’s how he and his wife got started. On a boat as powerful as the Sixty, this thinking means an electric traveler and furlers for the square-topped North Sails main, genoa, self-tacking jib (which doubles as a storm sail) and code 65 headsail; a hydraulic vang; and several cameras that provide visuals of all maneuvers from the helm station.

We sailed the boat on a moderate Chesapeake Bay afternoon in breeze hovering around 8 to 12 knots with a small army of workers and technicians who were sorting out the boat (the Sixty might be set up ideally for a couple, but it will accommodate a crowd). We started off with the big code sail on a beam reach and effortlessly glided along at just over 10 knots. Switching down to the genoa, we sheeted in everything and still clocked a respectable 7-plus knots. On the Sixty, it was clear that making rapid miles will never be an issue. 

Like the chap in that suds ad who didn’t always drink beer, the owners of Xquisite Yachts might not always be cruising to far-flung destinations across long stretches of blue water. But when they do, they will set sail in one of the most innovative, interesting catamarans ­traversing any ocean.

CW Editor-at-Large Herb McCormick was a 2025 Boat of the Year judge.

Take the Next Step

PRICE: $3.6 million (as tested)
Website:  xquisiteyachts.com 

From Adversity to Innovation: How a Lost Rig Sparked a Global Boatbuilding Brand

Appropriately enough, Tamas Hamor’s personal journey of running a boatbuilding enterprise began aboard a cruising boat. Hamor and his wife, Sara, were crossing the Pacific aboard their Leopard cat when they were dismasted off French Polynesia. They stepped a new spar and continued on to Australia, where they put the boat up for sale. With their cruising dreams unfulfilled, however, they purchased a new boat from a South African builder, Dean Catamarans, that unfortunately went out of business before its completion. The resilient Hamors got the boat finished, and the team that helped them became the manufacturing and financial foundation for Xquisite. Today, Xquisite’s boats continue to be built in South Africa, which has become one the world’s major exporters of cruising catamarans.

South Africa remains the firm’s manufacturing center (coupled with a brokerage business in Fort Lauderdale, Florida), but for all intents and purposes, Xquisite is now based in the Bahamian city of Freeport, where it runs a full-service marina and resort that charters, commissions, and refits new and used cats with a staff of instructors and technicians. New and prospective owners can test-sail or charter an Xquisite, and there’s a sailing school to bring sailors up to speed on the intricacies of catamaran sailing. To that end, Xquisite commissioned and built a cool 30-foot beach cat—the trailerable, beachable Xquisite 30 Sportcat—for training and instruction.

The post Xquisite Sixty Solar Sail: X Marks the Future appeared first on Cruising World.

Come to our canoe house, and we’ll have kapetalwa.

We’re being invited, but in Micronesia, kapetalwa can also be an expectation. It describes the ritual practiced by traditional voyagers upon landfall: to bring news of their voyages and gifts for goodwill to the island chief. 

Gifts in hand, my husband, Jamie, and I wiggle our toes in the sand in the shade of a palm-thatched, open-air canoe house. We reflect on the journey that brought us here.

Micronesia was distantly on our radar as the kind of region we’d like to explore. What little we knew seemed appealing: ­tropical islands, turquoise water, vibrant marine life, interesting culture and minimal tourism. Like most sailors traversing the Pacific, our first crossing was a route from the Americas to French Polynesia, and then west through the islands. Landfalls are entirely in the Southern Hemisphere. Micronesia, north of the equator, is a detour. But that detour had the rewards we’d dreamed about, even if getting there would involve intricate routing, weather complexity and resource scarcity.

Our path to Micronesia started in Mexico, where Jamie and I lingered for several years after completing a circumnavigation. A trifecta of the pandemic, eldercare and the launching of our boat-raised kids postponed offshore voyaging for a while. Sailing away from Baja in 2024 was the beginning of a new chapter. Our Stevens 47, Totem, felt nearly new after our refit. The makeup of our crew was new—just a couple of empty-nest cruisers instead of a family of five. Might as well carve a new path too. 

And Micronesia offered an additional appeal: We’d never been there before. As a family aboard, we had prioritized the company of other boats with kids. This time, we’re keen for more ­off-the-track cruising grounds.

One reason fewer cruisers reach the region could be that it’s hard to place geographically. Until Jamie and I developed concrete plans to sail there, Micronesia was a fuzzy shape on our mental map. It looks like a limp kidney bean in the western North Pacific, yet it includes the Commonwealth of the Northern Marianas, the Federated States of Micronesia, Guam, Kiribati, Nauru, Palau and the Republic of the Marshall Islands. This region has an east-west span of nearly 2,500 nautical miles, with millions of square miles of ocean to cruise.

There are two main reasons that cruisers route through Micronesia: to escape cyclone season in the South Pacific and to find a route back to North America via Japan. The region is dominated by easterly trade winds, favorable for sailing a mostly north-south route from Fiji to the Marshall Islands and back, or north and then west toward Japan.

For cyclone-season escapees, that means arriving in Micronesia near the end of the calendar year. For boats heading to North America, a good time to arrive in Japan and track north to the Aleutians is around March. Both scenarios let cruisers pass through Micronesia during the Northern Hemisphere’s winter, a period of moderate volatility as the Intertropical Convergence Zone creates squally conditions during its seasonal migration north. Although it’s not cyclone season, it also is not, in fact, the better time of year to be there.

Traditional navigators that we connected with in Micronesia said they recognize two primary seasons, each starting at an equinox. The favorable sailing season aligns with spring through fall in North America, encompassing hurricane season. It begins when they see the star Altair rise above the horizon near dawn. Systems do percolate here, but comparably few storms track through the islands. It is a time of generally gentler winds and seas, a much kinder time for outrigger canoes. And, unfortunately, it is the opposite timing for cruisers on those typical itineraries described.

Our route was neither of those two typical scenarios, coming west across the Pacific entirely in the Northern Hemisphere. Determined to take a different path through the Pacific than we had 15 years ago, Jamie and I arrived in Majuro, Marshall Islands, after spending the summer in Hawaii. Arriving at the eastern end of Micronesia sounded like a great way to ride easterly trade winds west through the islands. What we hadn’t counted on was how much of our time would be influenced by the Intertropical Convergence Zone.

Our late-September arrival meant that weather windows for moving between atolls were limited by volatility as the ITCZ rose and lingered. No wonder sailors heading north from Fiji during cyclone season tend to stay put in the archipelagoes. Cruising is possible, but squally conditions add risk and discomfort. In addition to volatile conditions, the currents that funnel near atolls can create steep, rough seas. The combination of these features, especially if wind and current are in opposition, can create dangerous conditions. Instead of ample opportunities to move about the archipelago, we found ourselves waiting weeks for weather to clear.

For boats returning south to Fiji at the end of the season, it’s an upwind battle to check out of the Marshall Islands from Majuro. We were glad to be continuing west instead, with clearance ­possible at the western atoll of Kwajalein. The ITCZ raised up its dragon breath again; we still waited several weeks for weather to continue west.

Visas offered in Micronesian countries are generous by most standards. For US nationals, there’s a distinct advantage: All countries but Kiribati are independent republics in special relationships with the United States, or are overseas territories of the United States. US nationals can stay indefinitely without visa requirements. Suddenly, the seasonal timing constraints are simplified for many cruisers: It’s easy to stay longer and enjoy stunning cruising grounds when conditions are best. 

Inside individual countries or territories, formalities can be more complicated. Much of the draw for Kiribati, the Marshall Islands and the Federated States of Micronesia is in visiting the outer atolls. Some are entirely uninhabited. Others have a settlement on just one or two islands, and then a string of islands that host birds and palms around the fringing reef.

In these remote atolls, beaches offer uninterrupted miles to ­explore, pristine coral reefs, thriving traditional island cultures—all of which you must obtain permission from the capital to visit. In the Marshall Islands, this is a formal process where the elected official and the hereditary chief must sign off on your application. A fee is levied, sometimes paid in Majuro and at other times paid upon arrival in the atolls. In the Federated States of Micronesia, the application to visit outer atolls is made at the capital for the state you’re in (there are four: Kosrae, Pohnpei, Chuuk and Yap) and are relatively informal. In some cases, there’s no form at all, just finding the right person to ask.

Navigating these atolls can complicate routing. In the Marshall Islands especially, sailors might need to beat into trade winds to reach a port where clearing out of the country is possible. There are nuances between countries and island groups. For some cruisers, this is a real deterrent.

We waited six weeks in Majuro while officials processed our applications, regularly visiting the ministry office, and we still did not have sign-offs for all the atolls we’d hoped to visit. We trimmed our plans based on permissions that we were able to acquire. 

Minimal tourism is a hallmark for many of our favorite ­places. Visit Micronesia, and you’ll be in some of the least-visited ­countries in the world. Want to have a beach all to yourself? Take your pick. 

Raw natural beauty aside, destinations with less tourism foster opportunities for connecting one-on-one with people. Encounters ashore are based on mutual interest instead of the transactional relationship that characterizes popular destinations. People are more likely to be curious here. Conversations have depth: about war history, about depopulation as islanders migrate in search of opportunities, or about the impacts of climate change for future generations. The world has plenty of beautiful places, but few come as unpretentiously as Micronesia or leave as lasting a mark on the memory.

The connection sneaks up on you, because the cultural ­differences, at first, are stark. Hereditary kings are considered to be gods. These king-chiefs are male, but the heredity lines are matrilineal. Society has a caste system, with chiefs, nobles and workers. It can be easy to miss, then hard to forget, once the slices of humanity become apparent.

The remote nature of the atoll also presents some practical challenges for basic needs. In Majuro, the capital of the Marshall Islands, we wanted to refill an empty propane tank. But upon visiting the depot (there’s only one), we learned that they were out of propane. A fresh supply was not expected for at least a couple of weeks. One cruiser in our company switched to butane canisters and purchased a cooktop to use them because the first island group in the next country apparently would not have propane either.

Provisioning was also trickier than anticipated. Food is flown in to the capitals, and then sent to outer atolls in a supply ship. The selection of shelf-stable goods, from rice to soy sauce, was better than expected, but the availability of fresh produce was extremely limited. One low point: staring at a bag of romaine lettuce, already rotting inside its plastic wrap, and contemplating paying $10 for the privilege of purchasing slimy greens. 

Medical care is basic too. Even in most of the capitals, patients with complex cases are usually flown to Hawaii for care. Life expectancy here is in the mid-60s, with 75 percent of Marshallese older than 50 suffering from diet-induced Type 2 diabetes, and no access to insulin unless they live in a capital.

While we were in the Marshall Islands, I was diagnosed with ­hypertension. Overnight, I went from being smug about my ­excellent health to having a prescription to take for the rest of my life. The care provided was good, but my new prescription could be sourced in only two of the 29 atolls.

Scarcity shapes daily life in many ways. Although remote ­islanders are well-adapted to subsistence fishing and farming of coconut, bananas, seasonal breadfruit and taro, they rely on the supply ship for rice and meat—and the supply ship might come through only every few months.

Totem became a floating Santa’s sleigh for these people, arriving on December 23 laden with around 1,000 pounds of cargo. Our load was mainly frozen meat in a refrigerator case strapped to our aft deck, plus around 400 pounds of rice and another 200 pounds of flour, in bags stashed belowdecks. It was deeply gratifying to help meet local needs and then enjoy the meals with them during a community feast for Christmas.

For all the scarcity, there is wealth of another kind. In Micronesia, despite centuries of colonial influence from faraway countries, traditional practices and knowledge are proudly retained. It was from here that, in the 1970s, the Polynesian Voyaging Society in Hawaii found navigators skilled in the art that they had long since lost. Bringing them to Hawaii was key to the successful launch of the Hōkūle’a voyaging canoe and fueling a resurgence of native pride. We met islanders who had left small atolls for education and employment but then returned to choose the traditional existence. One islander related leaving his home country for training and working as a tour guide. It left him wanting, and he returned instead to swing a hammock on an atoll, forage from the island and sea, and cook on a coconut-­husk fire.

Near our anchorage in Guam’s Apra harbor, there’s a canoe house that the ­outrigger carved, at Lamotrek. Bringing supplies for the canoe engendered a welcome with tones of a homecoming from our newfound family, our brothers of the sea. They invited us for kapetalwa, and I offer it here for you—the news from our voyage through Micronesia.

Know Before You Go

Currency: US dollar (with the exception of Nauru and Kiribati, which use the Australian dollar). Language: English is the official language, or one of two official languages. Guides: Pacific Crossing Guide, published by Adlard Coles, covers Micronesia. The website Noforeignland is increasingly populated with useful waypoints. There are WhatsApp groups for each country. Clearance fees: They’re inconsistent but nominal, each less than $100, with the exception of Palau. There are additional fees for outer atolls.

A Complicated History 

Austronesian seafarers settled Micronesia beginning around the second millennia B.C.E. The modern history is more convoluted. Colonial interest began with Spain, including Ferdinand Magellan’s arrivals in 1521. Missionaries followed. In the 19th century, Germany expanded in the region, seeking copra exports. In the aftermath of World War I, Germany lost its authority. Japan stepped in, setting the stage for the Pacific theater in World War II. At the end of that war, all of what today is Micronesia, except Kiribati, shifted to be administered by the United States as a trust territory. Independence followed for Palau, the Federated States of Micronesia and the Marshall Islands. Guam and the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands remain US holdings.

The legacy of World War II is plain to see. Many of the islands we visited had crumbling battlements, the rusty hulks of gun fortifications, broken remains of tanks and airplanes, and other detritus from the war. For some visitors, it’s a draw. The array of famous underwater wrecks is especially attractive for divers. There’s the USS Saratoga aircraft carrier in Bikini Atoll, as well as more than 60 ships at the bottom of Chuuk Lagoon.

One heartbreaking inheritance is the history of nuclear testing in the region. Beginning in the 1940s and extending into the 1950s, 67 nuclear tests were conducted here, to devastating effects. Atolls are uninhabited ­because the United States made them toxic, and populations were forcibly removed. Other islands are overcrowded to slum-level circumstances because they are crammed with the dispossessed.

One islander related to us how his home atoll was first carpeted with bombs during World War II, and then taken over by the US military to create a relaxation spot for American troops. Warships lined the harbor. Those who called it home were forced out.

These stories are told as simple facts. As a visitor, I felt like it was an opportunity to learn the painful parts of this history, to grow our empathy and understanding for people there today, and to remember why war is never the answer.

The post <i>Kapetalwa</i>: A Cruiser’s Journey Through the Blue Frontier appeared first on Cruising World.

Most of us monohull sailors don’t let on that we ponder alternatives to deep-draft keels and the lead or iron we lug around. We do watch with some envy as multihulls slip blithely over the shoaling parts of the Great Bahama Bank and meander about the skinny waters of Chesapeake Bay. Curiosity often leads to serious conversation, and before long, there’s a new interest in the next boat show. 

At the moment, there’s no ­for-sale sign taped to the mast of my own cruising monohull, Wind Shadow. But I’m nautically curious and always on the lookout for worthy sailboats. I also realize that cruising conditions vary, as does the sailing ­interest and skillset of each crew. So, when I go boat-looking, I like to recall the seafaring wisdom of an old shipwright: “Be sure the tool you choose is the right one for the job at hand.” 

The same can be said about sailboats. When the job is coastal cruising and the setting is an abundance of estuaries, bays, rivers and sounds, plus some short-hop ocean passagemaking, the right tool may very well be a light, agile, folding-­ama trailerable trimaran. Its generous sail-area-to-displacement ratio means that even light winds will become a viable sailing breeze. Weight is the enemy, and payload limits must be viewed as sacrosanct numbers, not to be exceeded. 

 Sailing this kind of trimaran is akin to taking a street-legal sports car onto the track. Set a little less than full sail, don’t crowd the corners, and the encounter will be a free and easy romp. Push too hard in either case, and the ride gets more challenging. 

In both cases, well-practiced contingency plans pay off. These include keeping track of true-wind speed and sail-combo setups. Treat increases in sea state the way a driver handles a wet track. Factor in variables such as crew size and competence, along with how willing you are to push the limit, and contend with the consequences.

Trimaran advocates Charlie and Nona Pucciarello are good examples of hardcore multihull sailors who have transitioned into performance cruising. They savor the time spent sailing from anchorage to anchorage as much as they enjoy the harbors they visit. Charlie’s years of dinghy racing at the US Naval Academy and his aircraft carrier flight ops as an F-14 pilot left certain performance expectations in play, but today, he’s a more sedate airline pilot. Years of racing and cruising a Farrier-31 led to the Pucciarellos’ current Corsair 37, an appropriate blend of ­adventure and relaxation.

As a couple, they demonstrate that sailhandling and safety go hand in hand. Their routine is anything but a dialed-­back reefed-down slog. Hot Chocolate is set up to expedite sail trimming and reefing efficiency. Hardware upgrades vary from optimized winches to lead-block locations selected to maintain a fairlead. Charlie and Nona doublehand the Corsair 37, and they used the underway experiences garnered aboard their F-31 to help fine-tune the bigger Corsair. Their “been there, done that” database is equivalent to that of the veteran sports-car driver who has spun out a time or two and knows what’s necessary.

They like the idea of the latest headsail-handling hardware used on small to midsize trimarans, to minimize crew time on the foredeck. Either a reacher or an asymmetric spinnaker can be tacked to the retractable sprit pole. The roller-furling ­operation is initiated via an endless-line roller furler. It relies on a single large-diameter sheave that replaces the ­more-familiar roller-furling drum. The control rope is an end-to-end spliced loop with only one turn around the grooved and caged furling sheave. The double line is fed back to the cockpit using a series of twin-block fairleads. 

These foilless furlers substitute a stiff torsion-resistant line as the connection between the tack and the top ­swivel. Sails with narrower head girth (drifters and reachers) use a bottom-up furler. These units are designed to initiate the luff twist at deck level and then ­allow the torsion cable to project the furling rotation aloft to the head swivel. Because of the asymmetric spinnaker’s much-fuller head, it’s advantageous to have the furling ­process begin aloft and ­progress in a downward fashion. 

Top-down furling tends to be a bit more of a challenge. Sailors who are new to endless-line sprit-pole sailhandling are better off starting out with a ­moderately sized drifter/reacher (aka screacher) and handling it with a bottom-up endless-line furler.

The mainsail on the most ­efficient sailing multihulls is ­indeed a force to reckon with. And at the heart of good seamanship is knowing how to reef efficiently, along with recognizing when it’s time to do so. The process has been helped immensely thanks to lighter, stronger, much-less-stretch-prone cordage, and more-efficient turning blocks and rope clutches that lock line into place with the jaw hold of a gator. The absence of a backstay means there’s room for a square-top full-batten main, with lots of sail area aloft. It warrants a dedicated reefing winch, lazy jacks and a hammock, or a stack pack-style mainsail containment system.   

Every multihull sailor needs to develop a keen awareness of form stability and how it relates to angle of heel. The monohull sailor has a safety valve in the form of secondary righting moment derived from ballast. It ­delivers capsize resistance at deeper angles of heel. This secondary source of stability is missing in multihulls. 

However, widespread high-volume amas provide buoyancy that acts in opposition to the heeling moment. When the angle of heel is less than 20 degrees, a multihull’s resistance to capsize is far greater than that of a monohull. Still, in heavy weather offshore, large swells affect wave-face geometry, and the water plane on which a vessel floats can become steeply inclined. This can significantly decrease the influence of buoyancy derived from stability. Heavy-weather storm tactics for multihulls take this into consideration.

The post Rigged to Rip: How Trimarans Maximize Speed and Simplicity appeared first on Cruising World.

Last year, I had the opportunity to operate the American Magic simulator, which had the exact same configuration as the racing yacht itself. I felt like I was in the cockpit of a spacecraft. All the screens, buttons, readouts, digital files, and headsets for communication reminded me of Buck Rogers and Star Trek.

I’m sure that the computers and artificial intelligence helped the sailors in their quest to win the America’s Cup, but I was bewildered. One of the coaches said that today’s better Cup ­helmsmen are skilled video-game players, and often aircraft pilots comfortable with sophisticated instrumentation.

A few days after my time in the simulator, I enjoyed a sail on a brisk winter’s day aboard my 32-foot sloop. My complete package of instruments includes a compass, a VHS radio and a nautical chart. The sharp contrast between Whirlwind and the America’s Cup yachts made me think about the appropriate amount of ­instrumentation that should be aboard a sailboat.

We live in an age when computers, GPS, chart plotters, accurate instruments and navigational tools are ubiquitous. On bigger boats, the chart table contains a labyrinth of electronic tools that are great until something goes wrong. Then what? 

Stan Honey, one of the most successful racing navigators of our era, says that he always carries paper charts, even with the availability of electronic aids. For my part, before every race or cruising adventure, I take the time to study charts so that I have a mental image of the waters. I particularly note shallow spots and places with large tides and swift currents. If a boat loses power or develops a short circuit, paper charts will save the day. I like to use waterproof charts on deck. Paper charts need to be stored in a dry space. I use plastic folders.

GPS is amazingly accurate and easy to use. It can indicate a boat’s position and speed, help to add waypoints, and assist in calculating course and distance to a destination. On my cruising boats, I’ve always had at least two GPS systems with an abundant supply of batteries. When sailing on waters noted for fog, a GPS is a fundamental aid. 

Eldridge Tide and Pilot Book, published annually for 150 years, is another invaluable guide. It includes tides and currents, celestial-body timings, navigational rules, piloting tips, emergency first aid, marine weather guidance, tips on electronic navigation, light lists, and coastal piloting ­information for mariners from Nova Scotia to Key West, Florida. The yellow-cover book is a must for any chart table. Plus, nifty stories are sprinkled throughout the text. 

Reeds Nautical Almanac is another useful publication for sailors. I also stock up on cruising guides for the area in which I will be sailing. The US Coast Guard publishes the Coast Pilot series for the entire United States in eight volumes. This information is helpful when entering harbors, to avoid dangers to navigation.  

For many mariners, an important volume is American Practical Navigator, first published by Nathaniel Bowditch in 1802. It is updated frequently and has all the ­information for celestial navigation and ­piloting. I still have my copy of the 1,514-page 1968 edition with hundreds of earmarked pages. The newer additions are slimmed down to 950 pages.

A compass has been a trusted tool for sailors since 200 B.C. In the year 1120, the compass was used for marine navigation using Earth’s electromagnetic field. The compass is reliable and easy to use, but it needs to be corrected for deviation from a boat’s magnetic forces and variation for the differences in the magnetic fields across the globe. It’s important to have a professional adjust the compass so that it is accurate. Modern electronic compasses with digital readouts are helpful tools. I also keep a hand bearing compass on board if I need to do some piloting.

Essential instruments on sailboats are a boatspeed indicator, windspeed and direction indicators, and a fathometer. I like to know the wind velocity and direction, the angle of the apparent wind, the depth of the water, and how fast the boat is moving. My philosophy is to keep instrumentation simple so that I can spend my time enjoying the sailing.  

On racing boats, the appetite for ­additional information never seems to be ­satisfied. A navigator will sit near the helm with a tablet to calculate wind trends, watch the changing course and bearing to the next mark, continually calculate the direction and speed of currents, monitor the state of tidal rise, and study optimal ­performance data. At least one ­crewmember focuses ­exclusively on the data. All this information is interesting but, in my view, not necessary for most enthusiasts. 

A barometer indicates changes in the weather. NOAA Weather Radio, found on VHS radio, and satellite sources such as Starlink give up-to-date weather forecasts. Cellphones are reliable, with connectivity available in most of the country. The important thing is to keep your cellphone dry and secure. Many cellphones are on the bottom of our bays and lakes.

Binoculars are a wonderful aid, whether used for navigation or simply observing the surroundings. When binoculars come on deck, notice how frequently they are passed around to the crew. Everyone wants a look.

A masthead wind indicator is my most helpful aid when sailing. I look aloft frequently to check that my sails are trimmed properly to the direction of the wind. The masthead fly is a particularly useful reference when maneuvering and changing course. An osprey once landed on my masthead fly and broke it. I felt hobbled without it. My next masthead fly included a stiff shaft extending upward. I haven’t been ­bedeviled by a bird since.

A sextant is still a good navigational aid, but most sailors prefer the convenience of GPS. It takes practice to get a precise fix using a sextant, along with an accurate timepiece and a set of tables for calculating position. Still, taking a course on celestial navigation is beneficial. It took me a few years as a maritime cadet to become proficient using a sextant. If I could get a celestial fix within 5 miles of my location, I was happy.

Sailors who want to install a full set of electronics around a chart table should hire a professional. Clearly marked wires will help when repairs are necessary. The best systems should be minimal and easy to use. 

Take the time to learn how to use each piece of equipment. So start with a ­compass, and expand from there.

Sailing Hall of Fame inductee and ­co-President Gary Jobson is a winning America’s Cup tactician, writer, broadcaster and CW editor-at-large.

The post Modern Sailing Navigation: High-Tech, Meet Tradition appeared first on Cruising World.

There’s nothing quite as satisfying as foraging for food while cruising. Some sailors catch fresh fish off the stern. Others, like my husband, Mitchell, and I, prefer to dive in the shallows. 

Our love for cruising and life at sea began long before we found our present boat, Esprit, a Peterson 46. We’d lived and worked on many boats before this one, always dreaming of someday starting a small charter business on our own boat. Finally, we found Esprit in Panama. The boat had just completed a 15-year circumnavigation with its previous owners, a family who had meticulously maintained it. Esprit was sturdy, well-loved, and ready for the next adventure. Soon, the boat was ours.

We were starry-eyed but slightly nervous as we embarked on our maiden voyage from Panama to California, headed for our home port in San Francisco. As it happened, we transited the Panama Canal on my birthday. It was an unforgettable start to our journey, but there was no time to linger—we were on a tight delivery schedule. We had jobs to return to and a charter business to launch.

For years, Esprit was our home and our livelihood as we hosted charters along the California coast. But then, as for so many others, the pandemic changed everything. Our business came to a grinding halt, and life took an unexpected turn.

In search of warmer weather and fresh cruising grounds, we made Ventura, California, our new home base. Quickly, we fell in love with the town, its welcoming community, and the friendships we formed. Though we never intended to stay long, the years slipped by. The convenience of a stable home port, the beauty of the rugged coastline, and easy access to the beautiful Channel Islands made it amenable to linger.

Often called the “Galápagos of California,” the Channel Islands is a stunning but challenging destination. The waters surrounding the islands are teeming with life, protected by marine sanctuaries that make the region a dream for conservationists and underwater adventurers. While fishing and foraging are restricted in many areas, there are plenty of opportunities to gather fresh seafood in permitted zones. On crisp mornings, we’d set out in the dinghy to explore rocky shorelines, searching for mussels clustered in the intertidal zones. 

Foraging for mussels and diving for scallops became a favorite activity. The best part? Bringing them back to Esprit to prepare a steaming, aromatic pot of curried mussels—now our favorite way to warm up after a chilly swim. 

This dish was inspired on a brisk afternoon in early spring. We were anchored at Santa Cruz Island, and we’d had a successful mussel harvest. We were chilled, and I began to crave warm, spicy food—specifically, Thai tom yum soup. It often includes seafood as the main protein, so I thought, Why not? After being in the cold Pacific water, a flavorful, hot curry sounded like an ideal way to warm up. 

It was the perfect meal to end a perfect day, and it’s now become a galley favorite. I always have red curry paste on board for curry in a hurry.

As the months passed in California, the call of the open sea began to beckon. Deep down, we knew Esprit wasn’t meant to be a dock queen, weekend cruiser or charter yacht. It was time to sail south.

We did a monthlong cruise around Catalina Island and then departed Avalon, setting sail for Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, with our ship’s cat, Panda, and our friend Brian, a highly experienced sailor and navigator who’d sailed many miles with us aboard Esprit. It was a 41-day passage. By New Year’s Eve 2024, we’d arrived in the Sea of Cortez, ready to embrace the next phase of our journey. 

Now, as commuter cruisers, we plan to spend four to six months a year sailing in Mexico before returning to the United States for work and family time. The past seven years have been full of unexpected changes, but one thing has remained constant: our love of life at sea.

Through all our adventures, one thing we’ve learned is that the best meals are the simplest ones, made with ingredients gathered fresh from the sea. This curried mussel recipe is more than just a favorite meal. It evokes fond memories of our time in the Channel Islands, of the crisp ocean air and the joy of a warm, fragrant bowl shared with friends in a quiet anchorage.

Whether you’re full-time cruising or cruising when you can, I hope that this dish brings a bit of the sea to your table. Enjoy it with friends.

Curried Steamed Mussels (serves 2 to 4)

• 3 Tbsp. coconut or olive oil
• 1 small onion, diced
• 1 inch-long piece of fresh ginger, peeled and minced (or a pinch of dried ginger)
• 3-5 cloves garlic, crushed or minced (to taste)
• 1 Tbsp. red curry paste (or 1 tsp. curry powder)
• 2 tsp. maple syrup or cane sugar
• 1 13- to 14-ounce can full-fat coconut milk 
• ½ cup vegetable broth (or water)
• 1 large tomato, sliced into half-moons
• 1 lb. fresh mussels, cleaned and de-bearded

For serving:

• 2 cups basmati or brown rice, cooked
• cilantro and lime wedges or green onions, chopped, for garnish

This recipe is fast-paced, so it’s best to have ingredients prepped before you start cooking. In a large pot or deep sauté pan with a lid, sauté the onions in coconut or olive oil over medium heat until they start to soften. Add ginger and sauté until fragrant, 1 or 2 minutes. 

Add garlic and sauté for about 30 seconds. Mix in the curry paste or powder, and maple syrup or cane sugar. Stir in coconut milk, broth (or water), and tomato slices. Mix until the broth is a uniform color. 

Add cleaned mussels to pot. Bring broth to a low boil and cover with the lid. Steam for 5 to 6 minutes, or until the mussels open. Remove pot from heat. Discard any mussels that do not open naturally after cooking. 

To serve: Fill a measuring cup with cooked rice. Pack down with the backside of a spoon. Invert into a large soup bowl, and tap gently to release. Surround rice mound with mussels and sauce. Garnish with ­cilantro and fresh lime wedges or sliced green ­onions. Serve immediately.

Cook’s Note: If you have access to fresh ­lemongrass, add a stalk cut into 2-inch ­sections at the same time as the ginger.

Can be prepared: at anchor
Prep time: about 1 hour 
Difficulty: medium

The post Curried Mussels at Anchor: A Forager’s Favorite Cruising Galley Recipe appeared first on Cruising World.

There’s an old saying that I’m sure we’ve all heard: “Use the right tool for the job.” I like to think of boats as the tools and our cruising grounds as the job.

We’re often drawn to the new, shiny, ­expensive self-ratcheting wrench when what we really need is the greasy, dinged-­up crescent wrench. That’s marketing for you. As seen on TV.

And while I’m sure we’d all like to think that we aren’t affected by marketing, wemost definitely are. If the cruising dreamers out there don’t think their boat choice has been affected by boat shows and the glossy perfection of online influencers’ boats (and their made-for-TV lives), I’ve got a bridge to sell them.

I’ve owned four liveaboard boats in the past 22 years, and I’m not immune to shiny baubles. In 2003, my wife and I decided to sail around the world. I’d read just one sailing blog about four friends circumnavigating on a catamaran, along with one book about a couple doing so. That was the extent of my knowledge when we decided to go conquer the world’s oceans. Within a few months, we had left Chicago and were bobbing around at anchor in the Bahamas on a brand-new, 35-foot catamaran. I figured that a boat was a boat, and a shiny one with two hulls seemed better than one dull hull.

Miraculously, four years after leaving, we returned to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, from the other direction as circumnavigators. Obviously, over the course of four years, I’d learned a ton about boats and sailing. And both of us really credited the catamaran for much of our success. Its stability made the trying times bearable. Being at sea in a catamaran is tough, but being at sea rolling back and forth endlessly, or heeled hard over for days at a time, is far tougher.

We came back to land sure that we had gotten the cruising life out of our system. We turned to overlanding in a ’58 VW bus. I know, right? We drove from Alaska to Argentina over the next couple of years and eventually got our sea legs back on a cargo ship to Germany. By the time we drove the VW off that ship, there was a baby on the way and a choice to be made.

Back to boat life. What better way to raise a kid? But our cruising grounds (the job) had changed. We’d planned to live and sail around Mexico. We didn’t need a catamaran (the tool for the job) for that. We could use a crescent wrench.

For a fraction of the price of our catamaran, we bought a solid beast of a 43-foot monohull. It had a pilothouse with tons of light (a la catamaran life) and plenty of sole space for a toddler to learn to walk. Yes, a 43-foot monohull actually has a ton more sole space than a 35-foot catamaran. We sailed that boat from San Francisco to Puerto Vallarta, and spent the next few years raising not one but two kids aboard, while bouncing between Baja and the Pacific coast of Mexico.

That boat cemented two ideas. One, monohulls aren’t that terrible. Rolly conditions at anchor are relatively few, and a stern anchor can usually solve the problem. And two, so long as my passages are only a couple of days, I can deal with how uncomfortable they are under sail. It’s also worth mentioning that once you are out at anchor, you really don’t spend much time wishing you were on a different boat. You’re just happy to be where you are.

After the monohull, we took off for a couple of years, cruising around in vintage motor homes and Airstreams. But RV life is a bit tame for me. I mean, what kind of life is it if you don’t have to obsess over the weather?

Next, we decided to cruise the Caribbean (another new job). With the knowledge I’d gained with catamarans and monohulls, I veered left and bought a completely new tool: a Grand Banks trawler. I know, a stinkpot. Crazy, but it was absolutely the right tool for the job.

Let’s face it: Caribbean sailing isn’t exactly demanding. Most of the time, we’re talking about distances measured in tens of miles, not hundreds, and never thousands. These are the easiest cruising grounds imaginable, and 99 percent of your time is going to be spent at anchor. While catamarans are the ultimate home for those at ­anchor, they aren’t exactly mandatory. In fact, I’d argue that spending catamaran-type money on a boat just to sit at anchor in front of Foxy’s is a ­colossal waste. The interest you could earn on the difference in purchase price between a ­solid monohull (or trawler) and a cat would easily pay your beach-bar tab for life, with money left over for ­incidentals like food.

That said, when we were in Aruba and decided to sail around the world again, there was never a question in our minds what tool we’d use for the job. We sold the trawler and hopped on over to a 40-foot Nautitech catamaran. For big ocean crossings and long-term life aboard, there is just no substitute for the speed and comfort of a cat.

Full circle. Toolbox complete. From catamaran to monohull to trawler to catamaran again. It had been 20 years since our first cat, and things had most definitely changed. Our 35-footer, in 2003, was still a novelty. If we met other cruisers onshore and they asked what boat we were on, a sufficient answer was: “We’re on the catamaran.” Tour boats would circle us at anchor. At a dock, passersby would stop for pictures. And in one of the surest signs that a 35-foot cat was a different beast in 2003, we were constantly asked, “Are you crew?” At the time, it may have been due to our youthful appearance, but it was also because that boat was considered big. 

Today, we rarely ever see a cat as small as our 40-footer. Somehow, a 46-foot cat is considered the right size for a retired couple, and 46-plus appears to be about right for families. It’s not just the size that’s grown, though. It’s also the price. Anyone who has ever browsed online listings knows that you can buy four or five bluewater-capable monohulls for the price of a “condomaran.”

A boat is a tool. It’s a tool used to crack loose the rust of normal life.

But there have been other changes. I’d argue that build quality has excelled. When I would work up the mast on our first cat, I genuinely feared that if I were to drop a screwdriver, it would go straight through the boat from top to bottom. Open ocean wouldn’t be what would sink us; a screwdriver would.

Cat design has improved remarkably. Remember when people constantly talked about “slap”? Our first cat would be stopped in its tracks by seas on the nose, as the waves sliced past the bows and slammed the bridge deck. Today’s cats no longer have clearance issues, and designers seem to have finally stopped trying to leave exposed stairways under there as well. Of course, all that bridge-deck height comes with massive freeboard. Docking a cat used to be simple. Anyone could hop off the bow and onto a dock to tie off a line. Today, you’d be risking your life leaping off the side of a cat from those heights.

With the design improvements, we found that our 40-footer sails nearly twice as fast as our 35-footer in similar ­conditions. Upwind performance is infinitely better, while downwind sailing is a dream come true. If everyone could sail a cat with a Parasailor and 10 knots of wind from behind, they would put every monohull manufacturer out of business. It’s heaven on earth.

With 65,000 bluewater miles under my catamaran, monohull and trawler keels, I feel as though I am qualified to answer the ever-debated question: “Which boat is best?” My whispered reply: Catamaran. Yet I still qualify my answer. 

A boat is a tool. It’s a tool used to crack loose the rust of normal life. It’s a tool used to get you out on the water. It’s a tool you can use to turn your way into an adventurous, exciting, worthwhile life. At the end of the day, the boat is a tool used to complete a job—the job of fulfilling a dream and a life well-lived.

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