As I pulled on the 11-foot carbon oars under a hot July sun, I reflected on my seeming inability to cross Washington state’s Rosario Strait in a normal fashion. Not two months prior, I had dashed across the 5 nautical miles of open water amid a small-craft advisory, a day when 20-knot gusts and a wind-against-tide sea state had threatened to overhaul Lazydog’s gunwales. Yet here I was, with growing blisters and diminishing daylight, trying my best to crab my way toward Matia Island against the flood tide and a precarious possibility of ending up in the Strait of Georgia.

The launch ramp in Fairhaven, Washington, had been seven hours ago, serving as my starting point for a four-day weekend and a mini cruise in the San Juan Islands. My loosely formed plan was to carve a counterclockwise loop around Lummi Island from Thursday to Sunday, taking advantage of the Cascadia marine-trail campsites. The only monkey wrench would be the wind, fickle as ever during the summer drought, and not forecast at more than 6 knots. 

On day one, I aimed to make the 15-nautical-mile passage to Matia Island. Lazydog’s varnished jib club obediently shepherded the beige sail across the foredeck as I played the puffs of wind toward Hale Passage, a milewide hurdle that had to be crossed. As any Bellingham-based sailor will tell you, whatever the wind is in the bay when you set off, Hale Passage and Rosario Strait are guaranteed to have entirely different conditions. Unfortunately for me, this meant that the wind had died. It was time to get rowing. 

I assembled the two-part carbon oars, which I MacGyvered to give me a fighting chance of rowing Lazydog’s 1,500-pound displacement, and began plodding north up Hale Passage. The backward view did not disappoint, as Mount Baker and the Sisters range pierced into the blue sky above Bellingham’s patchworked timberland hills.

After about an hour, the wind line more wholly embraced us. Up went the sails, with the Marconi-rigged main sheeted tight to the aft quarter. This felt great, because rowing a sailboat is a lot like hiking a trail with your mountain bike. It’s neat to be outdoors, but it isn’t the reason you left the house. I pressed to windward, lounging on the leeward seat to give Lazydog the heel it appreciates in light winds. 

With the flood current carrying us north toward Migley Point, it became obvious that there was not a whisper of a wind in Rosario Strait. It was already 17:00, with sunset in four hours. I could find a nook along the private beaches of Lummi’s eastern shore to anchor for the night, but I would be unable to leave the boat. Alternatively, I could stick to my original plan and row the 5 miles of open water to Matia Island’s eastern cove. I estimated the crossing at three hours, a duration I had not previously attempted. Nevertheless, I decided to bet on the resilience of my 25-year-old back.

Almost immediately, it became clear that the flooding tide would be an issue. It was running at a meager single knot, yet my pace on the oars was only 2.5 knots, and my course over ground was swinging dangerously toward a long night of dodging commercial traffic in the Strait of Georgia. I turned the bow farther south, toward the peak of Mount Constitution on Orcas Island. By keeping the peak on the bow, I arrested my descent down the shipping lane. 

For the following two hours, I snacked incessantly to keep my energy up, and I lovingly cultivated the blister farm growing on my palms. I was just about exhausted, but I could see the diminutive cove where I planned to stay the night. The last mile took an hour. As the sun dipped past the Douglas fir trees at the head of the cove, I dropped my stern anchor into 20 feet of refreshingly cold water and stepped ashore to place my second anchor high in the sand.

Up went the sails, with the main sheeted tight to the aft quarter. This felt great, because rowing a sailboat is a lot like hiking a trail with your mountain bike. It’s neat to be outdoors, but it isn’t the reason you left the house. 

I sat on the floorboards and stretched out my ravaged hands. Dinner was next on the docket. I gorged on canned soup and homemade focaccia like it was my last supper. Then I pulled Lazydog back to shore and set off down the half-mile path to catch the final sunset rays from Rolfe Cove on Matia’s western side. Sprawled on a picnic-table bench, I watched the sky turn from pink to deep blue. 

When I pulled Lazydog out into deeper water to weather the night’s tidal swings, the scattered bioluminescence twinkled all around. It was the height of their season, and in the tranquil water, they dwarfed the stars in number and brilliance. Peering over the gunwale, I watched 6-inch-long fish carve shimmering swaths through the dancing spectacle. Finally, I gave in to exhaustion and nestled my sleeping pad and bag between the centerboard trunk and the hull planks for the night. 

The boisterous dawn chorus of robins and chickadees roused me at 5 a.m., but I rolled over and returned to my slumber for two more hours. I hadn’t rigged my boom tarp the night before and was paying for my negligence with a thick layer of dew covering everything. The July sun was my ally, and after an easy breakfast of dehydrated fruit and granola, I pulled Lazydog back to the beach and went for a walk while everything dried out. 

Back on the boat a short time later, I waded waist-deep into the clear water to wash away the previous day’s sweat and sunscreen. Drying out in the cockpit, I trained my binoculars out of the cove to see a steady 8 to 10 knots of northwesterly wind rolling small wavelets down Rosario Strait. Because I would have committed unspeakable acts for such conditions the day prior, I resolved not to waste the opportunity and was soon rounding the jumbled rocks of Matia’s southeastern point toward Sucia Island. 

White clouds dotted the blue sky overhead as personal watercraft filled in around us. Lazydog and I were battling a slight ebb current, but with such lovely wind, the current proved a nonfactor near the mouth of Fossil Bay. It’s a popular place, but it had been a number of years since I had last walked the trails here, so I joined the inevitable crowds. By the time I had set my anchors and dismounted onto the beach, several folks were waiting to chat with me about Lazydog. Evidently, a varnished 16-foot wooden boat roll-tacking into Fossil Bay was not a daily occurrence. One white-haired gentleman shared his own experiences owning a Doughdish, the fiberglass version of the original Herreshoff 12½ with a full keel. He said that watching me roll through tacks up the bay reminded him that his Doughdish had been the finest boat to sail he’d ever owned.

After returning from my walk, I readjusted Lazydog closer to the beach so that the incoming tide would not force me to swim out to it in deep water later in the day. With the sun high overhead, I spent the rest of the afternoon reading in a hammock strung up on a bluff overlooking Orcas and Waldron islands across the water to the south and west. Some adventurous rowers I had crossed paths with the day prior in Hale Passage had pulled up onto the beach shortly after my own arrival, and as evening fell, I dined with them at their campsite, swapping stories of past trips and comparing blisters. They highly recommended a campsite on the southeastern shore of Lummi Island, but tomorrow’s forecast was an abysmal “wind variable 5 knots or less.” I turned in for the night, unsure of what my next port of call would be. 

Once again, the bioluminescence danced around Lazydog, and the Big Dipper and Cassiopeia swung around Polaris overhead. In the trees not 10 feet from where my anchor was set on the beach, a great horned owl whistled for its mate, who came swooping over. I overheard a young parent pointing out the “really cool bird” to a child, who protested, “That’s not a bird, that’s an owl.” My eyes were drooping, but the parent must have been even more exhausted than I was, because the child’s declaration of fact went unchallenged. 

Morning broke with an unexpected 10 to 15 knots of wind sweeping over the grassy portage from the northwest and twisting through the jammed mooring buoys in Fossil Bay. Without much idea of how long it would last, I decided to point my bow southwest to see how far it would take me. If conditions softened quickly, Clark Island Marine State Park was an option in Rosario Strait, but if it held on into the afternoon, I had a shot of making the Lummi Cove site that the other rowers had recommended. Also on my mind was the need to return to work in two days’ time—and the fear of a desperate Sunday-night row if I didn’t knock off some miles today. 

I horsed down enough breakfast to last me deep into the ­afternoon and was soon pulling up my ­anchors and hoisting the beige sails. Flicking the jib club across the foredeck, I ran wing-on-wing downwind through the boats ­swinging on their moorage balls. Once clear of the bay, I raised the white spinnaker with its varnished 7-foot pole. Lazydog began romping downwind with the following seas at a jovial rate of 5 to 6 knots. 

By the time I had set my anchors and ­dismounted onto the beach, several folks were waiting to chat with me. Evidently, a varnished 16‑foot wooden boat roll‑tacking into Fossil Bay was not a daily occurrence.

This was champagne sailing, although it required diligent work on the helm and leeward spinnaker sheet to dance through the waves without jibing to leeward or broaching to windward. In less than an hour, I was bearing down on Clark and Barnes islands. To keep life interesting, and mostly because I hadn’t done it before, I decided to shoot the skinny gap between them and get a good look at the beachside campground on Clark Island. The flood tide and wind swept me through the gap, and the white sandy beach—a rarity in the San Juans—was admittedly inviting, however with the wind still up, I harbored greater ­ambitions. I pressed onward. 

Farther south down Rosario Strait, the wind began to ease. I took the opportunity to eat lunch as I passed the gently sloping beaches along private Sinclair Island. Near the south end of Lummi Island, I cruised by Viti Rocks, marked with a tall white-and-black pylon and dotted with hundreds of double-crested cormorants who dived for fish in the shallows around them. 

When Lazydog finally stuck its bow around Lummi’s southern terminus back into Bellingham Bay, it was like I had entered a different world, one of placid waters and a complete lack of breeze. I persisted east toward Eliza Island with the spinnaker until I had to admit that not only was it making no active contribution to my boatspeed, but I was now drifting backward as well, away from my destination. 

Begrudgingly, I doused all sails, reshipped the oars, and began plodding the mile and a half toward the ­campsite. I had an abundance of time on my side to examine the nooks and crannies of the steeply forested shoreline. The journey was interrupted only twice—first when an aluminum fishing runabout came by to inquire if I needed assistance, and second when a stitch-and-glue wooden rowboat came past in the opposite direction with a couple and their dog. They remarked about Lazydog’s beauty, for which I thanked them and joked that it made for a pretty atrocious rowboat compared with their craft. 

Finally, I spotted the pocket beach tucked up at the head of a 50-foot-wide cove. I rowed past the complaining pigeon guillemots nesting in the rocky cliffs at the entrance and concluded my longest passage of the trip, 17 nautical miles from the arcing embrace of Sucia that morning. 

The beach here was rocky, and I had to set my stern anchor deeper than usual to ensure that it set well down in the mud. My shore anchor was refusing to set nicely up on the beach, so I removed the 2.5-pound Danforth and 5 feet of chain to instead tie the rode around a massive piece of driftwood that I figured weighed more than Lazydog. The rowing duo I had passed earlier soon joined me in the cove. It was their first overnight outing in a newly acquired kit boat, with plans to spend the long weekend hiking Cypress Island. Not too much later, the rowers from Sucia also arrived, and the cove gained the atmosphere of an impromptu wooden-boat festival. 

With the afternoon sun blazing overhead and still no wind to be found, I went for a swim in the cove, relishing the 50-degree water. I could see clear to the rock-and-mud bottom, and I swam on the surface, following my anchor rode until I was looking 20 feet down at the 4-pound Danforth anchor set firmly below. The anchor had yet to fail me on overnights, but I figured that a sailor should always check their holding, given the opportunity. 

Back at the beach, I grabbed my hammock and book to go read up on the bluffs, letting the drying of my wet clothes cool me as I swung between the deep green trees. Later in the evening, the bioluminescence returned around Lazydog’s red waterline, and the cloudless night allowed the constellations to shine brilliantly for a fitting final night of the trip. 

I awoke to the sun piercing the cove and the leaves on the bluff-side madrona trees shimmering with the wind. A local morning breeze was once again fighting its crusade against the official forecast, as cat’s-paws of 5 to 10 knots dappled down Hale Passage from the north.

Knowing that it couldn’t last long, I was raising Lazydog’s sails within an hour and shouting my goodbyes to some of the rowers who watched me depart from the cliffs. I put the far-off industrial docks of Fairhaven right on the bow for a tight reach course across the bay. After an hour of productive progress yet halfway from anywhere, the sails finally slackened with the dying breeze. It was still only midmorning, so I lounged on the aft deck, propped up by some flotation cushions.

Sure enough, after around an hour of waiting, a timid ­southerly began to press northward toward downtown Bellingham. Its shifty 3 to 5 knots proved sufficient to propel me the last few miles ­toward home. Around noon, I doused Lazydog’s sails to coast the final few feet into Fairhaven’s public dock, pleased to have completed the 44-nautical-mile cruise without having to reinvigorate the blisters acquired on day one. 

As I doused Lazydog with the launch ramp’s freshwater hose, four days’ worth of salt and sand washed back toward the bay. I drove home knowing that it would all be returning to the ­varnished coaming and floorboards at least once more before the summer was out.  

Sean Grealish, a master’s student in environmental science at Western Washington University, studies estuary restoration in Bellingham. He’s a seasoned racer with two Transpacs and an R2AK finish, and he enjoys cruising the San Juans on his family’s Lazydog.

The post Row Hard, Sail Harder appeared first on Cruising World.

The wild world of long-distance ­solo yacht racing was launched by a select crew of relative madmen, guys like Robin Knox-Johnston and Eric Tabarly. But the sport has evolved in ­many ways over the years, and a long list of courageous women has since leveled the playing field, giving the he-men all they can handle. As a sailing journalist, I had the pleasure of covering some of the early pioneers, including Isabelle Autissier and Ellen MacArthur. Still, at the time, theirs was a lonely pursuit in more ways than one.  

Today, what’s more uncommon is a marathon oceanic event without a strong female presence. For instance, in each of the past two round-the-world Vendée Globe races, there have been a half-dozen women entrants. Most were French, but a gutsy American, Cole Brauer, has joined the ranks of elite offshore sailors. In last year’s Global Solo Challenge, she finished second overall and became the first American woman to successfully race alone around the world. The accomplishment earned her a prestigious honor: the 2024 Rolex Yachtswoman of the Year. 

But for every Cole Brauer, there’s an ambitious, hungry newcomer setting her own course across the watery world. Someone like dauntless Ambre Hasson, whose singular story is the very definition of perseverance.  

Born in Paris and raised in Virginia, Hasson, now 31, was seemingly on the fast track toward conventional success. After graduating from the University of Virginia with a degree in economics, she landed a tech job in Manhattan, with a particular goal. “I wanted to make money,” she told me, “as much as I could.”

Then came the pandemic, and a dreadful sense of walls closing in. She bailed out for Florida and, on a total whim, decided she needed a sailboat. Not knowing how to sail was an obstacle, but she landed a volunteer job at a sailing school in exchange for lessons, found a Bristol 29 to live aboard, and started doing some local racing, which eventually took her offshore. It all clicked. 

“What drew me to sailing was the ­freedom and the connection to nature,” she said. “When I discovered offshore racing, it added in the competition and intensity and strategy. The concept of finding your limit—there’s nothing else really like it. It’s an art and a science. It’s very intuitive, but also very precise.”

The Vendée is the holy grail of solo racing, but Hasson understood it was a bridge too far for a rookie. Instead, she set her sights on the 2003 Mini Transat, a biennial 4,000-nautical-mile event from France to the Caribbean contested aboard twitchy, souped-up 21-foot rockets called Classe Minis. She moved back to France—the sport’s epicenter—where she found a ­welcoming community, scraped up enough cash to find a used boat, and threw herself into training. It was all going according to plan right up to the completion of her ­challenging 1,000-mile qualifying sail, when she lost control of the boat in a ­narrow channel.

“I could feel the boat hitting the ­bottom, and then the keel came right through it,” she said. “I felt powerless.” With that, she slipped over the side and scrambled ashore.

For many—or perhaps most—of us, that would’ve concluded the story. Period. But not Hasson. “The one thing I knew for sure was that I needed to keep sailing,” she said. “That much was clear. How I would do it was not.”  

She has since regrouped, found a new more-competitive boat, assembled a small support team, and launched a website (ambresails.com) to procure funds to pay for it all. The next Mini Transat race sets forth this September, and Hasson has every intention to be on the starting line. 

Still, I had a question for her: “After ­losing your boat the first time, did you ever ask yourself, What the hell am I doing?”

“I guess that would’ve been the normal reaction,” she said. “But I didn’t want the whole journey to end this way. So I looked at it as an opportunity to learn. I identified some things that I could’ve done differently, that I could do better the next time around. I want a different finish to the ­story. It has to end on a good note, right?” 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post The Will to Win: Ambre Hasson’s Solo Sailing Quest appeared first on Cruising World.

Way back when, several decades ago, I scored my first ride aboard a cruising ­trimaran: a sweet, cold-molded beauty called Juniper. Today, naval architect Chris White is well-known for his long line of Atlantic catamarans, all of which are laid out with his ­signature feature: a forward cockpit for the helm and sail controls (something that several notable designers and brands, including Gunboat, have copied). White has always been a multihull man, and it’s interesting that for his own first boat, he chose a tri, on which he completed several offshore voyages from New England to the Bahamas.

Personally, I loved Juniper, an elegant creation that sailed like a witch. And it had a ­beautiful, handcrafted wood ­interior. But to me, the yacht’s basic ­configuration also seemed like a major drawback, something that would prohibit trimarans from becoming mainstream cruisers. 

The accommodations were confined to its central hull, with a relatively narrow beam that limited options. As time went by—and the multihull world became dominated by cats—I felt quite smug about my ­early observation: If you want a true, cruising multihull, you’ve got to go with a cat. Trimarans weren’t on the radar. 

In recent times, thanks to my role as a judge for Cruising World’s annual Boat of the Year contest, I’ve been persuaded to rework my original stance. In 2024, our panel was collectively blown away by a Danish import, the Dragonfly 40, which easily won the prize for Best Performance Trimaran. As sweet as that Dragonfly was, with accommodations that were well-executed, they remained confined in the same way as those on Juniper. 

For 2025, though, we stepped aboard a trimaran that was a much different beast. The Neel 52 greatly expanded the interior options and layout by spreading them out over much of the boat’s nearly 30-foot beam. It was a groundbreaking boat, and we recognized it as such, awarding it top honors in the Best Full-Size Multihulls Over 50 Feet category versus a pair of big, stellar catamarans (the Windelo 54 Yachting and the Xquisite 60 Solar Sail). At least for 2025, in our humble opinions, three hulls were ­better than two.

For the 52’s lines, the company commissioned the Lombard Design Office, which is still knocking out good boats ­following the death of its founding naval architect, Marc Lombard. Here’s their summation of the design brief: “To create multipurpose arrangements with up to six ­double cabins with direct access from the central main cabin. Aesthetic lines with moderate freeboard. A strong and stiff platform. Less hull drag, more dynamic trim at high speeds. Improved hull shapes for better efficiency and safety in waves, an important requirement for an ocean-crossing trimaran.”

Generally speaking, I’ve ­always considered the lines of a trimaran—that relatively prominent middle hull sandwiched by a pair of graceful amas, like a set of wings—to be more aesthetically pleasing than those of many cruising cats, which can sometimes appear boxy. And to my eye, the 52 is a good-looking vessel with a host of features. The raised helm station to starboard, minimalist coachroof with expansive windows, upper-deck lounge with settees and a sunbed, dedicated sprit forward for off-wind sails and ground tackle, and pair of swim platforms aft all blend together to make a pleasing whole. There are robust stainless-steel grab rails everywhere, and synthetic teak accentuates the wide side decks.

The boat’s signature ­feature, however, lies within the ­interior framework, in what the ­company had dubbed the “cockloon.” It’s an open floor plan that combines the beam-width cockpit (an outdoor ­galley is an option) with the central saloon. The bridge deck also houses the owner’s stateroom, a professional-grade ­galley, and a nicely rendered ­navigation station fitted out with a suite of B&G instrumentation. The delightful views from the ­panoramic array of windows is all-encompassing.

Down below, there are ­several layouts with ­multiple ­double cabins, including a V-berth forward in the bow (on our test boat, one of those bedrooms was swapped for a generous technical room with a workbench, workspace and tool stowage).

Fellow Boat of the Year judge Mark Pillsbury was quite ­enamored of the cockloon arrangement: “Owners don’t just get their own stateroom aboard the Neel 52 trimaran. They get a two-story suite with a head, shower and private ­office ­located aft in the starboard ama. There’s a stunning view from the walk-around double berth, with picture windows affixed with venetian blinds, which is located on the bridge deck. The living space on this boat is tremendous.”

Indeed, this is a voluminous yacht, and the relatively deep draft (for a multihull) of almost 6 feet in its fixed keel provides lots of space for the creative Neel team. The US importer for the boat is Miami-based broker Alex Sastre, who played a major role in developing the quite incredible engine room nestled deep in the boat’s innards. It houses a 48-volt system that’s charged with an integral set of twin alternators and a solar array (our test boat was also equipped with a hefty Cummins Onan genset and a lithium-ion battery bank, both of which are optional). All of it is clearly labeled and totally ­accessible, as are all the ­hoses and plumbing manifolds. There is also quick and ready access to the steering quadrant. 

All of this also caught Pillsbury’s attention: “I could have spent the better part of a day going through the Neel’s engine room. There was even a bank of chargers for all your onboard power-tool batteries.” 

Construction is solid and employs vinylester resin with an infused foam core. The handsome furniture and joiner work in the interior is solid oak. The standard double-spreader rig is aluminum, but a carbon mast, including the one on our test ride, is optional. Auxiliary power is provided by a 150 hp Volvo Penta diesel with a saildrive configuration, and docking is assisted with a Max Power bow thruster.

At the end of the day, though, every sailboat will ultimately be judged by the simplest of criteria: how well it performs under sail. In our sea trials this past fall on Chesapeake Bay in a 14- to 16-knot ­northwesterly breeze, the 52 just smoked it. It’s hard to describe the sensation of steering the boat from the raised helm station. It’s something akin to taking a tennis court for a spin. It’s otherworldly. 

The powerful, square-topped full-battened mainsail provided plenty of punch (a company rep said that it does not require reefing in less than 25 knots of breeze). The test boat had a full set of excellent Incidence sails from the popular French sail loft, including a jib, genoa, code zero and gennaker, all of which are controlled with a full suite of Harken winches and hardware. 

The Neel reps said that the 52 will easily average better than 200 nautical miles on passage, and clearly they were not ­exaggerating. Jibing downwind with the big asymmetric kite, the boat easily topped 9 knots. Closehauled under genoa, the boat averaged 8.5 knots to windward with a maximum speed of 9.2 knots. Steering from that elevated wheel was a delight, with best-in-show 360-degree visibility at all times, something that can’t be said on most catamarans. Our judging group was unanimous: It was easily one of the contest’s best sea trials. 

Back in the day, after sailing Juniper, it was difficult for me to envision a path forward for cruising tris to gain wide acceptance. And, truth be told, it’s still a steep, uphill road. But the Neel 52 makes the case that trimarans are not only viable, but they offer real advantages as well. If you want to start a revolution, that’s a good place to begin. 

Take the Next Step

PRICE: $1.65 million (as tested)
CONTACT: pyachtsales.com

A Legacy Realized 

There’s no question that the Neel brand of trimarans would not exist if not for the vision and drive of the company’s namesake and founder, Eric Bruneel. A talented shorthanded offshore racing sailor, his career took a winding path. For many years, he was the director of Fountaine-Pajot catamarans, one of France’s oldest and most popular builders. As a racer, however, for his own boats, he preferred the speed and stability of a trimaran, and he eventually launched his own firm with the goal of introducing cruising tris to the masses. He has since moved on, but his original concept appears to be in safe hands.

Full Speed Ahead

The Neel 52, the builder’s new flagship, replaces a 51-footer in the lineup, which also currently offers a 43- and a 47-footer (a 37 and a 44 have been discontinued). Among the 10 hulls of the 52 delivered thus far, all have had slightly different layouts, a testament to the company’s willingness to adapt to owners’ requirements. Neel produces about a dozen boats a year, with the goal of ramping up to 24 yachts annually.

CW editor-at-large Herb McCormick was a 2025 Boat of the Year judge.

The post Neel 52 Trimaran Review: A Game-Changer for Performance Cruisers appeared first on Cruising World.

2024 Atlantic Rally for Cruisers was big on numbers: 234 yachts, the 39th running of the transatlantic rally, 45 multihulls—and a half-dozen pets. The biggest among them was Snow, the Great Dane who made the crossing on the Belgian-flagged—ahem—Great Dane.

“Snow is probably the largest dog to have ever sailed with the ARC,” says Rachel Hibberd, the head of communications for the World Cruising Club.

Snow weighs in at around 160 pounds and stands just over 3 feet tall. She eats more than a pound and a half of dog food a day, plus lots of snacks. There’s a special spot at the business end of her family’s 2018 Fountaine Pajot Saona 47, off the port pontoon for…

“We get asked that a lot: Where does she do her business?” says Sophie Ingels, who, with Sven Bruynooghe, worked from home in Belgium and had two merle Great Danes. They sold their business and traveled throughout Europe with the dogs in a camper van. Sven tested a few sailboats in the Caribbean and suggested they try cruising on a Fountaine Pajot. 

“When Sven proposed we get the boat, I said, yes, but the dogs are coming too,” Ingels says. 

They sailed the Mediterranean for six months. When they realized that boat life actually worked with the Great Danes, they decided to join the ARC and cross the Atlantic. Sadly, one of their dogs has since passed away, but Snow has adjusted to multihull life like a champ.

There are a few challenges with having a pet on board—and a lot of benefits, Sophie and other sailors with dogs say. Each leg of a voyage requires additional planning, paperwork and provisioning. 

“We look at everything Benji might need quite a long time in advance,” says Mark Belcher, who along with his wife, Penny, sailed in the ARC with their Maltese.

A rabies vaccination has to be done in advance, Mark says, to prove it has worked. In St. Lucia, for example, the titer test needs to be dated at least three months prior to arrival.

In addition, different countries ­accept records from only certain testing sites, so an owner must search them out. In the United Kingdom, there are two. In the United States, there are only two or three that are accepted universally, he says.

“Other tests needed to be done in Las Palmas, because the tests need to be done within 14 days of departure—but then there’s the whole problem of getting the results back from the lab in time,” he says, adding that the dog also needs a health certificate, an export permit and an import permit. “You end up with a massive file of paperwork for Benji, and we just have our passports.”

Benji, for his part, enjoys a fast dinghy ride when leaving the family’s Lagoon 400, Two Hoots—fast enough that his white ears flap in the breeze—and he shows a strong interest in the cheese-and-ham snacks at shoreside cafes.

Snow, however, has different tastes.

“Snow didn’t get off the boat once in the Mediterranean. She occasionally does fall in, and just paddles around until we get her out,” Sophie says. “Moving around the European Union was not difficult, but we had to deal with some paperwork to get her into Morocco. The Caribbean is more of a challenge.”

In order for Snow to go to St. Lucia, she needed three trips to the vet in Las Palmas to fulfill requirements for blood samples, health reports and export. Given how strict St. Lucia is, a few ARC+ sailors with pets opted for a Grenada landfall.

“It’s been a nightmare,” says Sonia Johal, who sails with her Chihuahua, Buoy, on her Hanse 385, Salacia. “To leave the UK, you need to have an export permit, then France gave us an import permit, and sailing the EU was fine. But we had a hard time leaving Las Palmas. I thought I had all of the paperwork in order from my vet. It was a challenge.

“But I love having a pet on board,” she adds. “I sail solo most of the time, and Buoy is good company. He makes me happy. He makes me laugh and, really, he puts life into perspective. If something goes wrong, you can get a little bit fed up sometimes, you turn around and look at Buoy, and it’s like, ‘I get it, it’s all good.’”

The Smith-Haywood family on the 1991 Tayana 47 Apres Ski feels the same way about their nine-year-old Blue Point Himalayan, Cappuccino, who, along with Pablo Escobar on the Lagoon 42 Mahalo, are two of the fluffiest cats to have ever crossed the Atlantic. 

Annika Haywood, Lloyd Smith and their two kids adopted Cappuccino in Saudi Arabia. They lived aboard Apres Ski and worked in the Middle East for 12 years. Smith was director of the Coastal and Marine Resources Core Lab, part of the King Abdullah University of Science and Technology. Haywood did postdoctoral research on the genetics of sponges. When they departed Jeddah, sailed up the Red Sea and transited the Suez Canal, Cappuccino handled the headwinds like a champ, mostly sleeping and lying in the sun.

Cappuccino became a member of the EU in Cypress and didn’t care when the engine failed between Cyprus and Rhodes. He mostly enjoyed the five-month 4,300-mile trip across the Mediterranean to the Canary Islands, although he was notedly indifferent to the front-row seats for the America’s Cup in Barcelona, and was relatively unimpressed with Rhodes, Gallipoli, Rome, the Amalfi Coast, the Strait of Gibraltar, Tangier and Casablanca.

Meeting various nations’ rabies requirements is the biggest challenge, Haywood says, but as long as you have a certificate and the rabies vaccinations are repeated every 12 months, most countries are OK.

“Once we arrived in the Caribbean, we had our permit for St Lucia, but we have stuck to the French Islands otherwise, to simplify things,” she says. “We’ll do more paperwork to go to the US Virgin Islands, and then Panama and French Polynesia.” 

The family is making their way, eventually, across the Pacific and home to New Zealand. “We have a really nice backpack for him and have taken him on a few ­adventures onshore,” she says. “We ­generally take him when we leave the boat for more than a few hours, or if we’re ­staying ­somewhere overnight.

“He went swimming once, after a ­miscalculated jump back to our boat,” she adds. “We were at a marina in Greece, and he was working his way down the dock, jumping from boat to boat. He’s a ­fantastic swimmer but a complete loony, and swam in circles around different boats. I had to get in and fish him out, and then Lloyd washed him down with fresh water. I have since put some netting around the boat.”

When they’re offshore, they keep the cat’s passport, rabies certificate and import permit in the overboard grab bag, and if the boat were to sink, “he comes with us on the life raft. We have a life jacket for him right in the companionway,” Annika says. “It is difficult to get annoyed with him. He is so darn cute. We all love him.”

When Two Hoots is offshore, Penny puts Benji in his harness, then puts on her own life jacket and takes him for a walk around the boat. He gets excited when he sees the lead, she says.

“Snow didn’t get off the boat once in the Mediterranean. She ­occasionally does fall in, and just paddles around until we get her out.”

When they’re sailing, Benji’s favorite spot on board is in Penny’s lap. He generally sleeps in the cabin if someone’s below. The Belchers got him a new toy for the Atlantic crossing, to keep him busy and wear him out.

“He’s so entertaining,” Mark says. “He gives you perspective and distraction. He’s sweet and loving, and so good for morale.”

He also doesn’t need many provisions, Mark adds: “We’ve got dog food, dried stuff, and he loves salmon, tuna, chicken. We take him with us when we eat onshore. He loves sea bass and sirloin. I’m looking forward to anchoring in some little Bahamian Bay with a little spit of sound, and Benji having free range, and he can just go nuts, run around in the sand. He absolutely adores the beach. When we were in Greece, he would just go running down, roll around in the water, go for a swim.”

Buoy spends a lot of time in a small dog carrier or on a lead on deck when the boat is away from shore. Snow stays under the cockpit table when the sails are up. 

“She’s an ideal boat dog,” Sophie says. “If the weather is calm, she lies up front. If she sees dolphins, she barks. Sometimes at the dock or at anchor, if she sees ­someone, she howls. There are not a lot of safety concerns for the crew when she’s around.”

The post Sailing With Pets: Four-Legged Crew Cross the Atlantic With Style appeared first on Cruising World.

I’ll admit it: I used to think of “cruising” and “competition” as oil and water. You either race, chasing podium finishes and line honors, or you cruise, sipping sundowners in some paradisiacal anchorage. One approach was about tactics and trimming; the other was about slowing down and ­soaking it all in. For me, the latter approach always ruled the day. Then I met a new breed of sailors who blur the lines ­between the two.

Take my friend Cate, for example. She’s a lifelong bluewater boat bum with an old-school beer-can-racing pedigree. Put her on a passage, and it’s as if she’s back on the racecourse. While the rest of the crew are playing Rock, Paper, Scissors for who gets the next galley cleanup, she’s monitoring weather models, tweaking trim and picking the fastest route—not because she has to, but because she can. She gets a kick out of shaving hours off a passage, logging big-mile days, and fine-tuning a boat for speed and efficiency. To Cate, cruising is the competition. The opponents? The ocean. Herself. Her own limits.

As one of the crew tells it, on a recent hop from the Bahamas to the Chesapeake, the forecast called for a steady breeze and a relatively mellow ride, but Cate was in full optimization mode. “If we can hold this angle, we’ll stay ahead of the shift,” she muttered as she adjusted the traveler. “Think we can crack 200 miles in 24 hours?”

They didn’t, but the mindset was infectious. Instead of just biding time between watches, they found themselves checking boatspeed, tweaking sails, and scanning for cloud lines or puffs that might signal a pressure change. It wasn’t about winning anything; it was about learning, improving, and making the most of the conditions they had.

That’s the heart of competitive cruising. It’s not about crossing a finish line first (though plenty of cruisers now join regattas and rallies to put their skills to the test). It’s about pushing yourself and your boat, finding little ways to sail smarter, sail faster, and sail better.

The trend is undeniable. Performance cruisers and high-tech multihulls are surging in popularity. More offshore rallies are adding competitive divisions. And casual sailors who once thought of racing as “too serious” are starting to see the appeal of dialing in their boats, logging bigger passages, and embracing the challenge.

Some sailors make this switch naturally. Take the late cruising legend Larry Pardey, for instance. Herb McCormick recounts an anecdote that speaks to Pardey’s philosophy. A sailor once asked Pardey why he and his wife, Lin, despite being quintessential cruisers, often pushed their boats so hard. Pardey’s response? “Because someday, when it really matters, I want to know exactly what my boat and I are capable of.” It’s a sentiment that has stuck with generations of sailors. By sailing at our best when conditions are in our favor, we prepare ourselves for the moments when they’re not.

Pardey may not have raced around the buoys in the ­traditional sense, but he was low-key among the most competitive cruisers that sailing has ever known. And his dedication to efficiency and seamanship was unmatched. That’s a lesson McCormick recalls learning firsthand when he flubbed a ­final jibe at the end of a regatta in New Zealand. The race may have been over, but for Pardey, the standard never wavered: If you’re going to sail, do it well, because anything less is a disservice to yourself and your boat.

That mindset is what defines competitive cruising, a term that seems to be taking hold as more sailors embrace the idea that cruising and performance aren’t mutually exclusive. Some sailors scratch that itch by entering regattas or rallies. Others, like the modern performance-cruiser crowd, do it by chasing faster passage times, optimizing sail trim, and leveraging the latest technology to cover more miles under sail. At its core, competitive cruising is about the same thing that has always made
sailing special: learning. 

For some sailors, that means shaving days off an ocean crossing. For others, it’s about handling a spinnaker better in a breeze. And for a few, like my friend Cate, it’s about chasing the perfect passage—not because there’s a trophy at the end, but because every challenge is an opportunity to improve. 

The post When Cruising Meets Competition appeared first on Cruising World.

In my long and eventful sailing life, I have been in several emergency ­situations. In every case, I was able to deal with them. Fitting out the first Aventura myself taught me the importance of being self-sufficient, and ever since then, I have attempted to do all that is necessary to be prepared for the worst. One golden rule that I have learned is not to panic. Calm is crucial in an emergency situation. Take time to assess the situation, draw up a plan of action, and then act. As Mike Johnson, a former fighter-jet pilot and ­mountaineer, told me: “We use a simple acronym for most of our decision-making: DODAR.

Diagnose the problem, options available, decide on the most appropriate, act upon it, review how it is working. If necessary, return to Step 1. This might sound simplistic, but we have seen so many minor situations develop into disasters because people didn’t even begin at the first step.”

My first serious emergency happened while sailing from Puerto Rico to the Bahamas. We stopped at Grand Turk Island and decided to explore the nearby Ambergris Cay on the edge of the Caicos Banks. As we moved from the deep ­channel into the shallows, I could see an ­unobstructed way ahead, leading to an area of darker blue water. 

Then, a passing cloud obscured the sun, and the water ahead of us turned to quicksilver. I slowed down but came to a ­crunching halt on top of a massive coral head. Even with the engine on full power ahead, and then astern, we didn’t budge.

I donned my mask. Aventura’s keel was jammed in a deep coral cleft—amid some beautiful underwater scenery. I had dived in many attractive places, but this was beyond imagination. Fishes of all colors, shapes and sizes darted amid swaying coral fans. Spiny lobsters swept their antennae from their hidey-holes, while a Napoleon wrasse with thick lips glanced at me with a bored look. I had to grip the edge of the coral head to avoid being swept away by the strong current that had pushed us off course.

Back on board, I got a spare anchor, tied it to a halyard, and swam it some distance away in the hope of heeling Aventura over, to reduce draft and get out of the trap. It was to no avail. The keel was firmly gripped in the coral vice. A couple of hours later, a rising tide and a fortuitous swell lifted us up and into the sheltered waters behind the reef.  

Despite the battering, the strong fiberglass hull had suffered only a few scratches, but my self-confidence was severely dented. It took us all a long time to recover from that frightening experience.

Caught in the Net

Another incident occurred near the end of a passage from the Azores to Gibraltar. We had reasonable weather. As we passed Cape St. Vincent aboard Aventura II, I decided to have a short rest ahead of arrival—always a good idea before landfall after a long passage, to help clear the mind. Before going below, I told my two crew to call me if they saw anything of concern.

I was awakened by a loud knock, followed by a grinding noise. I jumped into the cockpit and grabbed a flashing light. I knew immediately that we had run into one of those gigantic tuna nets that Spanish fishermen set in that area. Over the side, I could see a thick cable with a heavy net hanging from it. 

Quickly, I raised the retractable keel to prevent entanglement. I also prepared my powerful cable cutters. I then called the nearest shore station to explain our ­predicament. I said that if help was not forthcoming, I would cut the cable.

“Don’t do that! Please, don’t do that!” a voice screamed in Spanish. “Wait. We are coming immediately.”

Soon afterward, a fishing boat raced ­toward us at full speed. The helmsman ­signaled us to follow him. He positioned his own keel over the cable to lower it. With Aventura’s keel retracted, we managed to get across both the cable and net. The boat guided us to a gate in the net a couple of miles away, and we were free. 

What had saved us was the best tool in my kit: my ability to speak Spanish.

My crew had broken one of my most important rules: to inform the skipper immediately if they saw anything suspicious. They told me later that they had seen the flashing light, but because it was faint, they had estimated it to be much farther away.

Hiss, Rumble, Crack

While on passage from Reunion to South Africa with a Finnish friend, we ­encountered bad weather off the southern tip of Madagascar. During my night watch, with the wind steady at 35 knots and our speed never going below 9 knots, the pattern of the waves changed. The swell started to look menacing. I had seen higher waves in the Southern Ocean while returning from Antarctica to Cape Horn, but I was not expecting to see anything as bad in these waters. 

Earlier that evening, there had been a warning on Inmarsat C that a ship had seen several large logs afloat. The threat of colliding with one of them was at the back of my mind as I savored the thrill of seeing 12.5 knots on the speedometer. 

While surfing down a big wave, above the hiss and rumble, I heard a loud noise. The boat pulled out of its slide, and a ­louder noise came from the direction of the ­steering. Almost instantly, the ­movement of the boat changed. I suspected the ­autopilot had gone off. I disengaged it and grabbed the wheel—which felt heavy and unresponsive.

I lifted the cockpit grating and saw that the 12 mm bolt joining the hydraulic ­autopilot ram to the rudder quadrant had sheared. The steering also appeared to be faulty, so I hove-to. I lowered the centerboard; it had been raised while we were broad-reaching. As we were sailing under a reefed mainsail and staysail, I hauled in both sheets and turned in to the wind.

Hove-to, with the wheel lashed to windward, Aventura was close-reaching slowly into the large swell. I found a replacement bolt and replaced the broken one, and then brought the boat back on course, still wondering why it was so hard to steer. I ­reengaged the autopilot. 

Only then did it occur to me to check the rudder hydraulics. I tried to pump down the rudder, but it felt dead. If the valve controlling the rudder or centerboard was not left in the open position, and one or the other had hit something, then the resulting pressure would have blown a sacrificial copper disc that opened the hydraulic circuit. 

I had spare discs taped to the hydraulic pump in a plastic bag just for this eventuality, so it took me only a couple of minutes to replace the sacrificial disc. Then I realized that we may have hit one of those logs. Whatever it was, the boat had ridden over it, and it had hit the rudder. 

The rudder had two parts. The upper part was fixed, and the lower part could swing up for beaching the boat. Thanks to its design, the rudder had absorbed the shock without suffering any apparent damage. One year later, when the boat was hauled out, I noticed a suspicious crack in the main rudder body. It could have been a consequence, but it must have been a violent collision to crack the massive aluminum plate.

An Alarm and a Hole

Another time, in Croatia, my wife, Gwenda, and I had been joined by our daughter Doina and her children, Nera and Dan, for a summer cruise. We were motoring down the Krka River after visiting the ­spectacular waterfalls.

The engine-temperature alarm sounded. I switched off the engine, which had overheated. Being on a river, I suspected that we had picked up some weeds or debris, but when I checked the seawater trap, I noticed a lot of water in the engine bilge.

I dropped the anchor right there in the middle of the river, in the way of numerous excursion boats. When I lifted the floorboards in the aft cabin to look at the back of the engine, I smelled exhaust fumes. The plastic manifold heat exchanger had a large hole in its side. Exhaust and cooling water had escaped.

Gwenda tried to notify passing ­excursion boats that we had not anchored there for afternoon tea. I got a tube of underwater epoxy, rolled and mixed the two components, and covered the hole. We waited one hour for it to set, and then turned the key. The engine started and ran happily.

It was a minor problem, but it could have had serious consequences. Doina, Nera and Dan slept in the aft cabin. If this problem had happened at night, they could have been overcome by carbon monoxide. The thought still makes me shudder.

A Dangerous Tangle

After weather forced us to abandon an attempt of transiting the Northwest Passage, we turned to sail back to Greenland. Gale-force winds were forecast for the following day, so we motored fast through Lancaster Sound toward the open sea. 

During Doina’s watch, I was awakened by a loud noise from the engine. I rushed into the cockpit and stopped the engine, which was rattling. It sounded like we had picked up something on the propeller. 

I strapped a GoPro camera with an underwater housing to the end of an ice pole, lowered it over the side, and managed to get a good view of the propeller. A thick, black rope was wound around it, with its end trailing behind. Even worse, the bolts between the propeller shaft and ­transmission had sheared. 

The rope had been strong enough to ­immobilize the propeller shaft and rip it off its mounts. With much drifting ice, as well as large icebergs still about, we needed to be able to use the engine. We had 1,000 miles to go to Nuuk.

With the imminent gale, we reefed down and continued sailing until we had consistent winds of more than 35 knots. We hove-to with three reefs in the mainsail and most of the staysail rolled in, and we easily rode out the gale. After a dozen hours, the wind started going down and I could work on the engine. 

I had no spare bolts on board, but I found some longer bolts and cut them down to size with the electric angle grinder. I retrieved the sheared-off bolts from the bilge and recuperated their nuts. Hanging upside down over the back of the engine, I managed to pull back the propeller shaft sufficiently to reconnect it to the transmission.

It was now time to deal with the rope itself. I could turn the propeller shaft by hand, and it felt as if it were free, but I dared not start the engine and put it in gear. I donned my drysuit and kitted myself out for the ice-cold water. I figured that the job would take only a few minutes, so I didn’t wear an air tank.

Attached to the boat with a safety line, I cut off some of the rope and freed the propeller. Then I summoned superhuman strength to get out of the water while wearing lead weights, with the boat bouncing ­violently in the rough swell. My hood was not dry, and I could feel the cold water getting to my head. I knew that I had only about one minute before serious ­hypothermia would set in.

It was the sight of Doina standing helplessly above me that gave me the strength to lie on my back and lift my feet one by one out of the water. She reached down and pulled off my fins. I then managed to put my foot on the lowest rung of the boarding ladder, and she helped me onto the stern platform. I dropped, exhausted, into the cockpit, and Doina later told me that I sounded incoherent.

When I had recovered, I started the ­engine and put it in forward gear, but I kept it at slow revs. I checked the propeller with the underwater camera and could see it turning freely, with the end of the rope trailing harmlessly behind. After half an hour of motoring, I checked the bolts, and they were tight. 

Eight days later, we were in Nuuk, where I donned my drysuit—this time with an air tank—in the calm water. Some of the line was waving idly in the current. I cut it off with a serrated knife, but the rest had fused to the propeller shaft. That job had to wait until Aventura could be hauled out at a boatyard in Newport, Rhode Island, some 3,500 miles from where the incident had happened.

Nasty Weather

In all my years of sailing, I have experienced sustained winds over 50 knots on ­only a half-dozen occasions. I always left the tropics to avoid the hurricane and ­cyclone seasons, but I took a calculated risk in high latitudes, where we were prepared for the heavy weather we encountered. Even in these days of climate change, extreme conditions are still rare during the safe seasons on the commonly traveled cruising routes.

My first experience of bad weather happened on the first Aventura, while anchored in Bora Bora Lagoon with another dozen yachts. In the middle of the night, a passing depression reversed the prevailing southeast winds into a strong west wind that put us all on a lee shore. 

Panic and havoc were all around us. The only way out was to pick up the anchor and move to a more sheltered place. I started the engine and powered ahead.

It was impossible to raise the dug-in anchor, so we dragged it slowly until we reached a derelict dock in the next bay. We survived the rest of the night and returned to the anchorage in the morning. Several boats had been blown onshore and were damaged. At least one was a total loss.  

We were the only boat to have left the anchorage. It was an extremely valuable lesson. From then on, whenever I had any doubts about an anchorage, at the first sign of a change in weather, I would pick up the anchor and go into the open sea. The one place where I didn’t do that was in Arctic Canada, in Dundas Harbour with a half-dozen other boats. We were caught by a violent storm that peaked at more than 60 knots, but fortunately, we were ­well-anchored and survived the 28-hour ordeal.

Onward

Having been a monohull owner for more than 40 years, I had doubts about the vulnerability of my catamaran Aventura Zero in heavy weather. I did take that factor into account when I ordered the Outremer 45, and, to put my mind at rest, I was sincerely hoping that we would encounter some bad weather on our maiden voyage. 

My weird wish came true not once, but three times, with winds of 40 knots and gusts of 50 knots. It happened on the return passage from Tenerife, Spain, to France while passing Ibiza in the Balearic Isles. It was a proper Mediterranean winter storm, with winds in the high 30s and a swell to match. 

Everything was going well, although we were sailing too fast for my taste. We put the third reef in the mainsail and rolled in the Solent to one-third of its surface. When the winds started hitting the 40s, we dropped the mainsail completely.

We continued broad-reaching. To my ­utter amazement, but also relief, Aventura was as stable as a table. This is the ­description I put in my logbook: “The boat was taking the high swell in its stride, surfing at 12 to 14 knots, peaking once at 18.4 knots.”  

Even at that speed, there was no sign of a lack of stability. On the contrary, I went out on several occasions and was amazed by the enormous wake streaking out behind us. 

It was an exhilarating experience, and my doubts were definitely put to rest. Other catamarans may have behaved differently, but I can vouch for the seaworthiness of my latest Aventura. 

The post How to Stay Calm and Survive Onboard Emergencies at Sea appeared first on Cruising World.

There is something quite majestic about standing atop the Knysna Heads, the prominent headlands fronting the town of Knysna along South Africa’s rugged southern shoreline. To ­seaward, the ­deep-blue waters of the wild Indian Ocean beckon. Inshore, the lagoon in the protected harbor is placid. It seems fitting that this port is where the Vision line of cruising catamarans is built and launched. The Vision 444 ES will be right at home in either venue—as a liveaboard cat in calm waters or knocking off steady miles in the open ocean.

In the past two editions of Cruising World’s annual Boat of the Year contest, we’ve had ­up-close opportunities to inspect a pair of Visions. For 2024, the Vision 444 earned top honors as the Best Cruising Catamaran Under 50 Feet. This past fall, for the 2025 competition, we inspected the company’s ­redesigned 44-foot sistership, the 444 ES. 

Those letters stand for “extended scoop,” an important addition for a couple of reasons. First, the scoops lengthen the waterline with a stretched transom for boarding, diving, fishing and swimming. Equally important, according to company co-owner James Turner, the longer waterline and reconfigured hull forms have improved the boat’s underway performance under sail and when motoring. 

Turner is a lifelong ­waterman. He grew up on all manner of boats before getting into the marine business—first in the charter trade and as a delivery skipper before transitioning to building high-performance sailboats and powerboats. With Vision, his latest venture, he’s aiming to create high-end, user-friendly bluewater cats expressly for cruising couples. His passion is evident, and he has clearly given plenty of thought to every element of his vessels, from the build and ergonomics to systems and rigging. The finished products are marvels of engineering in every facet, right down to the rudders, which are calibrated to ensure smooth tacks and jibes. Vision is currently producing about 10 boats annually.

The 444 ES is a good-looking craft with an almost futuristic mien. The waterline is maxed out, with slightly raked bows forward and those aforementioned extended transoms aft. The main cabin/coachroof is positioned well forward, with wraparound turret-style ­windows that are accented by a quartet of hull windows to port and starboard.

A hard Bimini top extends over the cockpit, offering plenty of protection from the elements, and serves as an ideal base for the suite of 75-watt solar panels mounted atop it. A side-access door in the hull for easy boarding is a fabulous feature. The raised helm station is to starboard, beneath its own dedicated hardtop, with all sailhandling controls and running rigging close at hand. Visibility from this perch is outstanding. The winches and clutches are from Harken, Garmin supplies the instrumentation, and the full set of excellent North Sails come from the Cape Town loft. 

The build is strong but light, with a resin-infused laminate that includes E-glass and a foam sandwich. The only carbon employed is in the steering wheel, davits and bowsprit. The 24-volt DC house ­system—with a standard bank of lithium-­ion batteries—is simple and straightforward. The twin Nanni diesels with saildrives are easily accessed through a pair of lifting lids. The diesels have their own dedicated toolkits and seats for service and maintenance. The fixed mini keels draw less than 4 feet. 

In the main cockpit, the galley is forward, handy to the U-shaped settee and dining table. To starboard, there’s an excellent forward-facing navigation station. The owner’s suite spans the length of the starboard hull, with a double berth aft and a terrific workspace/shop forward. It has its own vice, workbench and tools. 

The clear highlight of our Boat of the Year inspection, however, was the sea trial, conducted in 14 to 16 knots of northerly breeze on a fine fall afternoon on the Chesapeake Bay. Once the square-topped mainsail was hoisted via an electric winch, we commenced matters with the generous asymmetric kite, knocking off just under 10 knots on a romping beam reach. The helm required just a touch of the ­fingertips, and it was quite an appealing sensation to have that much power with such precise control. After ­dropping the kite, we unrolled the self-​tacking jib. Closehauled, the boat notched speeds in the mid-7s, but as the breeze gusted into the 20- to 25-knot range, we recorded better than 9 knots upwind. It was a great sail.

That test run added some ­focus and context to the Vision’s dual-purpose nature. Yes, it’s an excellent liveaboard home in a protected ­anchorage. But where it really comes to life—and where it will shine the brightest—is under full sail in the open sea. 

CW editor-at-large Herb McCormick was a 2025 Boat of the Year judge.

Take the Next Step

PRICE: $1.2 million (as tested)

CONTACT: visionyachts.com

The post Built to Thrill: Vision 444 ES Seatrial Report appeared first on Cruising World.

Lifelong friendships can be born at sea, but sometimes, camaraderie falters on long passages. After more than four years of cruising, five ocean crossings across 1,500 nautical miles, and hearing countless stories from my peers, I’ve realized that there are ways to help ensure positive relationships on board. Whether you’re joining someone else’s boat as a skipper or crewmember or taking a captain or crewmember on your own vessel, the trick is to work out the kinks prior to casting off the lines.

First, shipmates should interact with one another and visit the vessel. They should explore attitudes, personalities, confidence levels, enthusiasm, and degrees of commitment to the journey. Everyone should have similar expectations and goals. Fine-tuning the experience involves assessing the boat’s seaworthiness as well as the qualifications, diet, health, and roles of those who will be on board.

Newcomers should inspect the boat. In addition to the rig, sails, bilge pumps and safety equipment, evaluate the integrity of the electronic, freshwater and mechanical systems. Inquire about redundancy, and note where fuel will be obtained because, unfortunately, contamination can be an issue. Familiarize yourself with the communication resources that will be available offshore, and test them prior to departure. 

Walk the boat and register any ­potential hazards in the layout. Injuries as minor as a bump on the head from an exposed corner to a lethal strike from a cockpit traveler happen. Get acquainted with the galley, ensuring that you can prepare a meal even if you’re not the designated cook. 

The most efficient way to gather baseline information about the captain and crew is to exchange sailing résumés. This will include licensure, the number of nautical miles sailed, and a candidate’s familiarity with different types of boats and marine environments. 

Next, determine if your sailing styles and safety principles are in sync by discussing specific situations, watch schedules, reefing plans, and when the crew should wake a sleeping skipper. Tailor your conversation to the vessel. Determine everyone’s availability and flexibility because it might be necessary to work around schedule changes due to weather, illness, repairs or other unforeseen circumstances.

The intricate workings of a ship’s galley can make or break a bluewater passage. Food is our fuel, and it’s imperative that everyone on board remains well-nourished throughout the journey. A provisioning budget should be agreed upon, and food preferences and restrictions should be discussed early. Meals should be planned and prepared accordingly. Weeklong food diaries can help tease out shipmates’ food expectations and promote objective consideration of the menu. To avoid accidents in the galley, there should be one chef at a time, taking appropriate safety precautions.

Full disclosure of the captain’s and crew’s relevant health history promotes well-being during a bluewater passage. Shipmates will have to rely on one another for physical and mental healthcare. Potential treatment needs and resources should be reviewed. Pay special attention to seasickness and anxiety, two of the most common ailments affecting visiting sailors. Remove stigma by asking open-ended questions, or use a written questionnaire. Health-insurance status should be assessed.

Defining roles can help to ensure that no one is deadweight or, worse, a liability. Also, rotating roles can promote shared responsibility. Find out what special skills people bring to the boat. In most cases, there should be only one captain, who should consult crewmembers and ultimately decide the best course of action. In turn, all crewmembers should participate in consultation and carry out the captain’s plan. 

Be it Mutiny on the Bounty or Captain Ron, nothing gets under a cruiser’s skin like a story about flawed relationships between shipmates. These timeless tales resonate because—let’s face it—incompetence, arguments, sickness and even death can happen on all vessels. Predeparture due diligence can ensure that the benefits of adding crew outweigh the risks. It can even lead to true camaraderie and lifelong friendship. —Jill Gallin

Pediatric nurse practitioner and mother of two Jill Gallin is sailing the world with her husband, Michael, on their 2011 Outremer 49, Gerty of New York. Follow their journey at svgerty.com.

The post How to Build the Right Crew for Offshore Sailing appeared first on Cruising World.

The old saying “sooner is better than later” makes sense to most sailors. It’s especially true when it comes to safety training. The sooner you sign up for a safety-at-sea seminar, the better.

But the seminar is only Step 1. It’s the follow-up ­practice and vessel preparation that will ingrain those lessons and likely lead to the right response if an underway mishap occurs. 

“Man overboard!” is a shout-out that no sailor wants to hear, and one which requires an immediate response. The skipper and best ­boathandler may be off watch, asleep in their bunks, and those on watch may have waited too long to tuck in a reef. Darkness, rough seas and a cross-swell can conspire, causing a crewmember to go over the side. The least-experienced sailor might be at the helm and see the incident unfold. At that moment, he or she is the most important person on the boat.  

Preparing the crew for such an event is a skipper’s ­responsibility. A three-pronged approach works best. 

The first step includes participation in a US Sailing Safety at Sea seminar, ­especially one that includes a hands-on in-water session on the second day. 

Next comes the acquisition of equipment appropriate for the conditions and type of sailing. 

Third are the practice sessions aboard your own boat, to implement everything learned at the seminar and get comfortable with the boat’s gear. The goal is to make a rescue as reflexive a response as possible.

Marine accident reports, which include feedback from sailors after overboard incidents, often allude to deer-in-headlights hesitation. Apparently, the big challenge stems from having to switch from watchkeeping’s familiar routine to the unfamiliar challenge—the magnitude of which can also hinder the response. 

Fortunately, crews who have practiced fare better. So do their shipmates who have gone over the side. With enough practice, not only will your crew-overboard recovery skills improve, but so will your ability to pick up a mooring under sail.    

The golden rule, when it comes to recoveries, is staying as close to the victim as possible. The quick-stop maneuver is meant to maintain that proximity, but the hasty tack into a heave-to position can be troublesome, especially if a boat is deep-reaching with large headsails or a spinnaker set. There’s also a jibe to handle as the vessel makes a circular- or ellipse-shaped maneuver and approaches the victim on a close reach. 

An alternative maneuver—reach away, tack and reach back—eliminates the abrupt tack and jibe inherent in the quick-stop. But the “sail away from the victim” portion of the maneuver should be minimized. It adds the potential of losing sight of the person in the water, especially at night. 

An overly hasty return also spells trouble. Excess boatspeed can result in a flyby that leaves the victim flailing in the wake and that lessens the chance of a recovery. 

The ideal final approach concludes when a decelerating close reach and turn up into the wind results in a knot or less of boatspeed just as you approach the victim. 

There’s no ­one-size-fits-all rescue maneuver. Some techniques are better-suited to fully crewed racing sailboats, while others fit the needs of those cruising ­shorthanded. The biggest challenge is everything that must happen nearly simultaneously. In addition to maneuvering the vessel, someone must shout: “Man overboard!” Others must deploy the MOB buoy and flotation, mark the position on the GPS, roust the off watch, keep the victim in sight, trim and douse sails, and steer the boat back to the victim. This can be tough, especially for the doublehander who suddenly assumes singlehander status. It’s why streamlining the recovery process makes a lot of sense.  

I prefer a hybrid recovery for shorthanding situations. The process begins by stopping the boat via a tack into a heave-to position. With the victim in sight, mark the location electronically and deploy the MOB device. This ensures reference positions, just in case you lose sight of the victim. 

Next, start the engine (leave it in neutral), furl the headsail, centerline the main, and motor a circular course similar to the quick-stop. Deploy the Lifesling and be sure the victim is to weather before rounding up. Tow the Lifesling line so that it intersects with the victim. 

Before the horseshoe reaches the person in the water, the boatspeed should be near zero, with the engine in neutral. Once the Lifesling is secure around the victim, shut down the engine, make sure the boom is on centerline, and hand-haul the victim toward the boat. 

Once the person is ­alongside, explain reboarding via a halyard hoist, stern platform or boarding ladder. When a swim platform at the stern is the choice, care must be taken, especially in heavy seas, to avoid the pitching stern’s downward plunges.

M.O.B. Must-Haves

Three of the most useful pieces of MOB recovery equipment, especially for shorthanded cruising sailors, are the Man Overboard Module, the Lifesling and an Ocean Signal rescueMe ­personal locator beacon.

The MOM is a quick-to-­deploy inflatable pylon with a light that’s elevated 6 feet above the water. It’s attached to an inflatable, underarm lifting sling/flotation aid and has a ballasted 16-inch drogue. It comes in two sizes: 8-A and a smaller 8-S. The compact rail-mounted design is another big plus. 

The Lifesling2 is a towable floating collar attached to a floating polypropylene line that the victim can grasp. This tool connects the victim and the vessel. The Lifesling2 also serves as a lifting harness during the final haul aboard to conclude a rescue.

Ocean Signal’s rescueMe MOB1 provides a digital link between a person in the water and all AIS units within range. It can also alert the person’s vessel via a digital selective calling alarm link. There’s a built-in strobe, and the unit can be set up with a PFD to activate automatically upon inflation of the life jacket, or it can be tucked into a foul-weather-jacket pocket and operated manually.

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There were five of us aboard Freya, a Sun Odyssey 51, prepping for a transatlantic crossing, and the captain and paying crew, myself included, were discussing provisioning. We were about to set out on a cruise-and-learn voyage from Malaga, Spain, to Lanzarote, Canary Islands. I was a novice sailor then, ­only casual coastal sailing with family and friends. With my first nonstop offshore passage looming, my feelings were a mix of excitement and anxiety.

Food and diet were the last things on my mind, which was why I was ­surprised at the reaction of the others when I casually mentioned that I was vegan. The dismay on their faces was palpable.

“What do you mean, vegan? We get that you don’t eat red meat. But chicken and fish, dairy and eggs—those are OK, right?”

I can still remember their crestfallen faces at my answer: none of the above.

Now, years and many sea miles later, I know that provisioning for a long passage and preparing meals for the whole crew are not as straightforward as a novice might think, especially when sailing offshore.

I’d landed aboard Freya at a crossroads in my life. After years working in New York City, I’d returned to Italy, my home country. New York’s crazy rhythms had worn me out. The career satisfaction was no longer gratifying enough to justify the rat-race pace. I was looking for something different, but I wasn’t sure what. I decided to do something that took me way out of my comfort zone: I booked a passage aboard Freya, hoping to free my mind and learn a few things.

I wasn’t a sailor in any sense, but during previous coastal sailing trips, I’d glimpsed the possibility of a different life, one in total contact with nature, one that stressed the importance of the fundamentals ­rather than amassing wealth, material goods and stature. That approach to life seemed ­simple, though hardly ordinary. I reasoned that time at sea would give me time to think about my priorities, and knew I’d come back stronger. In that sense, I was ­absolutely right: The experience changed my life.

Our passage through the Strait of Gibraltar was what I’d anticipated most: the mythological Pillars of Hercules, the idea of having thousands of miles of open sea in front of me. I was ready for a ritual, a rite of passage I’d remember for a lifetime.

In all honesty, the passage itself was as boring as sailing gets. We motored through Gibraltar at dusk, avoiding large container ships and not speaking to one another as the captain gave endless instructions to all the still-learning crew on board. The strongest and fondest memory I have is from our third night at sea. A northerly wind kicked in along the coast of Morocco, and the boat, which was motoring on calm waters, began to dance with the wind and waves. The captain instructed us to hoist the main and pole out the genny to make the most of the breeze. Freya came alive. It felt like we were flying. A full moon hung in the night sky, the air was warm and smelled vaguely of sand, and our boat’s wake shone like a beacon in the dark night. I was hooked.

When we got to Lanzarote, I decided to join the boat’s next leg, from Tenerife, Canary Islands, to Martinique—transatlantic. I was ready. Since that time, I’ve never returned to land life or the 9-to-5 grind. Ten years on, I’m living and working aboard on coastal and offshore charters and deliveries, or in remote locales, whenever I get a chance.

During those two early, life-changing trips, my vegan diet wasn’t a problem. We all shared the cooking duties. At shared meals, I ate what I could (there was always something), but my mainstay was this ­cabbage salad.

I’ve since discovered that this versatile veggie is a sailor’s ally, vegan or not. Raw, boiled, roasted, stuffed, baked or in simple salads, the possibilities are endless. As a bonus, cabbage is packed with vitamins and minerals, particularly Vitamin C. In sailing eras past, it saved many sailors from disease—scurvy, in particular. It keeps for weeks, even unrefrigerated, and it’s the last veggie that’s not canned or frozen you’ll likely have on board at the end of a long passage.

Most sailors crave the “crunch” of a fresh salad as the days at sea go by, and this cabbage salad delivers that and more. The ingredients are all dry stores with extended shelf lives, making it a perfect ­offshore ­salad. Even if you’re not sailing across oceans, this long-lasting and versatile ­veggie always fills the bill.

Offshore Cabbage Salad

• 4 cups cabbage, sliced thinly
• ¼ cup sliced black olives (optional)
• 4 sun-dried tomatoes, chopped (or 2 Tbsp. raisins)
• 2 Tbsp. capers
• 2 Tbsp. slivered almonds or other nuts 
• salt and pepper to taste

Optional adds:

•     ¾ cup red cabbage, sliced thinly
•     ¼ cup carrot, grated

Mustard Vinaigrette:

• 3 Tbsp. olive oil 
• 1 Tbsp. lemon juice or red wine vinegar
• 1-2 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
• salt and pepper to taste

Note: If you prefer more dressing, double this. Refrigerate any that’s left over. 

Cut the cabbage in half. Cut each half into two wedges. Remove core. Slice wedges lengthwise into thin strips. (If strips are too long to eat comfortably, cut them in half.) Place in a large bowl. Add remaining ingredients, toss, and set aside while you make the dressing. Note: Store any unused cabbage in the fridge. 

For the dressing: Combine all ingredients, and whisk vigorously until dressing is ­emulsified. (If you don’t like or don’t have ­mustard, this simple dressing is fine without it.) Add dressing to assembled salad and toss. 

Before serving, let sit at room ­temperature for 10-30 minutes, allowing the ­cabbage to moisten, tenderize, and absorb the ­flavors of the dressing. 

Serves: 4
Prep time: 20 minutes
Difficulty: easy
Can be made: at anchor or underway

Cook’s Note: You can add or subtract any of the extras in this salad based on what you like or have on hand. For nonvegans, chopped anchovies and crumbled feta are also nice options.

Editor’s note: Got a favorite boat meal you’d like to share? Email us at editor@cruisingworld.com.

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