Our Atlantic 70 cutter, Stressbuster, had just arrived in Paroikia, Paros, in Greece’s Cyclades Islands. My husband, Kostas, and I, along with five charter guests, had spent the previous two weeks island-hopping across the Aegean Sea from our base near Athens. The October weather was sublime: The Greeks call it “little summer.” It was a perfect end to the season.

This was our last charter of the year, and our guests would disembark here. Having said our goodbyes, we decided to take a lay day to clean the boat, reprovision, and visit with friends on Paros. Wind and weather in October can be erratic, so we’d allowed a week or more to deliver the boat lazily back to our dock in Salamina instead of doing a straight 100-mile shot. 

During the night, the wind picked up. By daylight, it was partly cloudy. The temperature had dropped considerably. We checked the updated forecast for the next days: winds increasing in strength from 25 knots to 30, then 35, with higher gusts possible, and seas 6 to 9 feet. 

Situated smack in the middle of the Aegean, the Cyclades are surrounded by open sea. Distances between islands are not short, and seas between them can build in a surprisingly short time. 

Our dock, on the outer pier at Paroikia’s public marina, was becoming uncomfortable. Along with a couple of other yachts, we arranged with the harbormaster to move to an inside space.

By the second morning, we had a steady 30-knot wind, north-northeast, with higher gusts. Beyond the harbor, seas were building. Out in the anchorage, there was a nasty chop. 

As the wind rose, the temperature dropped further. Lazing abovedecks was out of the question. That afternoon, a couple of stray bareboats limped in seeking shelter, their headsails shredded. 

We and other sailors wore heavy jackets for walks ashore. In town, late-season tourists in shorts and T-shirts scoured local shops for warm clothing. Freestanding taverna menu boards and trash bins did cartwheels. 

Late summer had suddenly become early winter. The Old Town was nearly deserted. Locals, wisely, stayed home. 

Later that day, forecasts began mentioning an omega block phenomenon. After 25 years of sailing the islands and studying Greek weather forecasts, I’d never heard of it, but I had learned one thing: When Greek meteorologists use the word “phenomenon,” pay attention. 

Conveniently, I had a Greek captain with a lifetime of ­experience sitting next to me.

“What’s an omega block?” I asked Kostas, scrolling through the forecast details. 

“A what?” he asked. 

An online search told us that an omega block is caused by disturbances in the jet stream. The omega block stops the normal progression of weather systems, sandwiching a high-pressure area ­between two low-pressure areas. On weather maps, the shape of the jet stream resembles the ­upper-case Greek letter ­omega: Ω. 

On the low-pressure sides, there is rain. In the squeezed high-pressure middle, the prevalent weather is fair, though sometimes cool and windy. Omega blocks can ­remain stationary for days. 

We were in the lower end of the high-pressure area, and we now know this: When you’re stuck in an omega block, the weather repeats itself daily like an annoying broken record. Down below on the boat, it was chilly. Our hatch faced north, so cold air wafted in. Wearing fleece and sweat pants, we hunkered down, worked a bit, read, and relaxed. Occasionally, other charter crew stopped by for coffee and to commiserate.

As dinnertime approached one night, I realized that my appetite had also switched seasons. Suddenly and desperately, I craved a heaping hot bowl of spicy homemade chili topped with gooey cheese—winter comfort food. 

We had everything we needed aboard except ground beef. We did have half a roasted chicken tucked in the fridge, a leftover from the previous night’s dinner that was earmarked for soup. Roasted-chicken chili? Getting beef meant a cold, windy walk to the supermarket. The chicken was ready to deploy.

An hour later, with the delicious aroma of slow-­simmered chili permeating and warming the cabin, we set the salon table, lit a battery-­operated candle (the illusion of warmth would do), and dug in. Soon, the hot meal and spices worked their magic. We were warm, content and, with full bellies, growing sleepy. 

The boat was secure. A cozy bunk and good books awaited. On a day when “little ­summer” had turned into “the big chill,” it was a perfect ­ending. Tomorrow was ­another day. 

Easy Roasted-Chicken Chili (serves 2)

• ¼ cup olive oil
• 1  medium onion, diced
• 2-3  garlic cloves, peeled and minced
• 1 12-ounce can chopped tomatoes
• 1 12-ounce can kidney beans (or black beans) 
• 1 7-ounce can Old El Paso Chopped Green Chiles
• 1 cube chicken bouillon 
• 1  tsp. chili powder
• ¼  tsp. ground cumin
• ¼ tsp. ground coriander
• red chili flakes, pinch (optional)
• salt and pepper, to taste*
• 3  cups cooked chicken breast meat, shredded 
• shredded cheddar, Gouda or Monterey Jack cheese, to taste
• chopped coriander, chives or green onions to garnish (optional)

* Bouillon may contain salt, so taste before adding more.

Add olive oil to a large stew pot over ­medium heat. Add onion. Sauté until onion begins to soften. Add garlic, sauté for about 1 minute. Add tomatoes, beans and green chiles, along with can juices. Add bouillon cube, chili powder, cumin and coriander. Stir. Simmer a few minutes to let flavors blend. Add salt and pepper to taste. 

Stir again, bring to a simmer, and then ­reduce heat to low or medium-low. ­Slow-simmer, partially covered, for about 30 minutes or until chili begins to thicken and flavors blend. If it gets too thick, add a splash of water. 

While it cooks: With your hands, shred chicken breast into bite-size chunks. Add to pot, stir, and simmer 10 to 15 minutes more. 

To serve, ladle hot chili into bowls. Top with shredded cheese and garnish if desired. 

Cook’s Note: If you don’t have leftover ­roasted chicken, then place a boneless chicken breast in a large, deep sauté pan with a lid. Add water to cover chicken. Poach for 10 to 15 minutes or until internal temperature reads 165 degrees ­Fahrenheit. Cool slightly before shredding. Add to ­simmering chili as above. 

Prep time: 1 hour
Difficulty: easy
Can be made: at anchor

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

The post The Big Chill: Sailing Adventure & Comfort Food 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 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.

The post Cabbage: The Offshore Cruiser’s Secret Superfood appeared first on Cruising World.

It was the end of October in San Carlos, Mexico. My husband, Jeff, and I were back aboard Outrider, our Westsail 42, after several months spent up north. During hurricane season each year, we leave the boat tucked safely at a sheltered marina while we explore the beautiful western United States, land-cruising in our camper van. Getting resettled after being away always involves some long work-filled days.

This day was particularly hot. We’d labored for hours to relocate all the equipment and sails we’d stored belowdecks. After much lifting, pushing and shoving, we’d finally got everything back in place. 

As dinnertime neared, we were too overheated and exhausted to even think about cooking. The boat’s interior was already steaming; we had no wish to add to the heat by using the stove or oven, which weren’t working anyway. The propane was not yet reconnected, a task that required more energy than we were willing to expend right then.  

The idea of going out to eat was equally unappealing. We were tired, hot, in need of showers, and getting hungrier by the minute. Then, I had a thought.

In our camper van, we have a micro galley: a small upright fridge with a freezer, a microwave/convection oven, and a two-burner propane stove. As in Mexico, sometimes-intense summer heat makes us reluctant to cook inside our already hot van.

One evening this past summer, we’d met up with friends who are former yacht cruisers, now land-cruising in their own camper. It was one of those times when it was too hot to cook. We’d been traveling together for a few days, taking turns making dinner for four, which can be challenging in a van. That night was their turn. They’d bought a shelf-stable “heat and eat” pizza crust at a large grocery store, so they decided to try making pizza on the grill, adding tomato sauce, garlic, cured sausage, olives and lots of soft, melty cheese. Lacking a pizza pan or baking sheet, unsurprisingly, these former boat cooks improvised: They plonked it on a sheet of heavy-duty aluminum foil, doubled over, and put it on a medium-hot grill for 10 minutes. It exceeded our ­expectations: lovely melted cheese, crisp dough and ­excellent flavor. 

Flatbread pizzas became a staple of ours from then on. We stocked prepared crusts, and we even grilled pizza using frozen crusts, with excellent results. At first it took a bit of finessing to determine the right temperature and cooking time, but we loved the convenience of being able to pull one out whenever it was too hot to cook inside, or when we felt like eating pizza miles from the nearest pizza joint.

Back aboard Outrider, I’d suddenly realized that our Magma propane grill was working. Why not grill pizza? We’d done basic provisioning after arriving, so I had tomato sauce and garlic aboard, and I’d bought olives, cheese and pepperoni for snacks. I’d also bought basics such as flour, eggs and olive oil. Alas, we had no premade crust.

In the US, it’s easy to purchase ready-made pizza dough, either shelf-stable crusts (such as Boboli) or frozen dough. In Mexico, where we were, none of these are available. Then I remembered that, years ago, I’d made a quick stovetop flatbread a few times. It required only 4 minutes of cooking time on the stovetop—not long enough to overheat the boat. It would be perfect.

Roughly 30 minutes and minimal effort later, we sat in Outrider’s cockpit in the cool shadow of Tetakawi Mountain, feasting on freshly made pizza, warm and gooey from the grill. It was delicious. As we munched pizza and sipped ice-cold beers, we agreed that this easy, speedy meal was the perfect way to end a long, hot day of boatwork.

Quick and Easy Grilled Pizza (Yields two 7- to 8-inch pizzas)

• 1 10-inch frozen pizza crust (or Quick Flatbread Crust, recipe below)
• Olive oil, for brushing
• 1 clove garlic, chopped finely (optional)
• ½ cup pizza or tomato sauce
• 1 cup mozzarella (or any soft cheese), shredded
• 12-14 pepperoni slices
• ¼ cup black olives, sliced 
• A few fresh basil or arugula leaves, if available

Lightly brush with oil a pizza pan, baking sheet, or heavy-duty aluminum foil, folded double. Lay dough or flatbread on top. Brush top of dough/flatbread with oil. With the back of a large spoon, spread sauce evenly over crust. Sprinkle garlic evenly over the sauce. Add ½ cup cheese. Place pepperoni at even intervals around pizza. Sprinkle with black olives. Add remaining ½ cup cheese. 

Heat propane grill to 350 to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the pizza or sheet pan on the grill, close the lid, and cook for 5 minutes. Check the crust bottom for browning. If more time is needed, close the lid and cook for another 3 to 5 minutes, or until the crust is browned and cheese is melted. (Grill temperatures vary widely; you might need to experiment to find the perfect cooking time and temperature on your own grill.) 

Slice and serve warm. Sprinkle with a few fresh basil or arugula leaves, if available.

Quick Flatbread Crust

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1½ tsp. baking powder
• 1 tsp. fine salt
• 2 Tbsp. olive oil 
• ½ cup plus 1 to 2 Tbsp. cold water
• Additional olive oil for cooking

Add flour, baking powder and salt to a large bowl. Whisk to combine. Make a dent in the center of the mix. Add olive oil and ½ cup of water. Mix with a wooden spoon until dough comes together in a shaggy ball. If it seems too dry, add more water, 1 tablespoon at a time. Transfer to a floured surface and knead until you have a smooth ball, about 1 minute. Let rest on the ­counter, covered with a clean dish towel, or wrap loosely in plastic, and chill for 10 minutes (or longer, up to overnight).

Divide dough in half. Sprinkle with flour, then press or roll out into 7- to 8-inch rounds about ¼-inch thick. (Shape might be irregular.) Using a fork, lightly poke holes in dough. Brush top with oil. 

Heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a 10-inch ­skillet over medium heat. When oil is hot, add a flatbread crust, and cook for about ­­2 ­minutes. Flip and brown the other side for 2 minutes more; remove. Repeat for the other crust. 

Top the pizzas, and grill per recipe above. (Divide topping amounts in half.) Dough can also be frozen for up to 1 month.

Cook’s note: You can use your preferred toppings to create your own favorite grilled pizza. For grilling, go easy on the tomato sauce to avoid soggy pizza.

Prep time: 25 minutes
Difficulty: Easy
Can be made: At anchor

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

The post Grilled Pizza Bliss: The Perfect Post-Boatwork Treat appeared first on Cruising World.

As we cast off the lines aboard Simple Life, our Island Packet 37, to depart our home port in Pawtuxet Cove, Rhode Island, the boat seemed to heave a sigh of relief. Wholeheartedly, we agreed.

It had been a tough summer. In June, a rare tornado had touched down in our neighborhood, wreaking havoc. Our home sustained some damage, and the waitlist for repairs was long. We’d spent most of the summer waiting for ­contractors to appear.

Now, for the next two weeks, we were free to go sailing. We’d planned to putter south down Narragansett Bay for a day or two, then head out to Block Island, about 25 miles offshore. It was the perfect place to forget our cares and woes. 

Early on a Wednesday morning, we sailed out of the bay, planning to arrive at “the Block” by noon. That’s when more than 100 transient moorings in Great Salt Pond must be vacated unless a boat has prepaid for multiple days. The forecast for the next three days was favorable: light winds and mild weather. Perfect.

A few hours later, we ­motored into the harbor entrance. It soon became apparent that no boats were leaving that day; every mooring was occupied. We hailed the harbormaster, who told us that our best bet was to drop the hook and try again the ­following day. 

Dropping anchor in Great Salt Pond can be tricky. Holding is generally mediocre, and despite its large size, the harbor has few good anchoring areas. There is excessive depth in many spots. As recent long-range cruisers, we’re well-equipped with good ground tackle and sufficient scope, but many local boats are not—even though the island is known for sudden, localized squalls that inevitably send poorly anchored boats ­careening around the basin. 

Eventually we found a suitable spot in 24 feet, dropped anchor, and paid out 150 feet of all-chain rode. After a light lunch aboard, with the weather fine and the anchor holding well, we dinghied ashore for a midafternoon libation at The Oar, a famous yachties’ watering hole. From all points ashore, we had a clear view of Simple Life.

Even so, like most sailors, my husband, Joe, checks his favorite weather apps even when skies are clear and sunny. It’s a habit formed during our years of full-time liveaboard cruising. 

“Uh-oh,” he said. He’d spotted severe thunderstorm activity on radar at nearby Montauk, New York, about 25 miles west. It was moving fast. “Looks like it will bypass us here, but let’s head back to the boat just in case.”

By the time we pulled ­alongside Simple Life, a Beneteau 42 with a solo sailor aboard had anchored off our bow, a wee bit close for comfort. Minutes later, ominous, deep-blue storm clouds appeared in the west, advancing quickly and swirling over the island. 

Urgent weather warnings to all mariners blasted from the VHF radio: “Severe ­thunderstorms imminent. Seek immediate shelter.”

Wind gusts in the high 20s began building from the south. Gusts up to 50 knots were reported on the cell’s path toward Block Island. We watched anxiously as vicious squalls and ferocious lightning moved slightly north of us. Briefly, it appeared that the storm had passed. Dinghy engines all around us fired up, and a surprising number of boaters headed ashore. 

But the storm wasn’t over. Within minutes, the wind shifted 180 degrees and built back to 25-plus knots. All hell broke loose. Unattended boats dragged into others in every direction. 

Joe, on the bow, kept a constant eye on our anchor and the boat anchored close to us. It appeared to be moving slightly our way; he paid out a bit more chain and stood ready to fend off. We watched boats drag across the channel before tangling with others, bouncing off those only to hit elsewhere. BoatUS was dispatched along with the harbormaster. Numerous boats adrift were towed to emergency moorings. 

Eventually, the storm and the chaos subsided, treating us to a glorious sunset.

Our appetites suddenly returned in full force too. For dinner, I had just the thing in mind: a northern Rhode Island specialty called Dynamites. 

These oversize sandwiches are similar in concept to Sloppy Joes but are very spicy—hence the name. After the explosive storm, the food seemed particularly appropriate. Dynamites are a social experience, served at community gatherings and backyard potlucks. They’re also the ultimate homemade comfort food and perfect boat food: easy to make, filling and delicious. Once the meat sauce is cooked, it can be frozen and reheated.      

As the spicy aroma of simmering beef and spices lingered in our boat’s galley, we savored every bite of our tasty meal and raised ice-cold beers in a toast: to good ground tackle, coming through the storm without incident, and the simple joy of winding down after a stressful afternoon.

Rhode Island Dynamites

• 1½ tsp. baking soda 
• 3 Tbsp. water
• 1 tsp. salt 
• 1 tsp. black pepper 
• 2 lb. lean ground beef (preferably
  90 percent lean)
• 2 Tbsp. olive oil
• 2 large Vidalia onions, cut into 1-inch pieces 
• 2 large green peppers, cut into 1-inch pieces 
• 2 garlic cloves, minced 
• 1 28-oz. can diced tomatoes with juice 
• 1 7-oz. can tomato sauce 
• 1 Tbsp. chili powder 
• ½ tsp. cayenne pepper (to taste)
• Good-quality mayonnaise, as needed
• 6 to 8 soft torpedo rolls (see Cook’s Note)

Dissolve the baking soda and water in a large bowl. Add the uncooked ground beef, salt and pepper. Mix well with your hands, and let stand for 30 minutes. This technique is optional, but it tenderizes the meat, makes the sauce more velvety, and prevents the cooked meat from pebbling.

Heat oil in a large pot (cast iron if you have one). Add onions, peppers and garlic. Sauté until softened. Remove vegetables to a bowl. Add meat and cook, stirring often, until it’s no longer pink. 

Return vegetables to the pot. Add diced tomatoes and tomato sauce. Season with chili powder and cayenne. Stir and simmer, uncovered, on low heat for 45 minutes, or longer if desired. 

Slice a long, soft torpedo roll down the center. Generously apply good-quality ­mayonnaise. This combo might sound strange, but trust me, it’s delicious—and the mayo tempers the heat. 

Serve with potato chips or coleslaw
on the side, cold beer, and plenty of ­napkins.

Prep time: 1 hour, 30 minutes
Difficulty: Easy
Can be made: Underway or at anchor

Cook’s Note: There are varying regional names for the long, soft sandwich rolls ­generally called torpedoes, including hoagie, hero, sub, Italian and—often in southern New England—grinder. 

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

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I confess: Beyond boiling eggs or making coffee, I’ve never been much good in the galley. I cook when I have to, and tell guests that my forgettable meals are hot, will keep them alive, and…would anyone else like to cook?

A trip through the Bahamas on my Catalina 34 changed all that.

I’d bought the boat years before, after crewing on other people’s boats. Eventually, I found the 1992 Catalina 34 for sale: long waterline, large sail area, and lines leading aft for good singlehanding capability. Below, the boat had a roomy salon, a galley and a comfortable V-berth—perfect. My fiancé, Kanako, was brand-new to sailing back then, but she was enthusiastic. We both liked what we saw.

I signed the papers, cast off the lines, and discovered that there’s a big difference between sailing a Hobie 16 and sailing a larger keelboat. I well remember the knots in my stomach every time we left the dock, and my frustrating attempts to avoid solid objects. How in the world, I lamented, were the two of us going to manage this boat?

The answer: lots of ­practice. Together we christened her Ukiyo, Japanese for “the floating world.” We were married on the foredeck and got underway the same day; to my delight, Kanako quickly picked up the basics and stood her watches as we traveled through the Florida Keys and up the East Coast to the Chesapeake Bay, anchoring and dodging hurricanes as we went.

Years of sailing later, I decided to take a hiatus from my job to fulfill a long-held dream: a solo voyage through the Bahamas. Like me, the boat had aged. After a boisterous solo crossing to Nassau, I was having almost daily maintenance issues. With each new out island came a vexing new problem: an electrical short circuit, a broken steering cable, a leaky freshwater pump. I learned humbling lessons on self-sufficiency and, most of all, the importance of bringing spare parts for everything. But even then I knew that it was just part of the adventure of voyaging far afield.

On a passage to Warderick Wells, the autopilot started shutting down. (Never ask “What else can go wrong?” on a boat.) The four lead-acid batteries were old. Despite charging daily with a solar panel and the engine, they wouldn’t hold voltage.

This could have been a deal-breaker—the beauty of the Bahamas comes with a paucity of marine services. I had to find my own solution. At anchor, I jealously guarded the house bank by eschewing the cabin lights in favor of an oil lamp and listening to Cuban stations on the portable AM radio. For an anchor light, I used a solar garden lamp from a big-box store.

What about meals? Using the fridge was out of the question. Warm beer, boiled pasta, tomato sauce and canned chicken got old really fast. 

Rooting through the galley shelves one night, I came across a recipe tucked into an old book I’d picked up at a yard sale, handwritten on a yellowing piece of paper. It was for home-baked bread. In my ­naivete, I nearly crumpled it—I’d never baked anything resembling bread. Surely it would require culinary expertise. And ­refrigerated ingredients. 

However, I also knew that bread took time, which I had in abundance. My propane oven used only a soupçon of electricity—another plus. As I paused to read the ingredients, I realized that I had everything required, right down to the warm beer. Desperate for something tasty, I decided to take a gamble and try it.

I followed those fading directions like a surgeon taking a certification exam. By the following evening, as the sun slid down while I read a book in the cockpit, a delightful aroma wafted up from the galley. In the log, I wrote: “Skipper treats crew to fresh-baked bread!” 

For the first time, I looked forward to dinners on board, and was OK with the possibility that other things might break, as long as the oven kept working.

Solo Sailor’s Easy Bread Recipe (yields an 8½-inch round loaf)

Ingredients

• 3 cups all-purpose flour
• 1½ tsp. salt
• ¼ tsp. instant or rapid-rise yeast
• 1 cup lukewarm water
• 6 tablespoons mild lager beer, room temperature
• 1 Tbsp. white vinegar
• ½ cup nuts or raisins (optional)
• vegetable oil or cooking spray

Note: You’ll need a 9-by-4-inch ovenproof pot with a lid.

Preparation

Mix flour, salt and yeast in a large bowl. Add water, beer and vinegar. Stir and fold repeatedly until a shaggy ball is formed. Cover bowl tightly with plastic wrap, and let rise in a warm, draft-free spot for 8 to 10 hours.

Add nuts or raisins to dough, if using. Knead dough until stretchy and elastic. Shape into a round loaf. 

Line the pot with baking paper, and spray or brush with oil. Add dough. Cover pot with plastic wrap again, and let rise until ­doubled, up to 2 hours. 

Preheat oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit. Lightly flour dough top, and use a sharp knife or razor to make a ½-inch-deep gash in it. Place the lid on the pot and bake for 30 minutes. 

Remove the lid and continue to bake until the crust is deep brown (10 to 20 minutes). Transfer to a wire rack and cool for about 2 hours before slicing, if you can wait that long.

Prep time: 12 hours, including rise times
Difficulty: easy
Best made: at anchor

Cook’s Note: Adding a small amount of ­vinegar to bread dough improves elasticity and texture, enhances browning, and helps keep bread fresh longer.    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Easy Pink Aioli Dip 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The story of this recipe is in many ways the story of my life. It’s pasta—Italian, like me—but with a taste of the Caribbean, where I spent half my years. I invented it to use what was available: avocados, in this case, because sailors make do with what we have. It’s simple but unexpectedly tasty, just like the sailing life I chose many years ago.

Given my name, Omero or “Homer,” many people say that I could have been nothing else but a sailor. But I always thought that the real destiny of my name is to be a storyteller. So here’s my story. 

I was born near Modena, in the productive part of Italy known for Ferrari, Lamborghini and Ducati cars. Not surprisingly, I started working with engines and metal as a young boy. Little did I know that being able to fix anything and everything with my hands would be a skill I’d use on the ocean later. 

My life went on conventionally: a wife, a daughter, a little company of my own, 12-hour workdays. Then an acquaintance asked for my help to fix the engine on a little motorboat. We took it out to test it. And that was it. I was hooked.

The first time I took to the sea, I knew it had to be my life. Countless boats followed that first time, but I never thought that sailing was an option until an old fisherman gave me a Vaurien, a 13-foot sailing dinghy he’d found wrecked ashore. I fixed it and started sailing by myself. I learned everything the hard way; nobody taught me anything. I bought bigger boats and started sailing farther from land—to the islands in the Tyrrhenian Sea, to the Balearics, to Greece. I made mistakes, but learned from each one. 

Eventually, I sold my business to take to the sea full time. I bought an aged 40-foot sailboat, and I tried a bit of chartering locally to make a living. It didn’t take long to realize that boats, especially old boats, cost money. A few weeks of charter per year were not enough. 

A move was in order. I needed to be in a chartering hub, like the Caribbean, during European winters. I also needed a bigger boat. 

On Christmas Day 1991, I met that boat: a 51-foot Bruce Farr design built by Jeanneau. It felt huge at the time. It had been abandoned and was cheap enough for me. With all my savings, I bought it, fixed it and rechristened it Freya. I sailed it across the Atlantic Ocean for the first time with eight people crazy enough to pay me for the experience. 

Another 38 Atlantic crossings, westbound and eastbound, have followed. Sailing is still my passion and my job, if you can call it that. Thousands of people have sailed with me, for short and lazy holidays and for tough North Atlantic crossings. Freya and I have sailed in Italy, Greece, Spain, the Canary Islands, the Azores, the Antilles Islands and the British Virgin Islands. 

Some sailors cruise alone, but for me, meeting and talking to new people is part of sailing. Welcoming so many diverse people aboard has exposed me to lives and realities that I would have never known otherwise. I’ve met actors, doctors, lawyers, singers, travelers and engineers. They have been people young and old, all with different stories to tell and truths of their own. 

That’s one of the reasons I started cooking. I love to ­gather my crew around the table in the evening, share a meal, and talk like we’re ­family—because that’s what sailors worldwide are. 

It makes me happy to share my avocado pasta recipe with this broader family of sailors. It’s simple, light and tasty. It’s vegetarian (vegan if you decide not to add butter) and it’s versatile. If you’re not in the mood for pasta, then you can use the same sauce as a light guacamole. Eat it with fresh veggies, tortillas or any sort of bread you might find along your sailing journey. 

May it take you wherever you want to go.

Simple Avocado Pasta

INGREDIENTS

• 1 pound uncooked pasta (rigatoni, penne or similar)
• 2 large, ripe avocados 
• 1 clove garlic, peeled and smashed
• ½ cup olive oil plus 2 Tbsp. 
• ¼ tsp. salt
• ¼ tsp. black pepper
• 1-2 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice
• 1 Tbsp. butter (optional)
• A few tomatoes or cherry tomatoes (optional)
• Fresh parsley (optional)
• Serves 4

PREPARATION

Cook the pasta. An Italian tip: Use a lot of water. It’s the only way to cook pasta correctly. Follow package directions, and don’t exceed recommended cooking time.

While the pasta cooks, slice each avocado in half lengthwise around the pit and open it. Remove the pit. With a spoon, scoop out the avocado flesh into a bowl. (Flesh should be pale green at the outer edges and light yellow in the middle.)

Add garlic, olive oil, salt and pepper. Add a good splash of lemon juice to prevent the avocado from browning. Stir, then transfer to a food processor or blender (or use an immersion blender). Pulse ­intermittently until the sauce turns smooth and creamy. If the sauce looks too thick, drizzle in the additional 2 Tbsp. olive oil and pulse a bit more. 

When the pasta is done, drain it and return it briefly to the pot, off the heat. Add the avocado sauce and butter to get a sweeter flavor and creamier sauce. Toss gently until the sauce is evenly distributed. 

Top with sliced tomatoes and chopped fresh parsley, if desired. Serve and eat immediately.

Cook’s Note: If you don’t have a food processor or blender aboard, use a fork to mash and blend the sauce by hand. It won’t be as creamy, but it’ll still taste delicious.  

Prep time: 30 minutes
Difficulty: easy
Can be made: at anchor or underway

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

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My husband, David, and I started our cruising life on a 20-foot trailerable boat. At the time, neither of us had ever taken the helm, but we were avid expedition sea kayakers keen to go farther and see more. More than 20 years later, we’re on boat number five. In all that time, we’ve never lived on land. 

Our daughter, Maya, now age 12, was born onto Footprints, our Wharram Tiki 31 (boat number three). She took her first overseas passage on our fourth boat, Storyteller, a 35-foot Hitchhiker catamaran. 

Now, all three of us are partway into our first circumnavigation on our fifth boat, Wild One, a 41-foot Grainger catamaran. Our registered home port is Darwin, Australia, but we call Cairns home. We’re all drawn to the sea—an endless horizon that reminds us the world is bigger than we are. Besides sailing, there’s other fun to be had: riding waves, ogling underwater life, and catching meals that come unwrapped, fresh from the source to the table.

Every day at sea is different, even after 20 years afloat. There are inspiring days of such magnificence that we smile just remembering them. Sometimes, days that are blissful and fun can turn challenging in a heartbeat. Yet all of this brings an intimate connection with nature and the sea that, while not always peaceful, is deeply enriching. 

On one of those “challenging” days, our meal from the sea came from an entirely unexpected source. We’d been sailing since midnight and were braving trade-wind swells inside the Great Barrier Reef. We raced ahead of gale-force winds gathering quickly to the south. Stormy squalls hid the horizon. There was no place to hide, but we hoped to be tucked around the tip of Cape York and safely at anchor before the weather really went to hell.

The fishing dory came out of nowhere, tossed clean out of the sea, its propeller spinning midair atop an enormous cresting wave. It veered toward us, maneuvering parallel with our surfing catamaran as we battled to hold course. 

Over the roar of the waves, we confirmed two things: Yes, we were indeed all mad bastards, and yes, we would most definitely like a catch of fresh painted crays (as we call our local spiny lobsters in Australia). These were thrown over our rails as we surfed wildly at 13 knots. 

Dave gripped the helm to keep the boats a safe distance apart. I moved quickly to scoop up the crays before the sea washing over the aft rail claimed them back again.

Minutes later, the dory peeled away, back to its mothership rolling at anchor behind the slenderest of sand cays. With dinner in the bag, we continued, eventually coasting alone through Albany Passage at dusk. We rounded Cape York as the sea finally calmed.

To live on the sea is a dream that many of us turn into reality. Whether at sea full time or only seasonally, sailors everywhere are united by the watery adventures that we take. We’re bonded by the feeling that life is better, simpler and richer when we live it on or near the sea—and most of us agree that a good meal after a challenging passage is always a magnificent one. 

After Wild One was safely anchored, we reveled in one of those moments of magnificence. As we savored our dinner of buttery, delicious, pan-fried lobster tails, we lifted our last cold drinks in a toast: to an outstanding day at sea, a tip-of-Australia sunset, and the generous fisherman who’d gifted us dinner.

Buttery Pan-Fried Lobster Tails (serves 2)

• 2 spiny lobsters
• ¼ cup butter, softened
• 3 garlic cloves (or to taste), minced or crushed 
• 3-4 Tbsp. dry white wine
• 2 Tbsp. fresh-squeezed lemon or lime juice 
• Salt and black pepper, to taste
• Few sprigs of fresh parsley, chopped, plus extra for garnish (optional)

Prep the Lobster

We freeze live lobsters for up to 1 hour before cutting, rendering them motionless and inducing a numb, sleeplike state. Using a sharp knife, make one rapid cut through the centerline connecting the head, chest, abdomen and tail. Separate the halves, then twist and break the tail pieces away from the head (or cut apart with a knife). Pull out any intestines running down the middle of the tail and discard. With sharp scissors or kitchen shears, snip away any spiny bits covering the tail meat. Give the tails a quick rinse, and briefly set aside. (If you catch enough, you can save the lobster heads to make stock.)

Melt butter over low or medium-low heat in a pot big enough to hold tail pieces along the bottom. Add garlic, and gently sauté for about one minute. Add white wine and simmer briefly, until slightly reduced. Add the lemon or lime juice. Add salt and pepper and 1 tablespoon parsley, if using. Whisk to combine. Immediately remove from heat. Pour the sauce into a small bowl, leaving only a flavorful coating in your pot. 

Return pot to stove, keeping heat low to medium-low. Add lobster tails, meat side down, and gently sauté (cook time will depend on tail size; average is 5 to 10 minutes). Turn and brush both sides of tails with sauce as they cook. After 5 minutes, check for doneness. If more time is needed, check frequently. Lobster is cooked when meat turns opaque white, with no areas of translucent, grayish flesh. Cooked lobster should easily part from the shell when gently prodded with a fork. To serve, arrange tails on a plate, sprinkle with parsley, and garnish with sliced lemons or limes.

Editor’s Note: This is an edited excerpt from The Hunter & The Gatherer: Cooking and Provisioning for Sailing Adventures by Catherine Lawson and David Bristow.

Calling all galley gourmets! Do you have a personal favorite galley recipe you’d like to share? We’d love to see it. Email your recipe, the story behind it, and two or three high-resolution digital photos of you aboard your boat to editor@cruisingworld.com.

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I heard a loud splash at the end of the dock just as I hit “brew” on the coffee maker.

It was 0630. We were docked stern-to on Poros Island, in Greece’s Saronic Gulf. I was in the galley aboard Stressbuster, our Atlantic 70 cutter, setting up for breakfast. All was silent behind the closed cabin doors. It appeared that our charter guests, two fun-loving Australian couples, were sleeping. 

I popped up the companionway to see what was up outside.

Nothing was up, but something large was down—and it was in the water heading toward our stern. I realized the shape was human before it hit me: It was one of our humans! Evidently, one guest had risen early and gone walkabout.

Swimming in busy yacht harbors in Greece is a no-go; our guests knew this. The stream of creative ­expletives from the easygoing Aussie in the drink confirmed my hunch: His morning swim had not been intentional. Also, he was fully clothed. 

My husband, Kostas, the ever-vigilant captain, materialized beside me. “Pete, you OK?” he asked, offering a hand as Pete climbed our swim ladder. 

“No. I mean, yeah, I’m fine, mate, but I’m a bloody idiot,” he fumed. “I was awake early, so I took a stroll. I was looking around instead of down and walked straight off the bloody dock. And I had this in my pocket,” he said, holding up a sodden wallet. He flung it down in disgust. 

“Never mind,” I told him as I ducked below for a beach towel. “We’ll dry it all out.” 

“Crikey, I’m bloody embarrassed,” he went on, shaking his head. I assured him no one else had seen—we were the only three people awake on the dock. As I balmed his bruised ego, I sent silent thanks skyward that no other part of him had been injured. 

While Pete rinsed off with the deck shower, I fast-walked to the bakery for extra bread. I had something in mind that was guaranteed to soothe his soul.

When I was growing up, my mother’s go-to remedy for anyone in a mood in the ­morning was caramelized cinnamon toast. The aroma alone launched us out of bed and to the table.

When I returned, he had followed my advice and spread the contents of the beleaguered wallet under the dodger to dry. His wet shirt dripped from the lifelines. He’d poured ­himself a coffee and sat on the sun bed, sipping morosely. “I guess I should wake everybody up for breakfast,” he said with a loud sigh. 

Crikey. The man was, as my mom used to say, in a mood.

“Relax,” I replied. “And leave it to me.” 

When I was growing up, my mother’s go-to remedy for anyone in a mood in the morning was caramelized cinnamon toast. It also worked to rouse dedicated ­sleepers. The aroma alone launched ​us out of bed and to the table. “Just what the doctor ordered,” she’d chirp as she put the platter in front of us. I’ve made her toast ever since, in a mood or not.

In the galley, I got to work. Minutes later, the heavenly scent of toasting butter and cinnamon filled the boat. I looked at my watch: 3, 2, 1…

Cabin doors flung open. The sleepers had launched. “What are you making?” they asked in full chorus, rubbing their eyes. “Oh, my God. It smells good!”

While everyone helped themselves to coffee and continental breakfast fare, I finished the toast and put the platter on the table.

As they ate, I heard yawns and “yums.” Then the group went silent. 

I glanced up. All eyes were on Pete’s wife, Olivia, who was poised over the toast, snapping photos. “Lynda, I’m posting everywhere about our American cook in Greece who makes this unbelievably brilliant cinnamon toast,” she said. “You’re going
to be famous in Oz.”

I laughed. Fame didn’t interest me, but Pete’s mood did.

“What do you think, Pete?” I asked. 

“I reckon this is the best bloody cinnamon toast I’ve ever eaten in my life,” he answered, lifting his coffee mug in my direction. “And this morning in particular, I’d say it’s justwhat the doctor ordered.”

He was grinning from ear to ear.

Caramelized Cinnamon Toast

• ¹/2 cup salted butter, plus 1-2 ­ tablespoons for pan 
• 1/3 cup white sugar
• 1 tablespoon cinnamon
• 8 slices bread
• 1 apple (optional)
• Sprig of fresh mint (optional)

Note: For large bread slices or more ­servings, double the recipe. Save extra sugar-cinnamon mix for future use. You can use any type of bread, but I prefer fresh. The texture is firmer, and it absorbs butter better. 

Use soft butter or soften stick butter until easily spreadable. In a small bowl, combine sugar and cinnamon. Mix thoroughly, then spread out evenly on a dinner plate. 

Spread softened butter over both sides of bread slices, then dredge each side in sugar-cinnamon mix. Set aside. 

Briefly preheat a large nonstick pan over low-medium heat. Add 1 tablespoon butter to the pan. As soon as butter melts, add bread slices, three or four at a time. Toast over low-medium heat for about 1 or 2 minutes per side, moving toast around in pan to absorb butter. Toast until sugar caramelizes and bread begins to brown, being careful not to let butter or sugar burn.

Serve warm on a large platter with optional garnishes of sliced apple and a sprig of mint. Dust platter with additional sugar-cinnamon mix.

Cook’s Notes: Using salted butter is critical to counteract the sweetness and get a slightly salty-sweet taste. White sugar is best for quick caramelizing. This is a great way to use day-old fresh bread.

Difficulty: easy
Prep time: 15-20 minutes
Can be made: at anchor or underway

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

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