I nurtured dreams of the Amazon as a kid growing up in rural Maine in the 1980s. What I saw on PBS documentaries and read in National Geographic at the library made Brazil feel as distant as the moon. Then I went to Bowdoin College, where I fell in love with the work of Brazilian photographer Sebastião Salgado. Later came beautiful films like City of God and Lower City, and images by photographer David Alan Harvey. These glimpses into different aspects of Brazil’s culture suggested layers of complexity I longed to explore.

Motherhood forced me to set aside, albeit temporarily, my visions of remote river adventures, wild carnival nights and wandering Brazil’s streets with a camera. Brazil wasn’t on our immediate sailing route early in our family sailing adventures, either. My husband, James, and I had no firsthand experience with Brazil, neither of us spoke Portuguese, and we had no contacts there. And we had toddlers aboard.

Over the years, however, we slowly started to explore Brazil. Each visit helped us fall more in love with the place. Our introduction began gradually, with brief encounters that sparked our curiosity and built our enthusiasm.

In 2011, we sailed through Brazilian waters with our two oldest children, Tormentina and Raivo, when they were 3 and 1. We followed the trade winds on our Open 40, Anasazi Girl, from Cape Verde to South Africa. Our route took us directly to the Fernando de Noronha archipelago, where we unfortunately had to change course to avoid the islands that night. We sailed past Recife without stopping, before tacking and turning toward South Africa.

In 2016, James delivered a Stevens 47 from the Brazilian state of Bahia to the island of Trinidad, gaining experience in the Salvador ports of Aratu and Bahia Marina. The marina staff were professional, the facilities were excellent, and he returned with a new understanding of the country’s sailing infrastructure.

In 2017, we made our first visit to Brazil as a family. It was an unplanned stop in Rio on Anasazi Girl while sailing from Uruguay bound for Grenada. By then, we had made many ocean miles with our children: North Atlantic, South Atlantic and a full loop eastward in the Southern Ocean. We had also added two new crew members, Pearl and Tarzan, who were born in New Zealand and Chile. With four kids younger than 8 on board, you could say we were more seasoned when it came to sailing with children.

On that passage, we encountered strong headwinds as we approached Cabo Frio. We decided to turn around and take refuge in Rio while we waited for a wind shift to continue north.

The moment we began our approach toward Guanabara Bay and saw our first glimpse of Rio’s cityscape, a euphoric feeling overwhelmed all of us. In this precise moment, we all began to fall in love with Brazil. Any disappointment at having to alter our course was overtaken by the natural beauty of the place and the excitement of discovering somewhere new.

Making landfall in Rio is truly unforgettable. Its skyline and mountains are distinctive, especially when approaching from the sea. The city reveals itself in a multitude of layers. The granite walls of Sugarloaf, Corcovado and Pedra da Gávea are unmistakable. The bright sandy shores of Copacabana and Ipanema are layered with the city’s urban architecture, which ranges from upscale modern buildings to densely packed favelas. For James, a lifelong rock climber, it was always a dream to climb the granite walls. Our children also talked excitedly about one day scaling the towering peaks.

Inside the naturally protected waters of Guanabara Bay were hundreds of sailboats on moorings, all with views of Christ the Redeemer and Sugarloaf Mountain. We tied up to a mooring ball of the Iate Clube do Rio de Janeiro, then had an unforgettable Sunday brunch on the club’s veranda.

We met welcoming club members and explored the high-end restaurants, gardens and service areas. We met Olympic sailing athletes who were training. Even though we were in the middle of the city, it felt like we were in a magical oasis.

What struck us most during those two days was how warmly welcomed we felt. Local sailors offered advice about the best spots to visit in Brazil. They shared weather insights with the genuine enthusiasm of one mariner helping another. We left after two nights, but felt an undeniable pull to return.

So we did. In 2018, while delivering a Chuck Paine 62 from the Caribbean to Uruguay, we made several planned stops in the Brazilian ports of Salvador, Rio, Ilhabela, and Itajaí. The kids enjoyed açaí, água de coco, savory churrascos and panquecas de tapioca. They went rock climbing in Rio and sailed optimists at the yacht club.

Our stops were relatively short, but we were figuring out the coastline and a variety of ports. We made wonderful friends with local sailors in every place we stopped. With increased miles and time, we felt completely at home. The Brazilian sailing community was remarkably welcoming, helpful and generous with local knowledge.

In 2020, on our 50-foot trimaran Thunderbird, we had five children younger than 12. Our youngest, Jade, was born in Chile. We were sailing from Cape Verde across the Atlantic to Cabedelo, Brazil. This time we would check out new places and revisit some ports we already loved.

It was a fortuitous decision, because 2020 also happened to be the year that the Covid-19 pandemic began. What started as a loose plan of about six months turned into more than two years in the country. With international borders closed, we were we given the gift of time and the freedom to explore slowly. Our biggest gift was giving birth to our last child, Atlas, in Brazil—solidifying our deep connection with the country.

Between 2020 and 2025 on Thunderbird, our exploration stretched the entire coast of Brazil, but was concentrated between Rio de Janeiro and Ilhabela. Rio provided small doses of big city life to enjoy art, culture and urban energy. The coastline between Ilha Grande Bay, Ubatuba, and Ilhabela provided nature and open spaces to connect with the elements.

The experience of raising our children in these waters was nothing short of surreal: lush green forests cascading down towering mountainsides, the ancient canopy mirrored perfectly in glassy, protected waters below. These waterways unlock a different world where waterfalls plunge from mountain heights into protected coves, and where every anchorage has its own character and beauty.

In the labyrinthine anchorages of Ilha Grande Bay, there are more than 365 islands to explore—a new island for every day of the year. The island of Ilha Grande rises from the sea like a forested fortress, reaching skyward to Pico da Pedra D’Água at nearly 3,400 feet tall. This is one of the world’s most biodiverse ecosystems, with plants and vertebrates found nowhere else on Earth. It’s an astonishing diversity of life: Ferns, mosses and epiphytes create living tapestries on every surface, while lianas, orchids and bromeliads transform trees into vertical gardens.

The surrounding mainland, from Angra dos Reis south to São Sebastião, is equally breathtaking. Watching my children scramble over colossal granite boulders, snorkel beside giant starfish, stand beneath tropical leaves bigger than their bodies, and dive into waters with colors that varied from gold to turquoise to emerald, I couldn’t shake the feeling we’d tumbled into our own wonderland. Granite peaks pierce the clouds, rising directly from beautiful beaches, dwarfing everything. It’s a layered landscape that seems like it was drawn from an artist’s imagination.

From the cockpit, we spotted colorful parrots, night herons and Brazilian tanagers calling from the canopy while dolphins surfaced near our bow and manta rays glided beneath us in crystal-clear water. Great white egrets stood motionless in the shallows, and flocks of them filled the trees. Capybaras—the world’s largest and cutest rodents—grazed along hiking trails that wound through the forest.

Perhaps most spectacular are the Blue Morpho butterflies that flash their iridescent purple-blue wings as they flutter between the forest and the water’s edge. With wingspans reaching 8 inches, they are living jewels against the green backdrop, catching sunlight like nature’s own stained glass windows.

Another thing that makes this sailing paradise remarkable is its abundance of fresh water. The towering Serra do Mar mountains that frame the bay serve as a natural watershed, capturing moisture from Atlantic clouds and transforming it into countless springs and waterfalls. With annual rainfall ranging from 1,400 to 4,000 millimeters, these peaks ensure a constant supply of crystal-clear fresh water cascading down through the forest.

Many local settlements and anchorages rely on natural spring-fed catchment systems that originate from these mountain waterfalls. Sailors can easily catch rainwater, and find freshwater streams and springs to replenish tanks, a rare blessing for off-grid cruising.

Long before modern yachts arrived, the indigenous Caiçara people mastered these protected channels in dugout canoes carved from single Guapuruvu tree trunks—some stretching 40 feet long. They understood what today’s sailing families quickly discover: This natural sanctuary provides predictable breezes across flat water, while towering peaks block ocean swells.

Especially in Ilha Grande Bay, protection comes from pure geography. It’s as if a massive breakwater shields the entire bay from South Atlantic swells and prevailing southeast winds. The Serra do Mar mountains rise directly from the water’s edge, blocking weather systems and funneling thermal winds down through valleys. This all gives sailors predictable afternoon breezes without the confused seas found on the open coast.

Sailors can choose their level of shelter here depending on conditions, with smaller islands creating a maze of channels where you’re always sailing in the lee of something. Children can learn the helm in flat water with steady winds, gaining confidence in ideal conditions. The same mountain walls that sheltered Caiçara canoes for generations now create perfect conditions for young sailors: gentle breezes, calm seas and forgiving waters where mistakes become lessons. Here, a child’s first time at the tiller is pure joy. It’s about falling in love with the wind.

And with countless anchorages scattered across its waters and relatively few boats to fill them, you always have options for finding the perfect spot to drop anchor. It’s well worth exploring the anchorages on Ilha Grande’s south side, though you must choose your weather windows carefully. The exposed southern coast includes spectacular anchorages like Aventureiro, Dois Rios, Meros, Lopes Mendes and Ilha Jorge Grego, but they all require paying attention to Atlantic swells that can become uncomfortable.

Even in these places, we were never completely cut off from civilization. In many of the most popular anchorages, we’d find someone selling ice-cold beer, refreshing caipirinhas, crispy French fries, calamari, traditional seafood moqueca or hearty feijoada, which is Brazil’s beloved national dish of slow-cooked black beans with pork and beef served over rice.

The region also supports sustainable aquaculture, and has incredibly fresh scallops, mussels and oysters. On Ilha Grande’s north side and near Pouso da Cajaíba close to the Juatinga Peninsula, artisanal producers have been cultivating these bivalves in the bay’s pristine waters. Shrimp boats operating from Paraty and Tarituba produced some of the most extraordinary shrimp we’ve ever tasted. It was sweet, plump and impossibly fresh from the bay’s rich waters.

Even ice cream boats make the rounds through the anchorages, with vendors calling out their wares of Kibon treats—perhaps classic Eskibon bars, popsicles, or premium Magnum ice creams. And while not all anchorages have internet or cell coverage, the short sailing distances make it possible to stay connected, a perfect balance between remote wilderness and modern convenience.

Most sailing adventures here begin from one of two historic gateway cities that frame the bay. Paraty is a beautifully preserved Portuguese colonial jewel, frozen in time from the 1500s to the 1800s, with cobblestone streets that lead down to businesses like Marina do Engenho. Modern yachts moor against a backdrop of centuries-old architecture, while the waterfront comes alive with colorfully painted fishing boats and charter schooners. For provisioning, sailors will find Super Carlão, which is Paraty’s well-stocked supermarket. It has international goods and local products, as well as exotic Brazilian fruits and vegetables. Marine chandleries are abundantly stocked, and anything not found on the shelf can be sourced through online retailers on Mercado Libre.

To the east lies Angra dos Reis, located 93 miles south of Rio de Janeiro and serving as the primary jumping-off point for charters. Here, there’s Piratas Shopping, which is Brazil’s innovative shopping complex where boats can dock for free while crews provision. Sailors can step directly from their boats into air-conditioned shopping comfort.

Ask any local cruiser about their favorite waters, and most will tell you Ilha Grande Bay is  where their childhood dreams of sailing adventure first took root. Now, after a total of four years in Brazil, I can say it is one of the most spectacular and rewarding places in the world to cruise. We have logged thousands of miles, explored countless anchorages, and still have barely scratched the surface. It would take several lifetimes to truly experience all the country’s waterways.

The Brazilian approach to life—with its emphasis on joy, family and connection to nature—resonated deeply with our own values as a family. For us, Brazil became not just a sailing destination, but a place where we felt truly at home. The dreams I had as a child were even better in reality, because I got to share them with my family.

The post Beyond the Amazon: Why Brazil’s Coastline Captivates Sailors appeared first on Cruising World.

The Blue Water Sailing Club’s (BWSC) Atlantic Canada Cruise 2024-2025 (ACC) was an unprecedented undertaking, a first of its kind in the club’s history. Four vessels—Going Merry (a Hallberg-Rassy 42), Grayling (Sabre 38), Truant (Southern Cross 31), and Avocet (Oyster 41)—set out from Boothbay Harbor, Maine, on August 15, 2024, immediately following the annual “Maine Cruise.” Despite the varying capabilities of the boats and the diverse experience levels of their captains and crews, not one captain had previously sailed their boat north of Halifax. The fleet was later joined by a fifth boat, Walkabout (a Sabre 38), in Baddeck, Nova Scotia, in June 2025. The expedition eventually concluded for Avocet in Boothbay Harbor on August 17, 2025, after a 49-hour sail from Halifax (Rogue’s Roost).

Truant was single-handed, more often double-handed and occasionally had three onboard. With a 25-foot waterline, Truant proved that many of our smaller BWSC boats, if sailed by inspired skippers, can manage this trip. Typical daily mileage was limited to usually not more than 25 nautical miles—and often considerably less daily mileage than previous Club trips to Nova Scotia and the Bay of Fundy. Alternating lay days and short legs appealed to many participants.

A number of things made the trip unique for the Club. The cruise was long. We sailed 2,200 nautical miles. We were at sea for 83 days. We saw 47 harbors. It spanned two summers. We went to three countries.

The Atlantic Canada Cruise (ACC) was an expedition-type club cruise. There were three overnight passages. The last passage (284 nautical miles) had two back-to-back overnights. Matinicus to Shelburne, N.S., St. Pierre to Sydney and Halifax to our various homeports. These passages made possible a detailed exploration of the Atlantic Coast of Nova Scotia, the Bras d’Or Lakes, the southern coast of Newfoundland including many of its magnificent fjords, several of the islands along Newfoundland’s southern coast including Burgeo and Ramea, and the French islands of Miquelon-St. Pierre.

Days off the boats were spent exploring these harbors and hiking in some really spectacular places. We were greeted warmly and with much curiosity everywhere—though many places were without a population or road access.

One fellow in Rose Blanche, eager to show us his way of life, took a few of us jigging for cod. The catch fed the entire group. These were fish you hook as soon as you drop the hook. So, we got equipped. In the fjords, birds perched high in the surrounding cliffs were answering my son’s cellphone bird-identification app. It was acoustically as impressive as listening to a concert in Carnegie Hall. And very remote. Our hiking teams, often exploring simultaneously different ridges, took handheld radios as help could only come from the anchored boats. Much of this was captured by Homer, which was our squadron’s only drone after the loss of its sister drone.

Nature was front and center. A small group of pilot whales repeatedly crossed within feet of our bows in 5- to 6-foot swells en route from Piccaire (Pink Bottom) to Brunette Island, Newfoundland. This was a different behavior than what I have seen crossing Georges Bank where larger groups of whales have flanked Avocet on both sides as if in a convoy. This was purposeful and playful activity by very large mammals. To finish that day at anchor at Brunette Island (en route to Fortune, Newfoundland), locals came over in their skiff, chatted it up, asked where we were from and gave us a bag of their freshly harvested scallops. They were the best scallops I have ever eaten. Caribou were grazing unperturbed on a hill in front of us at this spot. No roads. No bridges. No light pollution. Virtually no people. A few fishing huts. Elsewhere others in our group were given jars of moose meat and moose sausage. A delicious and unexpected appetizer for the group. Tasted like flank steak. Coming off the sea we were not quite tourists nor were we mere transients. The relationship was one of mutual interest and respect; we shared the sea. They were as curious about us as we were of them.

The composition of participants was another somewhat unique feature. For only five boats, there was an extraordinary number and mix of people of various ages, occupations and familial relation. By one estimate, 50 folks sailed various parts of the trip. Nine married couples. Three sets of brothers. Two sets of brother-sister pairs. A son. Cousins. Uncles. High school buddies. College buddies. New BWSC members. Old sailing friends. New relationships were made and old relationships were nourished. The different types of sailing permitted (and sometimes required) different sets of crew along the route. The number of participants coupled with the remoteness of many of our crew points in Newfoundland and parts of Nova Scotia added complexity to our crew changes and fresh faces to different legs. There was also continuity in the group. For three of our original four boats, many who crewed in 2024 returned to crew in 2025. One returning non-member crew sailed on two different boats.

The trip was organizationally unique. We were graciously given a pass by local Customs authorities in advance in regard to the statutory importation tax in Canada and departure requirements when overwintering. Canadian Customs officials have wide discretion. We also scheduled a departure from Canada and into France (St. Pierre) so as to re-new the one-year limitation period for Canada on re-entry. As it turned out, Customs would have granted us more than a year to clear out had we needed it. We were apparently deemed to be trustworthy guests.

The trip required a broader set of seamanship skills than our Club’s typical two-week cruises. These skills applied mostly to mechanical issues. One boat’s windlass fell through the deck and had to be re-bolted. Another boat’s windlass had electrical corrosion issues. An AIS transmit function required electrical work to get functioning.

The AIS transmit is an important safety capability when traveling at night and/or in the fog and especially in a group of boats. It is also handy when port authorities are trying to locate and manage your approach in no visibility conditions such as what we had going toward Port aux Basques. With lots of other traffic, there is not a lot of time for the traffic control officers to be plotting your exact position by digesting lengthy lat/long numbers given verbally over the radio.

Three engines had oil changes, which, in turn, unveiled a potentially serious issue relating to the exhaust system and decomposing air filter in one of our boats. A toilet pump in one of our boats required a call for tech support and an on the spot rebuild. In Burgeo, a boat’s anchor got stuck on a submerged pipe. To jimmy it free, a secondary trip line was secured and then winched from another boat’s primary. One boat developed engine starting issues relating to fuel intake. This was addressed eventually at Baddeck Marine as was another boat’s complete repower. There was also a transmission issue that was addressed on the fly.

Baddeck Marine is a wonderful place to winter over if you do the decommissioning work yourself. The yard forgot to winterize Avocet’s fresh water system. All plumbing fixtures, hoses and filters were replaced at the yard’s expense and without discussion. They are honest, friendly and hard working folks. Every yard makes mistakes. Not every yard covers the costs of those mistakes. Their rates were extremely reasonable. The town of Baddeck is on the Cabot Trail and is therefore a great place to spend the time necessary when hauling or launching.

The greatest perceived challenges turned out to be largely overblown. Anchoring was not a problem though heavy ground tackle was necessary. One boat upgraded their gear for 2025. Another boat passed on a few anchorages. Rafting up, splitting up, and/or tying stern to shore resolved matters in the few places that were tight. In Pink Bottom, three boats rafted up with a stern line and the other two boats moved on to alternate anchorages. More boats could have easily joined this trip.

Katabatic winds and fouled anchor rodes, referenced by Paul Trammell in his book, Sailing to Newfoundland: A Solo Exploration of the South Coast Fjords (2023), were never a problem—however Mr. Trammell, a newcomer to sailing, deserves all the credit for undertaking such a remote trip solo. Brave man. And without a windlass! He used an InReach device for tracking when he hiked.

Our group did have to hold position an extra night at anchor in Yankee Cove, Nova Scotia, in 2024 as we were in an extended small gale. In Francois, Newfoundland we tied to a dock for the night in winds which a local told me were gusting 60 to 65 knots. The wind was greater than I have previously experienced. This local fellow correctly advised before the wind hit that it would be pushed from the North to the Northwest by the cliffs—and he was correct.

Along the fjord coastline and in front of all the cliffs, this was a dangerous lee shore very close alongside and on our rhumb line heading east. On the most egregious day, only Truant (with my son aboard) took the conservative action and gained significant sea room. It would have been difficult to impossible to sail out of trouble had there been engine failure. Anchoring was not an option as water depth close to shore was too deep. This was an instance where sailing in a group actually added a measure of hope if not real safety since we had Going Merry and her 60-horsepower engine in close proximity for a tow.

There were similarities between the Nova Scotia and Newfoundland trips. Both areas are thinly populated and are stunning in physical beauty. Both summers had extraordinarily good weather: sun, little fog and almost no rain. There was so little rain in 2025 that Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, was under a no-campfire ban. At Liscombe Lodge in Nova Scotia folks were not permitted on the hiking trails. Warm air (cool nights) and warm water (in places). Bugs were not as bad as predicted. Provisioning was a snap. Canadians freely drove us around or lent their cars and trucks.

Differences between our Nova Scotia and Newfoundland trips were not immediately apparent in advance. We sailed Nova Scotia over 70% of the time. This sailing to motoring ratio was reversed in Newfoundland because of short, steep and confused swell in the Cabot Strait and along the southern coast. The Labrador Current, the Gulf Stream Current, the Atlantic Ocean Current and enormous fetch coming up against the cliffy fjord sections of Newfoundland created convergence, blocking, gap and funneling effects. Truly a bad combo. Leaving mid-August for Nova Scotia from Maine proved to be correct for better wind and less fog. Sailing west to east along the southern coast of Newfoundland (from Port aux Basques and Squid Hole to the Lampidoes Passage) was critical. Waves, wind and current were all against us if going the other way.

Entering and exiting Dingwall, Nova Scotia, was uneventful at high tide for Avocet. She draws 8 feet. Exiting Ingonish, Nova Scotia, was not so good. A narrow channel blocked by a lobster buoy in the middle offered a 50-50 choice—she bumped the bottom but got kudos for taking one for the team following astern. Another advantage to sailing in a group.

In two of the Newfoundland fjords (Hare Bay and Facheux Bay), fish farms combined with unrelated, very long, singular, and haphazardly placed floating lines made navigation sufficiently difficult to require assistance from the boats tending these farms. At night or in fog, these areas would be arguably non-navigable. Our group relayed this information to those behind. We closed quarters and filed through in a single row.

Our group of four boats sailed as a group in Nova Scotia in 2024. Our group of five boats in 2025 sailed as a group in Newfoundland. On the return from St. Pierre, France (8 nautical miles southwest of Newfoundland), decisions had to be made sailing against prevailing southwesterly winds and the group split. One group headed to Sydney two days ahead of schedule to catch favorable conditions on that overnight passage. One boat in the other group had a schedule to meet in Sydney; and, joined by another boat, departed St. Pierre on schedule but two days after the first group. This second group subsequently departed Sydney three days after the first group. One boat hauled for the winter in Baddeck. Another boat chose an accelerated route and schedule home. In Halifax, where three boats were joined, captains read the weather differently, as they did in St. Pierre, and made departure decisions accordingly.

It is essential in sailing passages that weather windows are paramount and that each captain makes his or her own departure choices. Crew meetings in both St. Pierre and Halifax were structured to ensure that this protocol was followed. This is not what happens in organized ocean races where a race committee makes the starting gun decision for the fleet. Although it is true that our group saw different things in terms of the forecasting, it is equally true to note that this was essentially a near coastal return where safe harbors are relatively close at hand. For this reason, a weather router, like Chris Parker, was not used though he did speak for us in a 2023 seminar on the trip.

For the Blue Water Sailing Club’s “CCC” (the Caribbean Challenge Cruise 2026-2027), the stakes are higher sailing Newport to Bermuda in November. Using Chris Parker will be helpful to everyone regardless of experience levels.

Although our captains could have called in their own weather router, they relied on their own resources, heard from all other captains and learned from the experience. Weather models do not always agree with each other. Without hands-on experience doing the weather routing part and sailing a few overnight passages, one has a disadvantage relying solely on another person’s opinions and advice.

What did I learn as trip leader? It is more fun to sail in a group.

If I were to do the trip again with the same northerly winds some of us enjoyed sailing south from St. Pierre, I would sail straight to Louisbourg and skip Sydney. Sailing home in prevailing southwesterly winds requires one to be opportunistic whenever there is a northerly component. Chris Parker, prior to this trip, put it starkly. It is easier to sail from Newfoundland to Bermuda than it is to sail Newfoundland to New England.

Louisbourg gets you farther south and is more direct than going through the Bras d’Or Lakes and St. Peter’s Canal. Sydney has about an 8-mile slog up the harbor which is long, out of the way; and it comes after an overnight passage. Baddeck is not a port of entry. Sailing to Louisbourg does mean that your crew skips the Bras d’Or Lakes, but our group of boats sailed the lakes in 2024 going to Newfoundland. The lakes are a thing of beauty—not to be missed. As awesome in their solitary splendor as the fjords in Newfoundland.

On the return along the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia, Avocet adopted several strategies. Sail early before the southwesterlies pick up, go short and stop early, and make more stops. Sail the rivers and inland bays on a beam reach like Country Harbor, Tor Bay (Webber Cove) and the beautiful and navigationally entertaining inner passages like Dover Island Passage. No rush.

The key to my kind of sailing is to find a way to do it all in cool, new places with the right mix of gunkholing, offshore passages and local exploration and to do it slowly, often with significant breaks in the action, with the right crew, friends and family. This trip has now introduced me to club cruising and it has elevated the experience. Those who join are like-minded folks who are excited about going. Hopefully, they have chosen the parts of the trip they will like. It is more rewarding to share it than it is to go solo.

About the Author: John Slingerland sails out of Boothbay Harbor, Maine on his Oyster 41, Avocet. A graduate of Middlebury College and a retired lawyer, he is presently Commodore of the Blue Water Sailing Club. John has recently completed a four-year circumnavigation of the North Atlantic Ocean and Western Mediterranean Sea. He has since led Blue Water Sailing Club members to Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. Click here for information on joining the Blue Water Sailing Club or participating in its upcoming sailing adventure to the Caribbean. The Caribbean Challenge Cruise leaves Newport, Rhode Island, in November 2026 and returns from Grenada, via Sint Maarten and Bermuda, in April 2027. Review the short form itinerary and register for the trip here.

The post 5 Boats, 2,200 Miles: An Epic Atlantic Expedition Unveiled appeared first on Cruising World.

There’s a moment in every passage when the horizon stops looking like a line and starts looking like a doorway, one that has led to some of my richest, weirdest, most memorable landfalls in life.

This doorway has opened my world to a forgotten rocky cove in New England where lobster pots outnumber townspeople. There was a sunburned cay in the Caribbean where the bar ran out of ceviche before noon (tragic) but the rum kept flowing. And there was the foggy inlet in the Pacific Northwest where the water was so still, it reflected the cedar trees upside down. I half expected to meet a totem pole carver paddling out to greet us.

None of these places were on my must-see lists. None had popular marinas or cocktail menus with foamy signatures.

And yet, they’re the ones I still think about, especially now as we roll into the holiday season with its built-in nostalgia. There’s just something about those out-of-the-way places and the people who make them unforgettable.

In “The Man on the Beach” in the November/December 2025 issue, author Fabio Potenti captures the feeling perfectly. He and his crew found themselves on a speck of an island in the heart of the Pacific where a Fijian cattleman named Mua welcomed them with a sevusevu ceremony, fresh coconut milk and a dawn climb to a hilltop view that stretched forever. What stuck for Potenti wasn’t just the island’s beauty, but Mua himself: his rituals, his quiet humor, his generosity, his sense of belonging to the land and sea.

I’ve never been to Fiji, but I’ve been on enough docks, dinghies and backwater anchorages to know the magic of meeting the man on the beach, or the woman running the dockside café, or the kid who shows you the shortcut to the bakery. I imagine every sailor reading this magazine has a Mua somewhere in the logbook too.

I think back to an autumn cruise down the Eastern Seaboard. We dropped the hook in a Lowcountry gunkhole so small, the town dock was a glorified picnic table with cleats. A local crabber rowed over at sunrise (his engine had quit) and asked if we had a spark plug wrench. We did. He left us a paper bag of still-steaming blueberry muffins his wife had baked that morning.

Or the time in Sint Maarten when I misjudged a crosscurrent and managed to “park” my charter boat against the last piling on the dock, loudly, in front of an audience. A local kid hopped down, tossed my line to the right cleat and made me look like I’d meant to do it that way. He didn’t even stick around for a tip.

In the Pacific Northwest, where the rain and fog can make you feel like you’re starring in your own black-and-white film noir, I remember slipping into a cove lined with old cedar pilings, remnants of a Native American fishing village. We walked the beach at low tide, following patterns of clamshells and cedar bark. The sense of history was so strong, we could almost hear it underfoot.

These experiences all share a theme: kindness given and received, respect earned and returned. Arrive as a visitor, leave as a friend. That’s the real gift of cruising: the slow accumulation of human connections.

As sailors, we talk a lot about spare parts, reefing early, keeping a weather eye. But the best preparation for any passage might just be packing an open mind and a generous spirit. Offer the first wave. Learn a few words of the local language. Bring an extra bundle of kava roots or a bag of cookies. Share your tools. Listen more than you talk. These gestures are the cruising equivalent of good seamanship.

And remember to be good to yourself. Cruising can be as humbling as it is rewarding. Mistakes happen, gear breaks, tides surprise you. Give yourself the same patience you give others. Laughter helps. So does remembering why you went cruising in the first place.

Carry a little of Mua’s spirit with you. Slow down. Accept the coconut milk. Climb the hill for the view at sunrise. Say thank you. Leave a muffin.

Whether we’re crossing oceans or gunkholing in the local bay, we’re all in this together. One big, salty, slightly rum-spattered community of wanderers.

The post The Currency of Kindness: Why Boaters Treasure Hidden Harbors appeared first on Cruising World.

Emerging from the mist like a craggy apparition, the sheer cliffs fronting the Scottish isle of Skye dramatically revealed themselves. We were motor-sailing aboard the Swan 68 Aphrodite from the nearby island of Rum, one of the so-called Small Isles of the country’s Inner Hebrides chain, and we’d already been forewarned that the coast of Skye would be scenic and remarkable. Now, here it was, in all its noble glory. And it was clear that the coming attractions had been spot-on.

Tall granite peaks stood proudly against the sea. Rivulets of water spilled over the lofty plateaus until the spray coalesced into riveting waterfalls, one after the next. At sea level, along the weathered shore, relentless storms with accompanying seas had battered the coastline, as evidenced by the deep caves. Seabirds wheeled overhead in one direction, as a pod of dolphins trucked along in the other, their fins rising and submerging in unison. It looked like a scene from a movie.

Eventually, the hard rock began to slope off. It gave way to patches of green hills. Still high aloft, the white dots spotted among the emerald bits were slowly stirring. As always in Scotland: sheep and more sheep. 

I’d been sailing with skipper Murray Jacob for more than a month now, starting with a transatlantic voyage from Rhode Island to Ireland before we’d delivered Aphrodite north to Scotland. As usual, the captain was quick with a comment. “If there’s a sheep Olympics,” he said, “those ones win some medals.”

Scotland was proving an exceptional cruising ground. And we were exploring these enchanting waters with a rather remarkable assemblage of like-minded sailors, which made it even better. 

Four days earlier, we’d left the Scottish island of Kerrera on the so-called “Western Isles Cruise 2025,” a movable feast of 50-some yachts representing a half dozen sailing organizations: the Cruising Club of America; the Irish Cruising Club; Scotland’s Clyde Cruising Club and Royal Highland Yacht Club; the Royal Cruising Club from England; and the international Ocean Cruising Club. Aphrodite, owned by former CCA commodore Chris Otorowski and his wife, Shawn, was one of a handful of boats representing the CCA; like our seaworthy Swan, several had crossed the Atlantic to join the festivities. (Unfortunately, the Otorowskis were unable to attend, but they gave us the green light to set sail in their absence.) 

It had all commenced from the cool Kerrera Marina, a full-service, family-owned operation that’s a short hop across the water from the bustling town of Oban, a popular destination for tourists thanks to its plentiful fresh seafood, colorful Victorian architecture and never-ending fleet of ferries servicing the nearby Hebridean islands. The marina was not only an ideal headquarters for the cruise, but one with important historical significance. During World War II, it was the site of the Royal Air Force’s Oban Airfield flying-boat base, and the ramp for the marina’s current Travelift was once used to extract seaplanes for maintenance. 

Kerrara Marina also served as the host for the CCA’s meet-and-greet party, with boat sheds and support buildings transformed into dining halls for a sumptuous buffet for the dozens of participating sailors. It was there that we met our Scottish buddy boat for the cruise, skipper Ken Andrew’s 38-foot Argento representing the Clyde Cruising Club. It was a huge stroke of luck, for the Argento lads provided plenty of local knowledge in equal measure with hearty laughs and endless drams of good Scotch whiskey.

With that we were off, bound for the port town of Tobermory in what was, for most of the fleet, a 35-nautical-mile race. For Aphrodite and crew—Murray, myself, CCA members and seasoned sailors Peter and Adrianne Becker, and Spike Lobdell and Betsy Bowman—it was a rather cruisy jaunt, as we were towing a big tender to facilitate future explorations. Tobermory was a salty, pretty little place with fine pubs adorning the waterfront, and an ideal first stop. 

Thick fog engulfed the harbor the next morning as we prepared to motor to the protected waters of Loch Drambuie for one of the cruise’s signature moments: the Sunflower Raft organized by the Royal Cruising Club. As the fleet’s largest yacht, Aphrodite had been designated as one of the eight “cardinal boats” around which the raft would be assembled. Capt. Murray was—how shall we put this—less than enthusiastic about this assignment (“If it’s windy, it’ll be a cluster”) but the RCC’s vice commodore, Tim Trafford, was a pillar of organization, directing a small fleet of RIBs, and it went off without a hitch. “The sunflower is complete!” he announced over the VHF radio as the last boat slipped into place and many a dram was poured. The breeze did kick in, but not until all was disassembled. 

The next morning, we powered past the adjacent Small Isles of Muck and Eigg on our way to Rum, where we dropped the hook and had a good look around at the nature reserve, camps and general store before the swarms of biting midges had us scurrying back to the boat. From there, the next day, it was on to Skye and its jaw-dropping visuals.

What had really drawn us to Skye, however, wasn’t the arresting scenery but the Talisker Distillery on the shores of Loch Harport, with a tasting and lunch organized by the Irish Cruising Club. The distillery has been in operation, so the story goes, since 1830, wwhen the MacAskill brothers rowed in from Eigg and set up shop: “Made By the Sea” is its fitting slogan. I was never much of a Scotch drinker, but I enjoyed the tour and was definitely acquiring a taste for it. My favorite part (other than dodging the flocks of sheep meandering down the road) were the plump, incredibly tasty oysters (adorned with a “mist” of Scotch) served up in Talisker’s restaurant afterward. I put away more than a few. 

The distillery tour was one of several organized events scheduled every few days over the course of the cruise’s two-week itinerary. They were all quite social affairs. I was enjoying getting to know the CCA crew, including current Commodore Jay Gowell, who was sailing his Tayana 52, Moonstone. I’m not a CCA member but have many friends who are, and I’ve always admired their guiding motto and spirited raison d’etre: “Adventurous use of the seas.” It was fantastic sailing in company with this group, all excellent sailors and just terrific, friendly folks. 

From Skye, the next highly anticipated stop would be the Outer Hebrides chain, dead to windward. Accomplished offshore sailor Peter Becker made an astute call when he dubbed our masthead windex the DDD: the “Delivery Direction Indicator,” the maxim that states the wind always blows from the direction we wish to go. It did turn into an upwind bash, but Aphrodite is a powerful beast sailing to weather, and we crossed the Sea of Hebrides in a pretty ideal 15 to 25 knots of fluctuating southwest breeze. 

We spent our first night anchored off the isle of South Uist, just outside the very complete facilities at Lochboisdale Harbour, which is billed as “the ideal point of entry for visitors to the Hebrides.” It was a raw, wild place: barren, rocky, scrubbed. (With, of course, many sheep.) “This,” Murray said, “is what I thought Scotland would look like.”

Heading south the next day under a double-reefed main in continuing solid breeze and rather appalling weather (which is pretty much what I thought Scotland would look like), we made our way to the island of Barra, a virtual metropolis in these parts with a population of 1,300 rugged souls. The highlight here (other than the palm trees swaying in the small gale, a testament to the range and reach of the Gulf Stream) was dinner in the warm, cozy confines of the dining room at the Castlebay Hotel. More specifically, it was the steaming bowl of Cullen skink, a creamy chowder full of smoked haddock, potatoes and onions that was delicious. If ever a meal were suited to the place and the moment, it was Cullen skink.

It was a quick motor from Barra to the isle of Vatersay, the southernmost and westernmost inhabited island in the Outer Hebrides. A supper at the local community center was the day’s organized event, with a terrific, youthful band of bagpipers who infused the proceedings with a Scottish accent. The pristine twin beaches to either side of a spit of land adjacent to the community center were truly spectacular. The eastern beach was at the head of the protected bay that served as the main anchorage for the rendezvous. The western beach, just a short walk away and facing the blue Atlantic, is one I’ll not soon forget. There were wandering sheep, of course, but the big surprise were the cattle wading near the seashore. I stole away from dinner for a long, breathtaking walk. Other than the livestock, I was the only other sentient being around. 

I’d have been perfectly happy spending the summer wandering these gorgeous Outer islands, but time waits for no cruise in company. In more ways than one, Vatersay had been the apex of our travels and the real turning point: It was time to start making our way back to Kerrera. But good times were still on the horizon. Some 70 miles back to the east, so was our next destination.

Our mates on Argenta knew of a pub called the Old Forge in the small village of Knoydart on the shores of a lake called Loch Nevis that was accessible only by boat (a 7-mile trip from the nearest port) or by foot (an 18-mile hike). Off we went. We had a couple of fine hours of sailing before the passage devolved into a long motor-sail, but it was all worth it. The loch was spectacular, and the locally brewed beer at the pub was fresh as could be. The only problem? It was a Monday, and no chow was being served. So, after a couple of rounds, we retired to Aphrodite with our friends. Dinner was whipped up, and more than one Scotch bottle was opened, its cap tossed away. 

It was a fine night. The next morning? Less so. I can only speak for myself, but the day’s mission—a return sail to Tobermory—was a bit hazy, and I’d learned an important lesson. Never attempt to drink Scotch with the Scotsmen. 

The cruise itinerary had one more item on the docket before the final party back in Kerrera—the Impromptu Alfresco Pot Luck Party—with a variety of possible lochs or ports as the venue. What transpired was unexpected and outstanding: a big gathering at the secluded Inverlussa Mussel Farm.

The current was piping along at better than 3 knots as we motored through the entrance to Loch Spelve on the isle of Mull and wended our way to the northernmost finger, where a big sign on the shoreside facility—“Moules”—clearly pronounced that we’d come to the right place. In exchange for donations to the Royal Life Saving Society, the outfit that patrols the waters of the U.K. to aid distressed mariners, the farm had donated a hundred pounds of prize mussels, which were absolutely out of this world. Every boat brought a dish and grog, and it all turned into a mighty feast. There’d be one celebratory party back at the marina to wrap things up, but as far as I was concerned, those moules were the journey’s exclamation point.

It had been a fantastic cruise, and I’d been honored to be part of it. Scotland is now firmly on my list of favorite cruising grounds. Great mates, whiskey, scenery, and on and on. Nothing but wondrous memories in the bank. Heck, I’ll even miss the sheep.

The post Cruising Scotland’s Misty Isles: A Sailor’s Tale appeared first on Cruising World.

It was one of those times when our world shrank to a dot, a little speck of green, impossible to find in the endless blue of the Pacific Ocean. You should know, there are moments we question our life choices. That’s when we go back and think of such times. This one, in particular, found us on a remote Fijian beach with a lone inhabitant: a man who belonged to the land and sea. The beach was pure—perfect, almost—like something that occasionally appears in dreams.

Waves slapped against the sand in their usual rhythm, timeless and familiar, yet extraordinary in the context of today’s memories. The only footprints were our own. The only sounds, save for the sea, were the lowing of cows hidden in the hills and Yoda’s frantic chase of every living critter.

He was standing at the far end of the beach, waiting. Tall and lean, brown as rich mahogany. The early sunlight highlighted his wiry muscles with sharp shadows. His hands spoke of a lifetime of work.

We later learned his name: Mua. The son of the island’s chief, he was there to tend the family’s herd of cattle. His eyes were deep-set and sharp, his demeanor that of someone who listens more than he speaks. He raised one hand in greeting. We knew then we were about to meet a notable soul.

The Ceremony of Welcome

Hospitality here is not casual. It’s carved in centuries of practiced rituals, sacred to the people. To us, they became meaningful on this beach. Mua unveiled the essence. He invited us to sit, beneath a shade made with palm fronds, and atop a plastic tarp he meticulously swept clean of sand and leaves. This was understood only after he prepared a traditional ceremony called sevusevu.

We placed a bundle of kava root before him—a gnarled shape of tangled roots wrapped in newspaper and tied with a blue ribbon. A plastic basin sat in front of his crossed legs and bony knees. Fresh rainwater filled it. He dropped in the dust of ground root, mixing the potion like he was washing his calloused hands in the murky grog. Again and again, he cupped and rubbed his palms, creating mesmerizing swirls in the brew. A small sea in its own tempest.

He spoke in words foreign to us, clapped his hands unexpectedly. The whole ritual was a mystery, yet the meaning was clear: welcome, respect, belonging.

His quiet strength and unspoken wisdom, his beautiful simplicity, his connection with nature, and his belonging to the place made the experience unforgettable. 

We drank kava—bitter and tingly on the tongue, expansive in the brain. It lifted a fog we hadn’t realized was there. We chose a “low tide,” half a cup. During the rest of our enlightened conversation, he enjoyed the entire bowl: a faded blue, plastic wash basin filled with half a gallon of the earthy liquid.

The son of the chief clapped once, twice, three times. He nodded. He smiled. We had been accepted, not merely visitors, but part of the island’s fabric, if only for a time.

Lessons from Land

Mua was a teacher in the truest sense, the island his classroom, the rhythm of his daily chores his curriculum. We floated offshore in our dinghy, watching him dig bait for sand crabs. He held a line in his hand, nylon wrapped on a gnarled and bent index finger. The reefs are depleted here, and I’m pretty sure he was speaking to someone above, asking for dinner.

We caught small reef fish. What we might have thrown back, he didn’t. In that exchange between fisherman and prey was a lesson in patience, humility and gratitude for what is given.

He showed us his gardens. Cassava and taro grew in orderly rows, their broad green leaves stark against the dark soil. He had just planted those crops. His wish: that we return in one year and enjoy the harvest with him. “The earth gives what you ask of it,” he said.

And then there were the coconuts. To Mua, they were life: tools, building material, fire, utensils. He showed us how to husk them on a sharp stick planted in the dirt, how to split them with the spine of his machete. He pressed the creamy white meat in his palms. Pure milk squirted between his bony knuckles. We drank it straight from the shell, the taste sweet and clean. A first for us. Nothing like what comes from a can. Humble sustenance.

A Feast Under the Stars

After the sun went to the other side of the globe to visit my Italian people, we shared a meal that will linger in memory. Mua had cooked some of the fish caught that morning. Not all of it, he confessed. During a moment of distraction, feral cats had gotten their sharp claws on a few. His deep laughter reflected the universal fight for survival.

We, aboard our boat, had prepared a goat curry. The fire crackled as we sat around it. The scent of coconut and spices, the salty breeze, full bellies. Mua told us of his life, of the cows he tends, of his extended family on the other side of the island, his home. He spoke of his welcome solitude and, with eyes reflecting the flames, of precious reunions with his wife and daughter, who work at a resort across the bay.

The food was shared in stories and silence, in the sound of waves and bursts of laughter. Firelight played on our faces. I wondered: How many nights like this does fortune allow us?

The Climb

Before dawn, we woke. He was already on shore when we landed the dinghy. “Come,” he said, gesturing toward a hidden path in the thick brush, to the hill that rose behind the beach. It was black against the starlit sky.

We followed. The path was steep and rough, our cruising legs aching with every step. At the summit, the backdrop was still dark, a deep indigo that hinted at the coming day. Then light came, and the world opened up. The sea stretched to the horizon. As the first rays touched its surface, the shimmering became glorious. We witnessed an eruption of color—pink, gold, violet. All we could do was hold our breath and watch.

Looking at Mua, seated on a bare rock, we saw immense pride. We stood there, breathless, as the sun rose higher, its warmth pushing away the night’s chill. We said nothing. We were part of this place, just like the small bushes around us, clinging to the volcanic rock.

He had taken us here, into the heart of the island, into its beauty, its blessings and its burdens.

What We Left Behind

When the time came to weigh anchor, Mua was standing on the tallest hill, on his way to his father’s village. It was early, still dark. We flashed our torch. He flashed his. We saw his silhouette against the sky, hand raised in farewell, as we pulled away.

The island grew smaller in the distance. Once again, it was a green dot, impossible to find in the endless Pacific. But now vivid in our minds.

The man had shown us a way of being. Through the parables of fishing, farming and opening coconuts, he had spoken of balance, of respect for the world around us. That solitude can be a kind of richness. The island was beautiful, but its lone dweller made the experience unforgettable. His quiet strength and unspoken wisdom. His beautiful simplicity. His connection with nature. His belonging to the place.

We are on board and cruising to chase harbors unknown, our gaze on the horizon, our hearts seeking the next adventure, the next port. We haven’t learned much. But one thing we know: Some places stay with you, not because of their beauty, but because of the people who inhabit them.

The post The Man on the Beach: Lessons in Fijian Wisdom appeared first on Cruising World.

Between the Gulf and the bay, the St. Pete-Clearwater area offers something rare: steady breezes, flat water, and a sailing culture that feels both expansive and close-knit. It’s one of those places where you can head out for a sunset sail on a Tuesday, race on a Saturday, and spend Sunday afternoon drifting just for the joy of it.

Captain Scott MacGregor, owner of Redbeard Boatworks and a longtime charter captain, grew up nearby on Anna Maria Island. For him, this stretch of Florida’s west coast has everything a sailor could ask for. 

“This area has vast sailable waters, which have a consistent breeze year-round,” he said. “It has protected waters in the upper Tampa Bay area, so the chop stays relatively flat if there is heavier than normal breeze.”

That balance of steady wind without the wild chop is what draws so many sailors back season after season. The climate only adds to the appeal.

“The climate lends itself well for late afternoon and sunset sailing in the summertime and all-day sailing in the winter time,” MacGregor said.

A Geography Built for Sailors

Flat land, wide horizons, and long stretches of open water make the St. Pete-Clearwater region a dream for anyone under sail. The geography is a gift, offering reliable winds without the turbulence of nearby mountains and just enough variety between the Gulf and the bay to keep things interesting.

“The land is flat, which means steady winds. This is unlike sailing in mountainous areas, where you get gusts and strange patterns,” MacGregor explained. “There are protected waterways, so if the wind is out of a certain direction, you can still go out in relatively flat waters.”

That mix of predictability and flexibility makes this coastline ideal for learning, cruising, and pushing your skills. Many visiting sailors find that what begins as a weekend trip turns into a long-term love affair with the region’s waters.

A Year-Round Regatta Scene

For sailors who crave competition, winter in the St. Pete-Clearwater area is golden. 

“I would highly recommend the winter series that are held here,” MacGregor said. “There is the Sailing World Regatta Series raced out of St. Petersburg Yacht Club in February.” 

Offshore racers get their share of excitement with the biennial Regata del Sol al Sol to Mexico, a true test of seamanship and stamina. 

Youth sailing has deep roots, too. The annual Valentine’s Day Regatta, hosted by St. Petersburg Yacht Club, brings in more than 300 young sailors from across the country. 

Whether you’re racing or watching from shore, the energy is infectious. What stands out most in St. Pete-Clearwater is how open the sailing culture feels.

“St. Petersburg Yacht Club has major sailing events throughout the year,” MacGregor said, noting that other organizations—including the Clearwater Community Sailing Center—are happy to connect newcomers with local boat owners. 

“Any of these places are happy to connect you with boat owners to get someone on the water to go race or cruise,” he said. “Some have memberships with rental boats available for you to check out and go sailing.”

That accessibility means anyone can find a way onto the water, no matter their experience level. It’s a place where curiosity is met with generosity, a sailor’s version of Southern hospitality.

Life Beyond the Dock

When he’s not racing or working, MacGregor enjoys what makes the city special ashore. 

“What my wife and I love about St. Pete is the amount of parks and green space,” he said. “There are lots of trails to walk and explore.” 

The blend of natural beauty and laid-back city life gives sailors plenty of ways to unwind between outings. The beaches, of course, are part of the rhythm here—broad, bright, and alive with locals and visitors alike.

“The beaches are also amazing and offer great restaurants and beach bars to grab some local seafood and watch the world go by,” MacGregor said. 

For visitors hoping to take in the sailing spectacle from ashore, downtown St. Petersburg is the best vantage point. 

“Most of the racing happens right off the St. Pete Pier,” MacGregor said. “Usually on the weekends, no matter if you go to the beach side or the bay side in Tampa, St. Pete, Clearwater, Gulfport, or any other area, you will find several sailboats out enjoying the wind and the weather.”

He laughed as he recalled a saying familiar to anyone who’s spent time on the water: “‘If there are two sailboats on the water, it is a race, even if the other boat does not know it.’”

That playful spirit says everything about St. Pete-Clearwater. The wind is steady, the sun is warm, and the love of sailing runs deep. Whether you’re chasing a trophy or a quiet sunset, there’s no better place to let the wind take you where it will.

Click here to learn more about visiting St. Pete-Clearwater.

The post Sailing Paradise: St. Pete-Clearwater’s Maritime Charm appeared first on Cruising World.

Big news for Caribbean cruisers: Nanny Cay Marina on Tortola has begun construction on a major expansion that will add a third marina basin, increase haulout capacity and create new berthing for the growing fleet of large catamarans and luxury yachts cruising the Caribbean.

The development includes a custom Marine Travelift designed for 60- to 80-foot multihulls, 112 new slips for catamarans, private boats and yachts up to 165 feet, and expanded yard space. The investment is expected to exceed $30 million and will roll out over three years.

“This expansion reflects our ongoing commitment to improving facilities for the BVI’s marine community and strengthening Nanny Cay’s position as the heart of Caribbean yachting,” said Cameron McColl, chairman of Nanny Cay. He noted that increased lift capacity and berthing will help serve “the growing number of large catamarans and superyachts operating in the region.”

General Manager Miles Sutherland-Pilch said the demand has been clear. “We were seeing increasing demand from larger multihulls and monohulls, and this project was designed to meet that need,” he said. “The new lift and berths will allow us to handle more vessels efficiently and safely.”

BVI Premier Dr. Natalio Wheatley called the expansion the first phase of a broader redevelopment plan for the resort and marina. He said the project represents “a declaration of confidence in our economy, our people and in the Virgin Islands as a premier destination for tourism, maritime excellence and sustainable growth.” Wheatley also highlighted the plan’s workforce impact, citing 91 new jobs and a training partnership with H. Lavity Stoutt Community College.

Along with expanded marine services, the project includes customer amenities like a new beach, pool, restaurants, retail village and a dedicated classroom for youth maritime programs. Nanny Cay will also continue to serve as home base for the BVI Spring Regatta and Sailing Festival, which will celebrate its 53rd running in 2026.

With the BVI continuing to attract passagemakers, charter guests and long-range cruisers, the expansion aims to keep pace with the next generation of cruising platforms while reinforcing the territory’s reputation as one of the Caribbean’s premier boating destinations.

The post Nanny Cay Breaks Ground on Major Expansion appeared first on Cruising World.

Each fall, a familiar sight plays out along the US East Coast. Mastheads dip southward, cockpit canvas snaps in the first cool northerlies, and cruising sailors trade frost for turquoise water. The run from New England to the warm latitudes is not just a trip. It is a rite of passage, something between a seasonal escape and a seamanship masterclass.

Whether your winter destination is Florida, the Bahamas or deeper in the Caribbean, planning early and moving with intention can make your passage safer and a lot more enjoyable. Here is how experienced sailors approach the southern migration and what you can do to prepare your crew and boat.

Test your heavy-weather game at home

Before pointing the bow south, take your boat out in a solid breeze and practice. Reef early, shorten headsails, and get comfortable handling the boat when it is pressed. Try beating, reaching and running. Practice heaving-to. Hoist and tension your storm or staysail rig if you have one. Try your emergency tiller on multiple points of sail.

You do not need a gale. You need repetition. The goal is to uncover weak points in gear and confidence while you still have chandlers, riggers and parts close by. Veteran voyagers will tell you that nothing lowers offshore anxiety like knowing your reefing systems and steering backups work without hesitation.

Treat reefing as a daily tool

The boats that stay comfortable offshore are the ones that reef with purpose. Reefing is not about surrender. It is about flattening the main, reducing weather helm and locking in an easy motion when evening squalls roll through. If you have in-boom or single-line reefing, have a rigger inspect the run and remove twists before departure. Sail in moderate air and practice tying reefs and shaking them out until the process is smooth.

Rig a preventer you trust

A preventer system is cheap insurance against an accidental jibe when running in swells. Rig one end permanently forward, keep it ready to deploy, and rehearse the setup so there is no fumbling in the dark. Many experienced crews also run a reaching sheet for the genoa to open the slot and reduce chafe when broad reaching. Small rigging refinements can turn a rolling run into steady, fast downwind sailing.

Think ventilation, warmth and crew comfort

Early legs can be cold. One day you may be scraping frost off dock lines. A few days later you are rolling into Charleston in shorts. Make it easy for your crew to stay warm, dry and rested during the transition. Fit reliable dorades or opening hatches under a dodger so you can keep air moving when closed up in heavy weather. Offshore fatigue causes mistakes. Warm meals, sleeping bunks that hold you on heel, and a watch schedule with real rest time go a long way.

Pick the right route for your boat and timing

There is no single “right” way south. Boaters choose based on mast height, time, comfort level offshore and destination.

Popular approaches include:

Inside to Florida on the ICW

Ideal for boats that can clear bridges and want to stay inshore. The Intracoastal Waterway offers protection, services and shorter travel days. Watch tides, bridge timing and shoaling. Frosty mornings are temporary. By the time you hit St. Augustine, you will be peeling off layers.

Offshore hops to Charleston or Beaufort, then offshore to the trades

Many crews jump offshore in mid-Atlantic ports and work south-southeast until the easterlies fill in. This route avoids the worst North Atlantic gale belt and keeps the Gulf Stream crossing short.

Avoiding Bermuda on late-fall departures

Classic offshore voices warn that the November gamble to Bermuda often looks good on paper and bad on a weatherfax. Boats that cannot outrun fall systems may find themselves in the teeth of a front. Unless you are heading there early season or cruising slowly, most modern snowbirds skip Bermuda and head straight for lower latitudes.

Weather windows are shorter than you think

Modern routing tools are excellent, but long-range fall forecasts still expire fast. Look for a clean Gulf Stream crossing period and commit to conservative calls. A steady 15 to 20 knots over the quarter is cruising bliss. Thirty knots on the nose in cooling water is teaching you lessons you can learn in textbooks instead.

Experienced voyagers do not hunt perfect weather. They avoid bad weather, prepare for uncomfortable stretches and keep options open.

Fuel, spares and mechanical confidence

Heavy-air training is important, but there will also be quiet stretches when a low-rpm motor push keeps the schedule sane. Carry filters, belts and tools, and practice changing them underway. Clean fuel and reliable cooling belts matter just as much as a balanced sailplan.

If you have never changed a filter offshore on a heel, do it once before departure. Confidence in basic engine work removes stress when you need it most.

Crew matters more than electronics

One of the most repeated offshore truths: fatigue breaks boats and people. A couple with limited offshore time is wise to bring an experienced friend or paid skipper for the first run south. The learning curve is steep, but with the right help, you start the season confident instead of rattled.

Food helps too. Prepare a few hot, hearty meals in advance. When the boat is moving and the breeze builds, having stew or pasta sauce ready to heat keeps morale high.

Enjoy the ride and embrace the surprises

The great migration south is not just about palm trees and rum punches. It is about stories. Sometimes those stories involve warm trade-wind surges on the quarter. Sometimes they involve coaxing a frozen hose off a North Carolina dock at dawn. Either way, you remember them forever.

Prepare, sail smart and give yourself space for the unexpected. That is how you join the long tradition of cruisers who point the bow toward the tropics when the days turn short and the sea calls you forward.

Southbound Prep Checklist

Hands-On Sailor Quick Guide

Before You Cast Off

• Inspect rigging, chainplates, turnbuckles, and cotter pins
  
• Service winches and lubricate furlers
  
• Test and practice reefing under sail
  
• Install jacklines and inspect harnesses/tethers
  
• Confirm emergency tiller fits and functions
  
• Review ditch-bag gear and register EPIRB

Sails and Deck Gear

• Add or prep a staysail and removable inner stay
  
• Carry spare sheets, preventer lines, and chafe gear
  
• Inspect sails for weak stitching and UV damage
  
• Practice heaving-to and running off in heavy weather
  
• Secure anchors, dinghy, and deck gear for offshore

Mechanical & Electrical

• Change fuel filters; carry spares and belts
  
• Bleed fuel system and practice at sea
  
• Test bilge pumps and manual backup
  
• Verify alternator, batteries, and charging systems
  
• Inspect steering quadrant and cables

Safety & Navigation

• Update charts and nav software
  
• Confirm radar, AIS, and satellite comms
  
• Create daily radio schedule with a buddy boat
  
• Review abandon-ship plan and crew roles
  
• Practice man-overboard recovery

Provisioning & Comfort

• Pre-cook several heavy-weather meals
  
• Stock seasickness remedies and hydration supplies
  
• Ventilation scoops and fans ready for tropics
  
• Foul-weather layers, gloves, and handwarmers
  
• Warm-up line and hose if freezing temps possible

Weather & Routing

• Study Gulf Stream angle and eddies
  
• Track fronts and avoid early-season tropics
  
• Identify bail-out harbors and alternate routes
  
• Pick a departure window with light northerly push
  
• Plan conservative watches: 4-on/6-off ideal

Mindset

• You aren’t racing: comfort equals safety
  
• Slow down when tired or the sea builds
  
• Embrace the unexpected and enjoy the ride south

Pro Tip: Practice every critical evolution in home waters first. Offshore is no place to realize you don’t know where a wrench lives.

Rich Douglas is a lifelong cruiser who has logged thousands of miles between New England and the Caribbean aboard his 36-foot sloop, Island Time. When he’s ashore, you’ll likely find him tinkering with a new galley gadget or hunting down the best marina coffee on the East Coast.

The post The Southern Migration: Practical Tips for a Smooth Passage to Warmer Waters appeared first on Cruising World.

It was a Thursday night in July at the Fifth Ward Bar in the tidy Irish seaport of Kinsale, and the joint was hopping. The day before, aboard the Swan 68 Aphrodite, we’d sailed past the lighthouse and golf course on Old Head of Kinsale, swung a left in the winding channel just before the regal Charles Fort, and eased alongside a dock at the Kinsale Yacht Club in the protected harbor. That evening, the band was playing a raucous set of Irish rock interspersed with tunes that included, of all things, John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” No matter: I sipped my Jameson’s and sang right along with the rest of the crowd.

Kinsale was a great place to conclude a transatlantic voyage, but it was especially appropriate for this trip, which had commenced from Newport, Rhode Island, some 16 days before. That’s because Newport and Kinsale have been “sister cities” since formally “twinning up” in 1999. And the Fifth Ward Bar, adjacent to the White House Restaurant, was a perfect place to slake one’s thirst. This bar was established in 2018, named after a Newport neighborhood that’s been an Irish-American enclave since the mid-1800s, when many an Irish family immigrated to the States and became local fixtures, firemen and tradesmen who built the famed Bellevue Avenue mansions. Since the bar opened for business, many a Newporter has paid a pilgrimage, signed the guestbook and perhaps left souvenirs, including the Rhode Island “Ocean State” license plates hanging on the walls.

Kinsale is a fraction of the size of Newport, but the sisters share a similar vibe. Both are resort towns situated on a historic waterfront that attracts plenty of tourists and day-trippers. History runs deep in each locale, both of which are guarded by a stout fort (Fort Adams in Newport) at the mouth of their harbors. Kinsale is probably better known than Newport for its excellent restaurants and gourmet food festivals, but it’s easy to find a drink in both places. 

The maritime link may be the strongest. Like Newport, Kinsale is a sailor’s town. The bustling Kinsale Yacht Club couldn’t have been more welcoming or hospitable. The restaurant serves tasty food, and the bar has a dozen beers on tap. I couldn’t resist that first Guinness (though I was admonished for failing to order a Murphy’s or Beamish, as I was in County Cork). The showers are excellent, and there’s a handy side room with a washer and dryer. And there’s plenty of sailing going on, with the parking lot out front teeming with junior sailors rigging up their dinghies every morning, and big-boat racing underway on some weeknights. The yacht-club marina is filled with well-kept production cruising boats, mostly in the 30- to 40-foot range, and a few salty classics. One thing the club is not, and the same can be said of Kinsale proper, is ostentatious (alas, the same can’t be said of pockets of Newport). It’s wholesome, in the best ways imaginable. 

Calling on Kinsale had been on my bucket list. My Newport firefighter cousin and his mates come often, and raved about it. Just a year ago, I sailed right past it on the nonstop Round Ireland Race, and vowed to make a visit sometime soon. When I was offered a slot last winter to sail there on Aphrodite, it was like a dream come true. And it totally exceeded my expectations.

After all, I’ve got some Irish history of my own. My ancestors, Roger and Bridget McCormick, departed the Emerald Isle from County Roscommon in the mid-1800s and traveled by sea to Newport, becoming the first in a long line of McCormicks to take up residence in the so-called “City by the Sea.” Nearly two centuries later, it seemed pretty fitting to travel back across the same waters they’d negotiated. And while it may sound a bit sappy, it must be said: Sailing to Ireland sort of felt like sailing home.

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

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Our 1969 Cross 46 trimaran, Migration, was assigned an extra-wide guest dock at Fukuoka’s Odo Marina on the island of Kyushu. Strong northwest winds were in the forecast, so we began tying lines together to reach 65 feet across to the opposite finger.

That’s when Choichi-san wandered over. He’s a classic salt we’d met months earlier in Yakushima, where we shared a quay while waiting out a gale. He’d wasted no time showing us tricks for mooring to the barnacle-crusted walls of Japanese fishing harbors. And now, here he was again, appearing as if by magic to lend a hand—this time with a brand-new, ¾-inch braided line, long enough to keep Migration clear of the dock. 

When the blow had passed and we offered to return the line, Choichi-san declined, saying, “No, no. For you.” We think of him every time we use it.

That mooring line was the first of many gifts we received with no expectation of anything in return. In fact, we soon discovered the difficulty of giving thank-you gifts in Japan, often finding ourselves on the receiving end of a thank-you-for-the-thank-you gift.

But it was the friendships, not the gifts, that made our time in Japan so memorable. We’ve met all kinds of people during 20 years of cruising in 28 countries, but the Japanese were the epitome of hospitality. Their friendship, generosity and excitement for our visit overwhelmed us.

Both of us had dreamed of sailing to Japan, especially because Migration was built there 56 years ago. She was shipped to her first owner in California, where she was berthed in Alamitos Bay Marina—on the same bay where a 12-year-old Bruce was learning to sail dinghies. During a two-year refit in Thailand, we stripped away her delaminating fiberglass (polyester resin doesn’t age well on plywood). Underneath, we found handwritten kanji, a system of Japanese writing that uses Chinese characters. Photos of this delighted nearly everyone we met in Japan. A boat like Migration was a rare sight, and the idea that she was a product of decades-old Japanese craftsmanship fascinated many people we encountered.

In early June, we arrived in Ishigaki, at the southern end of the Ryukyu Islands, after a 28-hour sail from Taiwan. Eleven officials from six departments processed our arrival, a long but impeccably polite affair. We spent the next 10 days getting our bearings: securing a SIM card (a multiday challenge), completing paperwork, diving with manta rays, visiting nearby islands and savoring our first exceptional Japanese meal.

Eventually, we set sail for Teramajima, 35 nautical miles to the northeast, where we met our first tomodachi, or friend. The island has just 1,000 residents, and the sun was blistering as we walked through farmlands toward the village. We spotted a man with a group of children and asked in basic Japanese where we might find ice cream. To our surprise, he replied in English. Yoshi-san, from Kobe, turned out to be the only other tourist on the island.

His warmth and enthusiasm were instant. When he told us he was taking the ferry to Miyako-jima in two days—the same day we planned to sail there—we invited him to join us. “Sugoi!” he shouted, jumping up and down and making the kids giggle. It was, indeed, amazing. We’d never seen such unfiltered excitement after an invitation to sail aboard our boat.

The 30-mile sail was lively, with 25 knots on the quarter. Yoshi-san patiently answered our endless grammar questions until, mid-sentence, he leaned over the coaming, threw up and turned back to finish his answer. A true trouper.

We moored in Miyako-jima’s fishing harbor, and Yoshi headed to his friends’ guesthouse, promising to return later. When we arrived that evening, we were greeted by birthday decorations, food, new friends and a cake—a celebration in honor of Alene’s recent birthday. The beer and awamori flowed late into the night. It was an unforgettable (and slightly soused) introduction to Okinawan hospitality.

As we sailed north through the Ryukyu Islands, the snorkeling proved superb. Tokashiki and Zamami had stunning coral, colorful fish and tranquil anchorages. At Kakeromajima, after snorkeling a small reef, we swam ashore to a beach that was deserted, except for three people lounging on a blanket. They waved us over, and though our Japanese faltered, we understood they wanted us to wait. Soon, the fourth of their party arrived. 

Nob-san is a tall man who carries himself with an almost regal elegance. Thankfully, he also speaks English. His wife, Keichan, was born on the island, and they often returned from Yokohama with their friends, Kiyoshi-san and Mieko-san. We were invited to a picnic, which turned into a sail and snorkeling trip aboard Migration. That first meeting blossomed into a decade-long friendship full of rich political and philosophical conversations through email exchanges.

We continued into the Seto Inland Sea via the narrow, bustling Kanmon Strait, just as the Setouchi Triennale art festival was underway. The chance to sail from island to island, taking in installations both quirky and profound, felt like a stroke of luck.

New friends marked nearly every port. One of the most surreal encounters occurred in Hiroshima. We’d met Mitsugi-san, a surgeon, in Fukuoka. He told us to call if we ever sailed to Matsuyama, his hometown. When we did, he hosted us for a tour of a historic mountain village and told us he hadn’t sailed in years. Naturally, we invited him for our next leg: a 35-mile hop to Hiroshima.

It was a brisk, cold sail, but Mitsugi-san relished every moment, especially steering between islands. Upon arrival at Hiroshima’s Kanon Marina, we assumed we were off to enjoy local okonomiyaki. Instead, we sat in a dentist’s waiting room for an hour. Enter Misato-san, a whirlwind of energy and conversation who whisked us away on a series of cryptic errands in her enormous Cadillac, music blaring. Eventually, we got our okonomiyaki. Then, after dropping off Mitsugi-san, we picked up her husband and a stack of towels. Off we sped into the mountains to a beautiful onsen.

These public baths fed by hot springs are a cornerstone of Japanese life. We adored them. That night, Alene received an enthusiastic, nonstop tutorial on bathing etiquette from Misato-san. Bruce, meanwhile, enjoyed quiet soaking time with her husband.

By the time we returned to Migration, well past midnight, we were exhausted and dazed. What began as a routine day sail had become a full-blown, unforgettable adventure.

Japan is breathtaking. But more than anything, the friendships shaped our experience and made each moment feel dreamlike.

Every port held surprises: In Kobe, we reunited with Yoshi-san and spent nights in his favorite bar, playing music and making friends. In Shōdoshima, we sang Christmas carols with Maya, Yuki and her rabbit, which was dressed as Santa Claus. In Nagasaki, Tatsuo-san and Keiko-san insisted we join them for a beach day the moment we tied up.

Japan is breathtaking: misty cedar forests, turquoise seas, snowy pine-covered peaks. Its architecture is graceful, its food sublime, and its culture intricate and endearing. But more than anything, the friendships shaped our experience. They lifted us, carried us and made each moment feel dreamlike.

Migration was welcomed back to her birthplace. And we were embraced by friends who touched our hearts and continue to call us back. 

Bruce Balan and Alene D. Rice have been sailing full time aboard Migration since 2005 and are the creators of TheChartLocker.com. They are in New Zealand and plan to return to Japan in 2027. Follow them at svMigration.com.

Tips for Cruising in Japan

Respect the CultureJapan has many social nuances. One example is chotto muzukashii, which means “a little difficult.” Usually, if someone says something is a little difficult, my response is, “Well, let’s figure out how to do it.” But in Japan, the phrase means “it cannot be done,” as it’s considered rude to say a direct no. § Being considerate, polite and respectful will take you much farther than being loud or pushy. We cannot stress enough how important this is. Already, several marina operators are considering excluding foreign boats because of bad behavior. In Japanese society, you must avoid inconveniencing others, even unintentionally. Your actions will affect how all future cruisers are received.

Language

It can seem an insurmountable challenge to learn a language as different from English as Japanese. But since many Japanese people are shy, learning a little will help break the ice. Everyone we met was extremely grateful for our attempts to speak the language. § There are three alphabets used in Japan. We recommend learning Katakana first, as that is the alphabet used for many foreign words that have been assimilated. It’s pleasing to be able to sound out 掇讹肪非峨恶非尔 (gasorin sutando) and know that it means gas station.

Bureaucracy

Though bureaucracy can be exasperating, we actually enjoy navigating the paperwork ourselves. It offers the opportunity to immerse oneself in the culture and meet locals. Thankfully, the antiquated closed-port rules that required visiting yachts to receive permission for all but a handful of harbors were eliminated in 2018. But there is still plenty of paperwork, plus visits with local officials. If you are in a hurry or don’t want to deal with the red tape, Konpira Consulting is happy to help. Remember, patience and politeness are essential.

Assistance

No gaijin, or foreigner, has done more to promote cruising in Japan than Kirk Patterson of Konpira Consulting, which you can find at konpira-consulting.com. After sailing to Japan in 2013, he became the first gaijin to circumnavigate the country. Realizing what an unusual destination Japan is, he created Konpira Consulting to assist cruisers and encourage cruising in Japan.

Weather

One reason many boats don’t visit Japan is a fear of hurricanes, which are called typhoons in this part of the world. It is not an unsubstantiated fear. West Pacific typhoons are powerful and plentiful.
The good news is there is excellent tropical storm tracking available from the Joint Typhoon Warning Center, a division of the US Navy with a solid interest in protecting its regional bases. Also, there are thousands of fortified harbors. This country has been dealing with destructive typhoons for centuries. § That said, a direct hit from a Category 5 storm is always a risk. Monitoring the weather daily and having a typhoon preparation plan is essential. West Pacific typhoons are rare in the winter months, but they can occur at any time, with August seeing the most frequent occurrences.

When to Go

Japan is affected by monsoon winds: northwesterly in winter and southeasterly in summer. If you are planning to sail through Japan and onward to Alaska in one season, it’s best to arrive with the first of the spring southerlies. You’ll want to depart for Alaska in early June, when the North Pacific gales weaken but before the typhoon season gains momentum. If Alaska isn’t on your itinerary, you can use the monsoon winds to visit Japan from the south, sailing north in spring and returning in winter.

Navigation

There is a remarkable amount of shipping in Japanese waters, and it’s dangerous to sail at night in some areas because of aquaculture farms. § There are many options for good electronic charts. TheChartLocker.com offers free coverage of the entire country with three satellite views in MBTiles format. For phones and tablets, the navigation app New Pec Smart is available. It’s in Japanese, but Konpira Consulting can help with the licensing and provide an English-language guide. The major charting companies all offer coverage as well. As always, the prudent sailor will have multiple charting sources and not rely on a single company’s products.

Moorage

Marinas can be expensive, while the concrete walls of fishing harbors are usually free if you ask permission. Tying up to walls is a skill one must develop quickly. Fender boards are useful, but sometimes ride up over the fenders. Konpira Consulting recommends using Polyform A5 fenders. Short loops of chain that hang over a wall’s rough edge help to avoid chafing your mooring lines. Tides can vary between 1 and 20 feet; a 3- to 4-meter collapsible ladder is extremely useful in some harbors.

Go Soon

In 2016–17, there were perhaps 15 to 20 foreign boats actively cruising Japan. Except at the check-in and check-out ports of Ishigaki and Hakodate, we met only three of them. If you have a social cruising style, you may want to join one of the rallies that are increasingly popular. Remember, though, that setting out on your own can lead to wonderful encounters with locals. Sadly, YouTubers and bloggers are discovering Japan. Misinformation and hyperbole seem to go hand in hand with social media, and that is bad for everyone’s reputations. If Japan is on your horizon, we recommend going sooner rather than later. —BB/ADR

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