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.

We cleared through the Panama Canal and sailed back into Pacific waters for the first time in a decade—but I looked west from our 50-footer, Atea, with a sense of despondency. All of our sailing friends had worked hard to get to this stage. They looked at the Pacific as the beginning of an epic adventure. I, however, looked at it as the ending of ours. This would be the final year of an 11-year circumnavigation. I was reluctant to conclude our cruising lifestyle.

Yet, it was hard to be sullen when so much beauty lay ahead of us. The Pacific is the largest ocean in the world, and we would be sailing through one of the most enviable cruising destinations: French Polynesia. We would spend the next three months playing hopscotch across 2,000 miles of ocean, tossing our stone from tropical paradise to tropical paradise in a game that required no more effort than to follow the breeze and our desire. With 130 islands to choose from, the only challenge was selection. 

There are five archipelagos within French Polynesia. We decided to focus on one: the Tuamotus. With the Marquesas and Gambier islands to the east and the Society and Astral islands to the west, this central group is a part of French Polynesia that I had bypassed on my previous trip across the Pacific. Tahiti and Bora Bora caught my attention on my first trip, but this time, I was drawn toward names I had never heard: Makemo, Tahanea, Fakarava. We skipped the high peaks and lush greenery of the popular volcanic islands and headed for the Tuamotus’ string of six-dozen near-submerged rings that form the largest chain of coral atolls in the world. 

We departed from the west coast of Costa Rica and sailed 4,000 miles through a continuous sea to reach our first atoll. As we watched a thin cluster of wispy palm trees slowly materialize from the blue seascape, it was like setting our sights on a midocean mirage. Amanu is an outer-­lying atoll on the southeastern edge of the group, quiet and sparsely populated with few visitors. We found crabs, coconut trees and a small group of Polynesians in a sleepy village. We wandered the tidy streets and passed orderly rows of houses with tricycles parked outside property fences and gravestones set inside the gates. Other than a single resident who quietly strolled past us in the midday heat, the little township had an air of abandonment. After a month at sea without any outside contact, the lack of solitude suited us perfectly. 

Slowly, we cruised around the inner rim of the atoll, enjoying the peaceful beauty. Long, rolling waves that transited hundreds of miles crashed onto the outer reef, washing over to settle like still pond water in the inner lagoon. The tops of palm trees waved gently in the breeze, offering perches for the terns, boobies and frigate birds resting after their long-haul flights.

We would spend the next three months playing hopscotch across 2,000 miles of ocean, tossing our stone from tropical paradise to tropical paradise.

We collected seashells and made driftwood rafts for our 8-year-old pirate and ­10-year-old brigadier, stick weapons sheathed as they battled for imagined bullion and lost treasure. We snorkeled with the colorful bommies and healthy population of reef fish, and paddleboarded the drop-off with oceanic manta rays gliding by underneath. We built bonfires on the beach out of coconut fronds, pulled down as we dislodged coconuts from the cluster above our heads. We enjoyed a slow gin to the slip of the setting sun and gazed up at the fantastic spray of fairy lights sparkling in the darkness of an unpolluted night sky. For any recluse, Amanu is the place to be. 

The next few atolls offered similar isolation. On Makemo and Tahanea, coconut trees provide the only means of generating an income. For most of the locals, this business is a multigenerational family activity. Outside of that, they were doing what we were doing: using those same trees as shade in the midday heat, wallowing in the shallow waters for an easy catch for the evening meal, and shooing away giggling children. 

We rarely saw anyone. We usually chose anchorages away from the villages. When you have the independence and means to truly get away from society, you might as well go whole hog. By fully immersing ourselves in isolation, we were able to pick up on the nuances. Each atoll had its distinctions: Amanu felt totally remote, Makemo had aquatic purity, and Tahanea was unspoiled beauty.

Tahanea was our golden gem. It is a nature reserve whose only residents are feathered, shelled or scaled. The lack of hunting and fishing results in an abundance of wildlife ­completely unfazed by the odd human guest. A few islets within the lagoon provide ­hatcheries for three species of booby birds: red-footed, brown and masked. To hear the abrasive warning squawk of a protective hen and to see the curious eye of a newborn chick was a joy, and the frenzied swarm of the disturbed flock swooping and diving overhead was a curious intimidation. In the shallows was another nursery, with foot-long predators ­skirting around your ankles, the tip of their fin barely breaking the surface. 

Our timing for Tahanea was specific. We wanted to witness the grouper spawning. During the week preceding the full moon in July, the marbled grouper usually perform their mating ritual: a spiraling whirlpool of fish that create rippling currents of metallic color. This year, however, the spawning occurred in June, so we’d missed it. But the ­grouper were still around, all resting on the ocean floor. 

We did get to watch red snapper spawn in an equally impressive courtship dance. We came upon a large school just inside the pass and followed them for a while, unaware of the performance that was about to commence. They started grouping and regrouping, circling one another, one chasing another out of the pack. As the school grew and compressed into a tight ball, a female would break out in an ascending dash. A string of suitors would chase tail in a long spiral, a pearlescent flash of color ripping down their sides. At one point, a lemon shark swam through the group. The entire school turned on it and chased it away. To hear it, I wouldn’t have believed it, but that day, I watched the many defeat the mighty.

Next, we sailed for Fakarava to watch the competitions and performances of the Heiva, French Polynesia’s version of the Olympic Games. The Heiva is a monthlong festival in July that honors Polynesian history—the oldest festival in the Pacific with initial performances dating to 1881. Fakarava, the most populated atoll in the Tuamotus, holds the best example of a traditional Heiva (Tahiti’s are more commercialized). Encouraging locals pulled us from our seats to participate in the fruit-carrying race, javelin toss and coconut-husking competition. Fortunately, we were not invited to join the ‘ōte’a, a powerful and seductive Polynesian dance that would only humiliate any ­nonnative performer. We even walked off with a few cash prizes—a token for participation rather than achievement.

Fakarava is the second-largest atoll in the Tuamotus, with the second-largest lagoon in all of French Polynesia. Pelagic species crowd its two inland passes. (A whale shark guided us through the lagoon.) The northern pass is the largest, with a rich biodiversity of rays, turtles and dolphins. The southern pass is a protected sanctuary for gray reef sharks with the highest global concentration: about 700. We were side by side with these apex predators and they acted like docile goldfish. We were able to dive the outer wall and inside the pass without a local group, and the freedom of swimming within the school was an experience like no other.

Leaving Tahanea and Fakarava was like pulling teeth—none of us wanted to depart. But we were midseason and only halfway through the atolls. We received a warm welcome in Toau, where our arrival instigated a spontaneous lobster feast. In Apataki, we quickly made friends with two young bachelors who wanted a life simpler than in the faster-paced Tahiti. A stone set just off their homestead laid claim to the hopes, dreams and protections of mariners who had traveled through Apataki centuries before us. Following suit, we dressed up in palm-leaved hats and did a ceremony for our continued safe journey and protection at sea, then spent the next several days with our hosts sharing bonfires on the beach, fish from their daily catch, and lobster ­freely delivered to our boat. To be so openly accepted, befriended and included, with no gain in return, is the ultimate ­human experience. 

To be so openly accepted, befriended and included, with no gain in return, is the ultimate human experience.

For us, the Tuamotus offered a rare glimpse into French Polynesia’s beauty. Nature is allowed to flourish. The inner lagoons are healthy with marine life. Humpbacks spray their steamy breath into the air, and the occasional whale shark sidles in for a curious peek. The locals are welcoming, but they’re also willing to leave visitors in peace. 

I had started this season by looking at the Pacific as an ending, but with hindsight, I now see it as an opening. It is a reminder of all the beauty this world holds, and a promise that there is always an adventure in the path ahead.

The post Exploring the Tuamotu Atolls in French Polynesia appeared first on Cruising World.

Pushy islanders circling the boat in their canoes. Drunken rascals harassing or assaulting crews. The constant threat of being attacked by saltwater crocodiles. Reading reports about Papua New Guinea, we weren’t sure if it was a wise idea to even dare a brief stopover.

But Papua New Guinea does have the advantage that it lies outside the cyclone belt (at least the northern part). So, we went, but we kept to a route far from the main islands. In the remote little islands, we found beautiful nature and hospitable people wherever we stopped.

While occupying only 1 percent of the world’s landmass, Papua New Guinea has an incredible 7 percent of Earth’s biodiversity. It is the world’s third-largest island country and the most populous among Pacific island nations—even though nobody’s quite certain how many people really live there. Calculations vary from 12 million to 17 million inhabitants. It is culturally diverse too, with traditional customs and lifestyles still practiced in remote areas. More than 800 languages are spoken, and the English-based Tok Pisin gives them—and us—a common means of communication.

To really experience the country, it is necessary to travel inland and up into the mountainous interior. In 2005, we did just that, taking a series of trucks up the one and only “highland’s highway.” It’s a dirt road, really, with lots of tire-­repair stations along the way. As locals would, we traveled into the rainforest, past mining camps, and through towns that were quite basic. Everywhere we went, we received a friendly welcome—sometimes from people with rotten teeth that were bright red from spitting the juice of betel nuts, which can be a bit unsettling at first. 

We vowed to return, but it took us 20 years. Cruising through Papua New Guinea is a different experience. Even the oldest, most basically equipped sailboat is luxurious compared with some dwellings here, which can attract the wrong kind of attention. 

We came up from Vanuatu and continued to Kavieng at the northern tip of New Ireland, a pleasant little town with a great vegetable market and surprisingly well-stocked ­supermarkets. Stalled in place by a lack of wind, we explored the many islands around the tip of New Ireland and around New Hanover; went up to the Saint Matthias group; island-hopped back to the Solomons via Tabar, Lihir and the Tanga group; and sailed on to Nuguria and the Mortlock group far out to the east. We then did another round of the most remote ­islands and atolls.

Due to reports of crime we’d heard from other cruising boats in the area, we’d installed ­metal bars across all of our boat’s hatches so that we could leave them safely open at night. We’d also mounted motion sensors to activate our lights if anybody tried to board our boat ­uninvited. We stowed everything that couldn’t be locked belowdecks, to avoid attracting thieves.

Because of all the reports, we went on high alert the day we anchored next to a reef with no land in sight and, suddenly, saw an open boat full of men approaching us at high speed. As it turned out, they slowed down, waved, and stopped to offer us some fish they’d had just caught. For free. Ashamed of our paranoia, we sheepishly looked for something to give them as a thank-you.

We’d also read that it’s crucial to visit the chief of each island right after anchoring to bring presents, ask for permission to stay, and be under his protection. On many of the little islands, we were directed to the “chairmen” (like mayors) for informal welcomes, with neither anchoring fees nor presents expected. We brought small gifts anyway. 

Wherever we anchored, we soon had canoes paddling ­toward us: curious kids or adults coming to trade. The first day was usually the busiest, with everyone eager to meet the strangers and check out their weird floating home. We sometimes had a fleet of 10 canoes circling us and couldn’t get any work (or rest) done, as we felt obliged to give one group after the other a tour of the boat.

The trick is to stay longer in a place. Once the excitement has worn off, visitors are occasional. On most islands, we were told that we were the first boat to call in 10 or even 15 years. It’s a shame, really, because the islanders would be happy to have more visitors, tell stories and barter, especially where supply ships have stopped calling altogether. They need clothes, school supplies, sunglasses, reading glasses, staples such as rice, sugar and instant noodles, and household equipment including frying pans and towels. Spinnaker material for the sailing canoes is a perfect gift, but please don’t encourage spearfishing along the reefs by giving away snorkeling gear—the damaged reefs ­desperately need herbivores such as ­parrotfish and surgeonfish to keep algae at bay. It’s better to give out hooks and lines, which target less-vital species.

After watching coral bleach and die during previous summers in French Polynesia and Fiji, we didn’t expect healthy reefs in Papua New Guinea due to its closer proximity to the equator, so we were surprised to find super-resilient corals. We had also expected the northwest monsoon, which is supposed to bring strong winds and rain, to set in during December, but it didn’t arrive at all (and locals told us it had skipped the previous years as well). We enjoyed the hot, calm weather, but it sadly resulted in a serious bleaching event. The lack of wind also meant that we had a hard time making our way back southeast, but we managed, eventually, with lots of patience and light-wind sailing.

Around towns and densely populated areas, many reefs are hopelessly overfished, but in remote areas, the traditional subsistence fishing is sustainable. Many communities have created marine protected areas, which are breeding grounds for many species that will—hopefully—populate neighboring reefs, and the fishermen profit from the overflow around the no-fishing zones. We tried to encourage such projects by doing reef checks together with the locals, including schoolchildren. You can too: When you anchor off an island, ask whether the village has an MPA. Then, respect the no-fishing policy and ask whether you’re allowed to snorkel. Bring locals with you to hang out with big fish. Make sure to leave a donation to encourage people to continue their efforts.

While you’re down there, you’ll likely see the anemones that come in an astounding variety of colors and shapes, with clownfish in various patterns. We were surprised to find many reefs teeming with turtles, giant clams and lobsters. Apparently, many islanders converted to Seventh Day Adventism, and their religion forbids them to eat such animals. We were also happy to encounter big groups of manta rays, dolphins, and even dugongs in the lagoons.

Since the export of saltwater crocodile products was banned in 1980, the number of these dangerous reptiles has steadily increased. Incidents are on the rise: swimming children, women doing their laundry in the river, dogs roaming the village at night—nobody is safe when the crocs go hunting. Our first anxious question in each anchorage was whether there were saltwater crocodiles: Igat pukpuk? We made sure to ask several reliable-looking people before we dared to venture into the water. Meeting a hungry croc face-to-face was definitely not on our to-do list.

In the island maze off Kavieng, people assured us that the outlying islands without mangroves were perfectly safe for snorkeling. On more-­remote islands, the people just shook their heads and laughed. They had never seen one themselves. 

So, that’s another good reason to stay away from the mainland. During a hot, equatorial summer, having to stay out of the water would be unpleasant, but of course, not nearly as unpleasant as ending up as a saltie’s dinner.

Birgit and Christian Hackl have been cruising aboard their S&S 41, Pitufa, since 2011. Visit pitufa.at for pictures and information, and check out their books: Sailing Towards the Horizon, Cruising Know-How and On Velvet Paws Towards the Horizon, an homage to their ship’s cat.

The post Islands of Intrigue: Cruising Papua New Guinea appeared first on Cruising World.

The outgoing tide shot us through the narrow pass at 10 knots, spitting our C&C 43 into the beatific blue of the South Pacific. We’d just spent a few days anchored inside the tiny atoll of Kauehi, 100 miles northeast of Tahiti in French Polynesia’s Tuamotus archipelago, to recover from a five-day passage from the Marquesas Islands. We were heading to a bigger atoll to replenish provisions.

But first, my husband, Rob, and I had a request of our captain: Let us jump overboard.

He thought we were nuts. There were no boats in sight. No people for miles. Just the endless expanse of the Pacific ahead and 3,000 feet of water under our keel.

Plus, one of the biggest feeding frenzies on Earth was about to begin.

Hundreds of sharks congregate each June in the Tuamotus’ passes to prey on the thousands of grouper that arrive to spawn on the reefs. Under a full moon near the winter solstice, these coral-dwelling fish release a terrific cloud of sperm and eggs in unison. The sharks swoop in to pick off the distracted grouper.

Rob wanted to witness the frenzy. He loved sharks, along with wild places full of animals wilder than himself. I, on the other hand, was terrified of sharing space with sharp-toothed predators.

Every sailor I know has one fear that outweighs all the others (because, let’s be ­honest, there are plenty of rational fears that go hand in hand with setting out across large oceans on small boats). One friend is petrified of running aground. Another refuses to anchor anywhere that sea snakes slither. One loses sleep over how to handle storms at sea.

When we set out to cross the Pacific, I wasn’t really worried about rogue waves or lightning. I wasn’t overly concerned about doldrums or underwater reefs. But my stomach twisted into gnarly knots when I thought about seeing a shark while snorkeling.

Let me back up: Crossing the ocean had been my idea. It took root when I was a little girl listening to my dad tell stories about delivering a yacht from Hawaii to California. He told me about pilot whales that nearly rammed the boat. About swinging out over the sea with a line tangled around his ankle, a gust shaking him like a rag doll over the deck. About diving deep beneath Maui’s waves to retrieve a silver pendant to gift my mom. About the endless hours on night watch, searching for mermaids and spaceships. About the blues and greens, too many to name, too vivid for words.

There were no boats in sight. No people for miles. Just the endless expanse of the Pacific ahead and 3,000 feet of water under our keel.

I wanted to see all those colors too. So in 2013, Rob and I quit our jobs, rented out our house, sold most of our belongings, and hitchhiked west as volunteer crew. We considered buying our own boat to cruise the South Pacific but ran up against two cold hard facts: Boats are expensive, and neither of us had sailed overnight, much less had enough experience to cross the largest ocean on Earth. 

What we did have going for us was ­flexibility, a high risk tolerance, an appetite for adrenaline, and a willingness to hang out in small spaces with strangers for days on end. So we stuck out our thumbs (­figuratively, at least) by posting a “crew available” ad in an online forum.

By the time we reached the Tuamotus, we were crewing on our second boat, Kyanos, captained by Ben, a 26-year-old from Alaska. Although we’d been sailing and snorkeling for nearly four months by this point, I’d so far managed to avoid swimming next to any sharks. 

And maybe I could’ve kept it that way. But the one thing I hate more than being scared is missing out on cool stuff. Plus, I knew that the best way for me to overcome my fears was to face them head-on.

So, I decided to jump overboard into the deep with Rob, feeding frenzy and all.

Ben agreed to sail a loop while we ­snorkeled, confident that he could pick up two tiny specks in an enormous sea. We were all young enough not to second-guess stupid decisions.

I stripped down to my bathing suit and then clambered to the rail, mask in hand, to put on my fins. 

“On the count of three?” Rob asked. I nodded, and we catapulted overboard. Warm water closed overhead. It swallowed all sound. When I broke through the surface, Kyanos was already a dot in the distance. 

Panic rose like bile. In theory, I knew that Ben would come back for us. But my body revolted at the reality of being ­completely on our own.

I looked to my right and saw Rob flash a thumbs-up before duck-diving. Treading water, I struggled to secure my mask. The water was so clear, I could see the green polish on my toenails. Sunbeams slanted into the abyss, stirring up a nervous weightlessness in my belly. It would be less scary once I could actually see what was swimming around me, I told myself. At least in theory. 

But then Rob reappeared, yelling: “Hurry! There’s a shark right here!” 

He meant “hurry” so that I didn’t miss seeing the shark, not hurry to get away from it. Not that there was a safe place to swim to. I girded my wits, held my breath, and looked underwater. 

I saw not one shark but a dozen, all swimming steadily toward us. Nothing like trial by fire.

I floundered backward with a garbled shriek. My heart jackhammered against my ribs as I kicked frantically away from the menacing snouts. Rob’s hand encircled my arm and he put his face an inch from mine, looking into my eyes. He made the diving signal for OK, then started leisurely swimming toward the narrow strip of Kauehi’s coral 100 yards away. 

His lack of concern about our impending evisceration calmed me slightly. But I kept looking over my shoulder as we kicked toward the reef, my breath sounding like Darth Vader through my snorkel. Our entourage of reef sharks followed, a few of them longer than me. They cruised a couple of body lengths behind us, as if they were curious why we were in the middle of the deep blue sea. I was wondering that myself. 

Abruptly, the bottom came into view, sloping sharply upward. I immediately felt safer. Sure, sharks could just as easily eat us in 20 feet of water as they could in 2,000 feet. But seeing shore—even a barely there, sharp-as-hell shore—gave me back a sense of control.

Panic rose like bile. I knew that Ben would come back for us. But my body revolted at the reality of being completely on our own.

My dread dwindled further as the sharks dispersed, suddenly more interested in the fish swarming along the reef. I was too. It was the most vibrant, colorful scene I’d ever seen. Fish that embodied their names: snapper, parrot, butterfly, trigger, squirrel, unicorn. Over here was a courtship display, there a fight. Drama, tragedy and comedy all played out in Technicolor as I watched, fear forgotten. 

Until something bumped my shoulder.

I spun around, adrenaline spiking ­sky-high in a nanosecond. But it was just a tattoo-faced Maori wrasse, as big as a Labrador and about as friendly. Rob appeared in my periphery, gesturing me to follow him around the corner. He pointed out a patch of reef where the grouper were so dense, it looked like a carpet of fish laid over the coral. I watched him dive down to prod a female, her belly swollen with eggs. 

Then Rob pointed out into the deep water from which we’d swam. I followed his gaze.

And saw hundreds of sharks. 

They were hovering about 30 feet below the surface, a line of ominous gray shapes stacked on top of one another as far as I could see. 

My muscles wound tight again, ancient instincts telling me to flee. But, somehow, I held still. Breathed my slow, Darth Vader breaths. Told myself that humans weren’t on their menu, not with their bellies full of grouper. 

I relaxed in micro-increments, keeping tight to the shallows. Their tails moved in slow arcs as they hovered in place. I grew mesmerized by the slow flare of their gills. It was so graceful. Peaceful, even. 

Rob broke my trance, motioning me to the surface. Disoriented by the bright sun, I spit out my snorkel. The wind felt loud and chaotic, as foreign as the water had felt a half-hour before. 

“Current’s picking up,” Rob yelled. “We should swim back out to meet Ben.” 

He was right. While I’d been making peace with sharks, the tide had changed. We were starting to get sucked back ­toward the pass. 

I kicked hard, trying to make progress against the current. Panic rose again. What if we couldn’t make it back to Kyanos? Maybe we should’ve made a better plan than “come get us eventually.” 

Our boat was still a dot in the distance. I waved my arms overhead, then gave up as I lost ground. I stroked fast again to catch up with Rob, air whooshing in and out of my snorkel. My lungs burned. My legs started to cramp.

The next time I chanced a look, relief flooded through me. Kyanos was close. This time, we both waved our arms, and Ben saw us, tacking to adjust course. 

Relief was short-lived: Kyanos was trucking through the waves at 8 knots, proving her racing chops. Now I was terrified that we might get run over. 

But Ben hove-to expertly a few dozen yards away from us. He threw out a coil of floating yellow line, which jerked taut in the boat’s wake. I latched on, and then promptly began plowing through the ­water face-first. Even hove-to, Kyanos was still moving faster than I’d anticipated. My bathing-suit bottoms sluiced down around my ankles as I held on for dear life. 

“Pull yourself up the line, Bri! Hand over hand!” Rob yelled, holding on behind me. 

It was slow going, but I eventually made it back to the boat. I grabbed a stanchion and heaved while Rob shoved my bare butt up from below. I collapsed in the cockpit.

“Good time?” Ben asked, averting his gaze as he passed me a towel.

“So good,” Rob exclaimed, tossing my wet shorts into the cockpit. “God, I love sharks.”

Flying high on endorphins now that I was finally safe from a near-death ­experience, I laughed. “You know,” I said, “I just might love them too.”

The post Liquid Courage: Staring Down Sharks in the South Pacific appeared first on Cruising World.

The excitement was mounting as our plane closed in on our mid-Pacific holiday. We had little on the agenda but to dip our toes in crystal-­clear water and watch a dusky sun set on an aquatic horizon, rum punch in hand.

There was just one problem: Our destination was submerged under a foot of water. There would be no shimmering black tarmac to provide a safe landing for our pilot. There was only one way in and one way out, and that was by sea. 

Few patches of submerged land hold the reputation of Minerva Reef. For South Pacific cruisers, it is the perfect break in a 1,200-mile passage between New Zealand and Tonga. The novelty of setting anchor in the middle of the ocean and watching the seas roll by as your boat remains in a fixed position was something I wanted to experience. There wouldn’t be anything to do but rest and relax. A day or two would be all we would need before continuing the voyage onward—or so I believed.

Minerva Reef is the modern-day Atlantis, if you stretch the facts a little. In 1972, American millionaire Michael Oliver decided that Minerva was the perfect location to establish his own sovereign nation. There was, however, a small kink in his plan. Laws relating to disputed territories state that land cannot be claimed unless it is a foot above sea level at high tide; this was not the case for North or South Minerva. To claim it, he would have to build it.

The plan Oliver devised was bold. He would take the 6-mile-wide atoll, dredge its neighbor, and fill the inner lagoon until a flat pan of land arose from the sea. A flag was erected, a president elected, and money for the Republic of Minerva coined. King Taufa’ahau Tupou IV, Tonga’s monarch at the time, had no interest in forfeiting access to a territory that had been established fishing grounds for generations. The problem was, Tonga had never laid a claim to it and therefore had no legal rights. Until this point, Minerva was not on the main trade routes and the prevailing winds were unpredictable. The only traffic that the atolls received were the unfortunate ships that got blown off course by storms.

In fact, it is only because of GPS that mariners have recently made Minerva a destination of choice rather than one of disaster. Scattered metal bones of deceased ships are reminders of the hazards of these submerged atolls. Prior to Oliver laying a claim, no one had interest in doing so. Within five months of Oliver’s ­creation, the king dispatched 90 prisoners to tear down all ­man-made structures and disperse the 42 inhabitants. The Republic was no more.

All efforts to raise the atoll from the sea resulted only in its ­ultimate return to the sea. Today, one peek below the surface makes evident that the fabled lost city exists. Thick walls of hard coral protect a soft limestone core, and the graceful, swaying arms of soft coral reach up toward the light. Swirling and dancing around these graceful, Technicolor tentacles is the seemingly endless gridlock of marine life.

When the opportunity came for us to sail to Minerva, we shared the reef with six other cruisers, all of us filling our days with aquatic activity and our nights with shared stories and laughter. Our options were plentiful. Should we stay in our current spot close to the pass so that we could dive at dawn and avoid a longer dinghy ride to the outer reef? Should we move across the lagoon to the navigation light erected by the Tongan navy to claim Minerva as their own, demolished by the Fijian navy, repaired by the Tongan navy, destroyed again by the Fiji navy, and replaced again by Tonga? Should we move to the northeast corner of the lagoon where the rusted wrecks of past ships provide a sanctuary for lobsters?

The entire lagoon is a relatively flat plateau of fine white sand at a depth of 30 to 65 feet, which provides good holding for yachts. We moved because of wind or desire, to suit the activities of the day. I hadn’t expected to be so exhilarated by all the splendor beneath. All I wanted of my time in Minerva was to slip below the surface and watch the throng of finned and gilled tenants race by me. This aquatic metropolis was more densely populated than Tokyo or Mumbai. Pacing the walls with us was a healthy population of sharks: gray, lemon, whitetip and even tiger. Turtles rose to the surface for air as we descended down the reef, a small shoal of squid performed synchronized movements an arm’s length away, and octopuses cautiously receded into their holes.

When we needed a rest from diving the outer reef, we’d pop off the tanks and snorkel around the inner lagoon. The wrecks provide hidey-holes for resting reef sharks, crammed nose-to-tail in their own mini sanctuary. When the tide pulled out, we could walk on the top of the reef—a two-hour window to put foot on land. We would send relaxed schools of brightly colored parrotfish lying side up in small pockets of inch-deep pools into a flurry of panic. The gaping mouths of giant clams would snap their hinged shells shut, sucking in their vibrant blue, green, purple and orange lips. In the distance, the small black tip of a fin would zip erratically through the surface of the water as a juvenile shark hunted in the tidal traps. Occasionally, we would see the tip of an olive-green flipper or the flip of a charcoal fin as a turtle or ray bolted from the lagoon to deep water.

The atoll is completely uninhabited, so entry to Minerva is as simple as showing up. There are no immigration or customs officials, so there is no one to issue a visa or dictate the number of days you can stay. You choose or the weather will choose for you. As the reef is submerged or exposed, depending on the tide, your comfort ebbs and flows. In calm weather, high tide becomes a ­gentle swaying roll. Sit inside Minerva, and you’re as likely to feel the lapping of water against your hull as if you were drifting at anchor in a calm, protected bay. But when the wind picks up, the lagoon turns to a washing machine. Every gust churns the surface into froth and confusion. Yachts that anchor deeper in the lagoon for safety’s sake might find their boats bobbing, with the crew unable to eat, sleep or read.

Still, Minerva’s allure is unforgettable. It’s a reminder of the natural beauty that thrives when human influence takes a step back and the ocean is allowed to reign. Minerva Reef is a living testament to the extraordinary diversity of life beneath the waves—a world of color, motion, and wonder that left me humbled and exhilarated.

The real beauty of the reef is not just in its untouched state, but also in the connection it fosters with those lucky enough to experience its magic.

The post Minerva Reef: An Underwater Oasis in the South Pacific appeared first on Cruising World.

Are you sure we are still in the Philippines?” I ask my husband, Steve, as a long purple tongue twists around the branch I am holding, elegantly stripping it of leaves.

“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” he replies quietly, so as not to disturb the diners.

“Giraffes roaming around freely on an island in the Philippines doesn’t make any sense at all.” I giggle, daring to reach up to touch the snout that is attached to the long purple tongue. “But it’s amazing.”

More than 7,000 islands make up the Philippines, so choosing where to sail can be overwhelming. We decided to explore the Calamian Islands, 200 nautical miles southwest of Manila, for several reasons—the chance to hand-feed giraffes being one of them. This smattering of small islands offers boaters a little bit of everything. Most important, there are plenty of anchorages with protection from the weather. In a region known for the frequency and ferocity of storms, a safe place to hide is on every sailor’s mind. 

Then-President Ferdinand Marcos brought the giraffes to Calauit Island, along with a collection of African animals, in the 1970s. Unfortunately, more than 250 indigenous families were evicted from the island, and only the giraffes and zebras survived. Now known as the Calauit wildlife sanctuary, it is basic and severely underfunded, but there is a constant stream of visitors.

Just next door to Calauit is Busuanga, the largest island and the tourist hub of the area. We sail down the southern coast of Busuanga, weaving our way among bamboo fishing floats, pearl farms, and reefs. The charting in the Philippines is fairly accurate, but navigational aids are rare. Local fish-aggregating devices and aqua-farming setups move with the seasons and are often abandoned when damaged by a storm or if the money runs out. Sailing here demands eyes on the horizon, and navigating at night is a fool’s mission.

We pull into the aptly named Pearl Bay after winding our way through the maze of pearl floats that line the entrance. Pearl Bay has a large inner harbor where a river meets the sea, and a long outer deepwater bay where Sunset Moorings (which can be reached at mail@sunsetmoorings.com) is located. Andy Alford, a British sailor who has called Pearl Bay home since 2017, put down 12 moorings suitable for vessels up to 50 feet and is preparing to add several more. He and his partner, Mel, welcome visitors into the clubhouse that he built onshore and is happy to share his wealth of local knowledge. A sweetwater source at the head of the bay flows fast and freely, and buses pass by daily on their long drive into town. It is a beautiful, quiet spot to stop.

The bay is also home to three small resorts that welcome visiting yachts with various price points and amenities. By far the most popular is El Faro, which is Spanish for “lighthouse.” Perched on top of a steep hill overlooking the bay, its sunset views are as breathtaking as the hike up. The staff is friendly, the beer is always cold, and the pool is refreshing on a hot, sticky afternoon.

With our Newport 41, Kate, on a mooring, good company and luxuries to enjoy ashore, we stay in Pearl Bay longer than planned. But the fridge is almost empty, and we finally have enough wind to sail, so it is time to get moving. We trade the tranquility of Pearl Bay for the chaos of Coron town, our last stop on Busuanga. 

Coron town is a grid of cramped streets set back from the dusty waterfront. The harbor—a constant wash of tourist boats, ­interisland ferries and cargo ships—is not attractive, so we anchor just north of town. That means a wet dinghy ride when the wind is up, but we happily trade 10 minutes of discomfort for a solid night’s sleep.

 Busy with backpackers, Coron offers three important things to passing yachts: laundry, ATMs and provisions. With cafes, restaurants and nighttime food stalls lining every street, we regularly kick back with a tasty plate and a cold drink, watching the traffic and tourists.

A low-pressure system is forecast to blow through the area, so Steve and I decide to backtrack to Port Luyucan just north of town to hide. The narrow entrance, a sticky mud bottom, and ­near-­­360-degree protection from the wind prove a comfortable combination to sit out the 25 to 30 knots and torrential rains for a few days. Our only company is a few friendly, waterlogged local fishermen and the roosters ashore.

When the skies clear, we sail south and stop at Dataytayan Island, about 30 nautical miles away. On the charts, it looks much the same as all the other islands in the area: a small tuft of palm trees, a coral reef and white sand. The only difference is that it’s uninhabited, a rarity in a country with a population over 110 million people. We are careful to avoid the garden of coral when we throw the anchor, with the bottom clearly visible in more than 30 feet of water. 

For days, the bay is mirror-calm thanks to the long, thin island shielding it from the northeast winds. The sound of palm trees rustling in the evening breeze is a nice reprieve from the ever-­present barking dogs and ear-splitting karaoke that has been our soundtrack of late. We see sails on the horizon several times, but I am secretly relieved that no one pulls into our anchorage. I don’t want to share.

One afternoon, we dinghy to the opposite end of the island. The turquoise waters, white-sand beach and shifting sandbar make it a popular stop for tour boats, but we brave the hoards, pay the landing fee, and settle down on our towels to soak up a little sun. We anchor the dinghy in the shallows and watch as tourists pose beside it. One man brazenly crawls into the dinghy and sits to have his photo taken, as if our little plastic boat were his very own pirate yacht.

Dataytayan turns out to be my favorite island—not only in the Calamian group, but maybe in all the Philippines. However, when the wind clocks around and freshens, the building swell wraps around the end of the island, and our pristine bay turns uncomfortable. We make a beeline to Linapacan, the last island in the Calamian group. 

The sea state becomes short and sharp. The wind is aft beam, and we carry just the headsail but average 6.5 knots. We pull in behind the long reef in front of San Miguel and find good holding in 13 feet of water with a sandy floor. A moderate current runs through the anchorage, so to avoid being held wind against swell, we set a stern anchor too.

The next day, the skies are blue, but the local coast guard ­officer tells us that a small-craft advisory is in effect, and we can’t leave ­until it is lifted. We snorkel the deepwater pass close to the ­anchorage several times, marveling at the abundance of feather stars, barrel sponges and healthy coral fans that dance in the current. We spot horseshoe crabs in the shallows, watch long-tailed macaques on the beach, and unsuccessfully try to catch the gang of squid that hangs out on our anchor chain. 

With no phone coverage in the harbor, we head ashore to check emails and the weather using the Wi-Fi at a little store just down from the main jetty. We dock the dinghy close to the where the ­island kids gather for their swimming lessons, their “lap pool” being two bamboo poles anchored in the sea with lines tied between them to mark the lanes. Their enthusiasm is unhampered by the blustery conditions.

We spend an unplanned week hiding in this small but comfortable harbor until the weather finally eases, and we sail to the island of Palawan, where we will clear out with officials before heading to Malaysia. The Calamian Islands—­overlooked by ­many sailors—is now on my ­top-10 ­favorite-­destination list. 

Heather Francis is originally from Nova Scotia, Canada. She and her Aussie husband, Steve, have been living and sailing on their 1973 Newport 41, Kate, since 2008. They’re currently in Borneo, Malaysia. Follow their adventures at yachtkate.com.

The post Hidden Bliss: Sailing the Unspoiled Calamian Islands appeared first on Cruising World.

Oh, my God,” the local kids shouted and giggled. One by one, they jumped into the water from the side of a concrete boat ramp and came to the surface, repeating what they had just heard us say as we did the same thing to cool off after a long afternoon of chart and boat briefings at The Moorings charter base on Raiatea, a gem of a destination in the Leeward Islands of French Polynesia. 

From the water, I watched their mothers chatting the late Sunday afternoon away in the shade of a stand of trees. To the north, I took in the unfamiliar shapes of the daymarks lining the channels, and the coral between our harbor swimming hole and the island of Taha’a, a couple of miles away. It was all but impossible to keep my eyes off the iconic rocky peak of Mount Otemanu, shrouded in tropical haze on Bora Bora, some 20 miles to the northwest. I’d seen it in pictures hundreds of times as I read South Pacific adventure tales. 

But now, oh, my God, indeed: Here we were. We were going sailing. In Tahiti.

It took three days to get there from ­wintry Boston, with an evening stopover in Los Angeles and a second night spent in a hotel in French Polynesia’s capital city, Papeete. From there, photographer Jon Whittle and I, along with the trip’s organizer, Josie Tucci from Sunsail, and one her friends from Florida took a morning flight on a small commuter plane to Uturoa, Raiatea’s main commune. Our travels ended with a short cab ride to the Sunsail docks nearby. For the next few hours, eight more sailing and golfing friends of Tucci’s wandered in, ready to help celebrate her big 5-0 aboard two roomy cruising cats: a Sunsail 505 for the birthday girl, and Magic Dancer II, a Sunsail 454, for Whittle, me and overflow guests.

Most of the sailing we’d be doing for the next 10 days would be around the large islands that sit inside extensive coral barrier reefs, so the chart briefing was quite detailed. A local skipper went over aids to navigation, points of interest, anchorages and the like. He stressed to us North American sailors that Lateral System A is used in this part of the world, with red marks left to port, not starboard, when entering passes from the open water. Inside the lagoons, square red daymarks designate dangers toward land; green triangles show hazards along the reef; and various configurations of triangles atop poles indicate whether to leave obstructions to the north, south, east or west. We took detailed notes on large paper charts and downloaded a cruising guide PDF that would be consulted frequently throughout the trip.

There are four main islands within the group. Two of them, Raiatea and Taha’a, are quite close and within the same barrier reef. Between them lie well-marked shallows and coral beds, so sailing back and forth is fairly simple. 

Bora Bora and Huahine are another story. To reach them, open-water passages of about 20 miles are required, with a long slog upwind either going or returning, depending on the island. Early-morning departures are required so that upon arrival, passes can be navigated while the sun is high. An eye on the weather is also recommended because conditions can get boisterous.

Midafternoon, the briefing formalities were put on hold for nearly an hour when a troupe of local musicians and dancers came to welcome us. They handed out leis and headbands made from colorful local flowers, including tiare apetahi blossoms, which grow only high in Raiatea’s mountainous interior. The men sat with their instruments and played Polynesian tunes while the dancers, a mix of women and children, twirled and shimmied their grass skirts in lively routines handed down from their ancestors.

It being a Sunday, all stores had closed at noon, so provisioning had to wait until Monday. Early in the day, a couple of us from each boat took a taxi to the Champion market in downtown Uturoa, a bustling urban area where the cruise ships dock. Though all of the islands in the group have grocery stores of some sort, we were advised to get the bulk of our provisions here. The market was well-stocked, but with all goods needing to be shipped in across the vast Pacific, prices were steep.

Back at the boats, we loaded supplies and topped off water tanks. By late morning, it was time for the adventures to begin. First stop: Passe Rautoanui, an opening through the reef on the northwest side of the island. 

As we approached, we picked out the cardinal marks indicating the opening. White waves crashed on the coral reefs to either side, but the water between them was dark blue and deep. Outside, we rounded up into an offshore breeze gusting to 20 knots or so. We went with a single reef in the main, unfurled the genoa, and settled in for an easy reach south to Passe Punaeroa, about 8 nautical miles away.

Ashore, the mountaintops disappeared into the haze and clouds. The colors—blue sky, green jungle, white breakers on the reef—were spectacular and everything I’d imagined French Polynesia would be.

Back inside the lagoon, Tucci’s boat led the way along a narrow channel around the southern end of the island to a tiny anchorage behind Motu Nao Nao. We’d been told during the briefing that there’s room for only three or so boats, and there was already a large monohull there, so we aboard Magic Dancer II opted for a mooring a mile or so away in deep water off another small motu, or island. We took the inflatable across to join the festivities underway aboard what already had become the party boat. Nao Nao was the perfect place to spend a hot afternoon with a cold beverage and snacks. A few of us took off snorkeling over the nearby coral heads. It was an excellent transition to island time. 

With evening approaching and the sky clouding over, I hopped into the dinghy alone, figuring I’d make better time motoring solo back to Magic Dancer. I didn’t make it far from the swimming hole, though, before the sky turned black. Time to turn back to the cat that stayed at anchor to ride it out? Nah. I pressed on and almost at once got gobbled up in a white squall that came rolling through with ferocious gusts, stinging rain, and lots of lightning. That was a dinghy ride to remember.

Tuesday, we continued the counterclockwise tour of Raiatea, the largest island in the Leeward Group. Late morning, we anchored in about 30 feet of water, deep in Baie De Fa’aroa, a fjord located about halfway up the island’s eastern side. From there, several of us took two inflatables up the Apoomau River. We were told that it’s the only river trip in all of French Polynesia, and we soon discovered spectacular glimpses of Mount Tefatuaiti with its towering rock walls and deep valleys shrouded with mist. Our destination was the botanical garden near the headwaters. 

It was slow-going, with many sunken trees and shallow spots to dodge. Along the way, we met a local man who, for a modest fee, paddled his faded orange kayak ahead of us and gave us a guided tour of the gardens. On the way back, we stopped at his camp, where his wife and daughter wielded machetes to cut up coconuts, red papayas, grapefruits and bananas for us. We ate so much fruit that we almost didn’t need the lunch of shrimp curry and rice that Tucci’s sailing mate, Paula, had cooked while we were gone.

Later that afternoon, we tried to visit the small village of Marae, home to an ancient Polynesian temple, but the holding was poor and evening was coming, so instead we found a sandy spot to anchor on the reef off Pointe Tamapua. The crew voted to go ashore for dinner at the Opoa Beach Restaurant, where the ginger tiger shrimp were indeed a delicacy, as ­promised on the menu.

Early Wednesday morning, the big-boat crew set off for the airport in Uturoa to pick up a late-arriving guest. We lingered a bit for a swim and breakfast before hoisting sails and reaching across flat water along the shore. At the top of the island, we found the marks for a channel skirting Grand Banc Central shallows, which lie between Raiatea and Taha’a, and crossed for a lunchtime rendezvous with the big boat in Baie Apu, an anchorage on the southern end of Taha’a. 

From there, we motored up the west side of the island until we spotted the Motu Tautau and a cluster of luxury bungalows built out over the water, the La Taha’a by Pearl Resorts. We anchored just south of them in a sandy spot with about 7 feet of water. The breeze was brisk, so I stayed behind to watch the boats while the rest of the crew took the tenders and motored past the resort to a channel between a pair of small motus. Once they secured the boats, they walked up-current along the shore of one of the islets, and then jumped in for a fast snorkel back to where they’d started. Everyone returned raving about the ride.

For me, the highlight of the trip came the next day, when our little armada set off for Bora Bora. After a brief motorsail south to clear the reef through Passe Papai, we killed the engines and started off on what would be our longest day of sailing. 

Out of the lee of Taha’a, Magic Dancer lived up to its name, slicing and surfing through big trade-wind swells. According to the chart, our desired heading was 293 degrees, but trying to steer that in a blustery southeast breeze of 15 to 20 knots proved nearly impossible because of the constant threat of an accidental jibe and the jib being blanketed. Instead, we crisscrossed the rhumb line on a series of broad reaches—each one bringing the towering peak of Mount Temanu more clearly into focus—until we finally spotted the iconic light that marks Pointe Te Turi Roa on the southeast corner of the reef surrounding Bora Bora.

Along the way, we spotted flocks of birds diving for baitballs roiled up by tuna and other big fish. Occasionally, an interisland freighter or fishing boat came into view, but for the most part, we were on our own, out on a great big sea, surrounded by whitecaps and having a ball. Or at least some of us were. The others, well, they spent the time nursing cases of mal de mer.

The birthday boat was ahead of us at the light, but by radio we called them back so that Whittle could launch a drone and get photos of the two cats sailing along the edge of the reef. It was a surreal scene: the boats side by side on a deep blue ocean, a long line of frothy white surf where the swells piled up on the coral, the tranquil lagoon just beyond with the lush green island in its center. Overhead, the white clouds had greenish-blue bottoms because of the sunlight reflecting upward off the water. It was a lot to take in.

There is only one way in and out of Bora Bora: Passe De Teavanui, which is about halfway up the island’s western shore. It was midafternoon when we arrived, and once through it, we had a straight shot to the mooring field at the Bora Bora Yacht Club. We went ashore to the club for dinner and topped off the evening playing Boule, a bowling game, on sand courts near the bar.

Friday morning, a few of us walked the shore road to an ATV trail cut into the jungle-covered hillside. It was a steep climb to the top, but the reward was a stunning view of the lagoon below and a couple of cruise ships that had just arrived.

That afternoon, we got underway and followed a twisting channel inside the reef across the top of the island and down the eastern side. Though it was windy, the breeze was, for the most part, on the nose, so we motored. To be honest, it was a nerve-racking trip through shallow water teeming with coral heads. Off to port, numerous resorts were built on stilts over the water and reef. They were well-marked on the chart and helpful as we tried to keep our bearings straight. 

Anchoring is not allowed within the reef at Bora Bora, but mooring balls are plentiful all around the island. We grabbed ones off a sandy beach at the southeast corner of the lagoon and settled in for an afternoon of swimming that slowly faded into star-filled night. Overhead, the Southern Cross and Orion kept us company.

In the morning, a few of us jumped into the inflatables with snorkels and fins and went exploring in a marine park by two small islets a mile or so away. There were a couple of tour boats from nearby resorts when we arrived, but soon they cleared out and we had the place to ourselves. We found fish and coral aplenty in 10 to 12 feet of water.

That afternoon, the trip back around the island was simple: All we had to do was follow the track we’d laid down on the chart plotter the day before. Near the north end of the island, a kayaker fell in behind us as we motored by at 6 knots. He hitched a ride on Magic Dancer’s wake for 2 or 3 miles. It was an impressive paddling demonstration that the fellow put on.

For lunch, we made a stop at Bloody Mary’s, a popular shoreside bar and restaurant. As we ate, a band appeared on stage and locals started to wander in for what seemed to be turning into a Saturday-afternoon ripper. We took it in for a while, then headed back to the boats and went to find a mooring out near the reef on the western edge of the lagoon.

The original plan was to head back to Raiatea on Sunday morning, and from there, sail to Huahine for a day. To pull it off, we’d need to keep moving, and personally, I was looking forward to three more long open-water crossings. But some of the others who’d suffered on the way up weren’t so keen. On any charter, and especially one with a large contingent of nonsailors, keeping the crew happy is ­paramount. So, it only made sense to scrap the plan. Instead of spending Sunday at sea, we’d play. Hard.

The next morning, we explored ­nearby sandy motus. In the shallow waters around them, we swam with small blacktip sharks and searched for rays. After lunch, we all kicked back on the big cat, where a couple of techs from the charter company appeared with a motorboat and wakeboard. The scene only became more festive as more powerboats filled with locals zipped by, many of them pulling tubes loaded with screaming kids.

Along toward sunset, as a dinner of chicken curry simmered on the stove, Tucci’s friends decorated the boat for the birthday bash that turned into a ­laugh-filled night of music and revelry.

Monday started slow. We motored back to the mooring field by Bloody Mary’s and made a provisioning run for supplies to last us to the end of the trip. Then we took the tenders across the shallows at the southern tip of Bora Bora that keep big boats at bay. Besides seeing the southern tip of the island, we wanted to check out the good snorkeling area we’d visited earlier. It was a long, wet ride in the small boats, but well worth it once we got there. Visibility was better, and the fish were easier to spot and more plentiful.

The sea was glassy and the wind was initially calm for our return to Taha’a on Tuesday. As we passed the lighthouse on the corner of the reef, a breeze began to stir, so we raised the main and motorsailed closehauled, pointing as high as we could. Then, with 6 miles to go, the wind suddenly kicked up to near 20 knots on the nose and brought with it waves that made it a slow slog the rest of way to the pass back through the reef at Taha’a.

Inside, we motored north again along the island’s west coast and picked up a mooring in Baie Tapuamu, across from where we’d anchored a week earlier. The big cat arrived soon after, and following lunch, we headed ashore for a tour of Domaine Pari Pari, a local rum distillery. The white rum had a raw taste to it, not anything like the Caribbean rums most of us were used to. But it was ­drinkable enough, poured over ice on a hot afternoon.

Wednesday was our last full day aboard the boats. In the morning, we took our snorkeling gear and went by inflatable a short way up the coast, where we were told we might find rays. Just when I thought we’d been skunked, I watched a single manta ray come up from the depths. It had about a 6-foot wingspan and wild-looking markings on its back. Most everyone got a glimpse of it gliding along the shallows before it disappeared back into the deep.

Back in the tenders, we pushed a bit farther north until we spotted a dock and buildings where we thought we might find a spot for lunch. Instead, we’d landed at the Iaorana Pearl Farm, said to be the largest in French Polynesia. The farm manages some 2 million oysters in the waters surrounding the island. 

We were introduced to a man whose job it is to sit at a desk and implant small pebbles taken from the Mississippi River and sent to Taha’a via Japan into some 300 oysters a day. The oysters are then affixed to strings and returned to the water for 18 months, when the pearls are ready to be harvested. Several of the crew purchased necklaces and such. It was hard to pass up such unique souvenirs from an unexpected stopover.

Midafternoon and back at the boat, it was time for one last motorsail, so we set off for Raiatea, where we dropped anchor on the reef, not far from the charter base. There was still swimming to be done and merriment to be had, but I could feel my sense of island time slipping away as we checked plane reservations and packed. That evening, we went ashore to the Fish & Blue restaurant for a last team dinner. And of course, we sat up a little too late for a last glimpse of the Southern Hemisphere’s night sky. What else would anyone do on their last night in the Society Islands?

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor at large. 

If You Go

Our flights to Papeete, Tahiti, were booked on Air Tahiti Nui, which has regular flights from Los Angeles. From the US East Coast, it was easiest to plan an overnight at a Los Angeles hotel. Our flight across the Pacific was aboard a clean and comfortable plane, decorated in soothing tropical pastels. It’s a long flight but endurable.

From Papeete to Raiatea, we flew Air Tahiti. Flight time is just under two hours; a four and a half-hour ferry ride is a cheaper alternative.

Provisioning at the base in Raiatea is straightforward but expensive. Eating out is even more so: A $50 bill for lunch per person was common for our group, and a hamburger cost $15 to $18.

Most charter boats come equipped with chart plotters. Still, I found that having an iPad loaded with Navionics cartography was a great help within the reefs. It allowed us to have one chart zoomed out and the other zoomed in for details. When the onboard chart plotter stopped functioning one morning as we traveled along the south coast of Raiatea, we were able to carry on by iPad until I could reset the recalcitrant equipment. —MP

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At the dawn of Chinese New Year in February, Jennifer and Peter Francis were hiding out in the Marquesas aboard Saphira, their 70-foot catamaran named for the strong, loyal blue dragon in the book Eragon. Saphira is their second cat designed by Chris White, but it’s a whole different species adapted for their current phase of life. On the first morning in this Year of the Dragon, Jennifer says, “It should be a good year for Saphira.”

The Marquesas wasn’t in their plan for this cruising season, until El Niño generated rougher weather than usual in French Polynesia. “We decided to leave Tahiti and sail 750 miles northeast to the Marquesas to avoid a busy year for tropical storms,” Jennifer says, adding that they made landfall at the island of Fatu-Hiva. They had just set Saphira’s anchor when a dinghy came by—a Vancouver couple they’d met in Mexico’s Sea of Cortez, cruising on another catamaran from the same designer.

White is known for his Atlantic series of cats, and for innovations such as the MastFoil rig and forward-positioned cockpit. The Francises’ previous cat was an Atlantic 55 (their first Saphira). Their 70-footer came to life starting in 2010, the year that White says Peter told him: “When our kids head off to college, Jen and I are going back to the cruising life. We’ll be in touch later.” The next summer, Peter visited White’s shop in Dartmouth, Massachusetts, with broad ideas for a cat that could do it all. “Their concept was a boat with the space of a 40-footer built for two people to sail easily by ­themselves, but with hulls of about 60 to 70 feet to safely make 300 miles in a day,” White says. “Anything less than 250 would be a failure. And they were interested in a free-standing rig. More than most clients, they had deep experience and knew what they wanted.”

Combined, Peter and Jennifer have logged around 100,000 miles on the oceans. Peter started sailing as a kid, when his family had a Cape Cod 30. At age 12, he’d cruise to Cuttyhunk, Massachusetts, and the nearby islands with friends. At 16, he raced trans-Atlantic and was on the US Admiral’s Cup team. He completed three trans-Atlantic crossings by 20. In 1974, he met Jennifer, a local gal and fellow sailor. That same year, Peter and his friends sailed his first boat, the 50-foot Aage Nielsen sloop Nunaga, through the Panama Canal and beyond to the Galapagos, French Polynesia, Hawaii, Alaska and Seattle. Jennifer joined them in Alaska.

At various times since then, the couple has spent years together—alone and with their children—living aboard boats. In 2009, Peter retired from his position as a corporate CEO, and Jennifer took a sabbatical from her job as a ­professor of atmospheric sciences at Rutgers University. They pulled their children out of seventh- and ninth-grade classes, and sailed their first Saphira for 14 months from Massachusetts up to Nova Scotia, then south to Colombia, and finally back home. Ever since, they’ve lived in Massachusetts—or wherever they’ve pointed the new Saphira’s bows.

Conceptual work for the 70-footer began in earnest in 2011. First, they bought two 23-foot Stiletto catamarans and modified one to take various rigs. For three summers, they hired a friend who was a good sailor to evaluate each rig. They also invited sailor friends to match race—singlehanded, to emphasize ease of handling. White also tested his MastFoil rig on the Stilettos. 

“First they tried two masts positioned fore and aft, then with them side by side,” White says. “They experimented with normal booms as well as wishbones.”

Peter says that 14 sailors tested all the rig configurations. Each day, after collecting performance data, the couple asked those sailors to rank the setup on a scale of 1 to 10, for how likely they would be to recommend the rig to an older couple going offshore cruising. 

Then they plotted the results. On ease of handling, the biplane prevailed. They also found some unexpected sailing characteristics. 

“Catamarans don’t tack particularly well, especially not light ones,” Peter says. “When sailing the biplane, we trim the leeward sail more than the windward one because the breeze ‘bends’ around the windward rig and presents a narrower apparent-wind angle to the leeward sail. When they tacked, the prior leeward sail became the windward sail and started earlier to ‘sail’ the windward hull around.”

Another advantage appeared when sailing dead downwind, Peter adds. “You can wing-on-wing with both sails out at 90 degrees because of the full mast rotation, making for a very stable rig and also allowing you to steer up to 80 degrees on either side of the course without jibing.” 

Nevertheless, the initial biplane Stiletto lost in the first trials. It didn’t match the standard rig’s performance. The team realized, however, that the biplane could handle longer booms than the sketch, and thus larger sails on same-height masts.

At first, this switch didn’t help ­performance, but once they made larger daggerboards to counteract the leeway from the increased sail area, the performance significantly bested all other rig configurations. 

The couple preferred this setup too, especially for safety in the event of squalls. 

The masts rotate 180 degrees each way but can rotate up to 270 degrees, so if you do need to release them to 180, nothing can break.

 “With no standing rigging, you can depower on any point of sail by quickly easing,” White says. 

The masts will rotate into the wind—what sailing instructors call safety position. When the couple tested the biplane again with larger sails, it blew away its competition.

“The final version on Saphira is a ­biplane with two big mainsails,” Peter says. “The masts rotate 180 degrees each way in normal operations but can rotate up to 270 degrees, so if you do need to release them to 180, nothing can break.”

Jennifer adds: “We have unreal ­visibility from the cockpit. There’s ­nothing to ­obstruct the field of view.” 

Having settled on the rig, they focused the design process on three concepts: the biplane rig with fully rotating masts for safety and maneuvering; 70-foot-long narrow hulls with a beam, weight, and righting moment about the same as an Atlantic 55; and only two staterooms, to free space for comfort and ease of maintenance.

Saphira’s wing-shaped masts make up 7 percent of her sail area. At the first reef, the mainsails are normal in size, but when fully raised, they have the total area of an Atlantic 55 with its main and largest spinnaker flying. “Hull length leads to higher hull speeds and also seakindliness,” Peter says. 

Combined with the narrow 28½-foot beam, this design also allows access to slips and Travelifts that often max out at 30 feet. And the extra length allowed White to design the hulls’ interiors
similarly to the Atlantic 55’s but with more space. For example, Saphira’s engine rooms occupy areas where aft staterooms would normally be, and four adults can stand with full headroom around the engines.

To balance speed and comfort, the couple assembled a team from the racing and cruising worlds, including experts from Doyle Sails, Southern Spars and SDK Structures.

“We’d sit at their dining table for hours, the room full of experts who have worked on America’s Cup boats for decades,” White says. “I was the mom-and-pop cruising boat designer guy.”

Peter says that the couple wanted White’s deep experience from decades of designing and building multihulls. 

“We valued this for many reasons,” Peter says. “One additional design criterion was to make the living space practical and focus on ease of maintenance, given that Jen and I would be sailing on our own or with friends.”

The couple’s 750-mile passage to the Marquesas is the longest they’ve ­completed alone aboard Saphira, and it reconfirmed some goals that went into the design. With the cat’s stability at speed and shallow draft, it can go most anywhere. If one of French Polynesia’s tropical cyclones had whipped up, the couple would have been able to sail quickly to safer waters. As Peter says, “With our 11-knot average speed, we could escape the cone of probability in just two days.” 

Recently, amid the craggy Marquesan coves and bays, they were treated to a shark feeding frenzy about 20 yards from their stern. They’re not entirely sure what’s next, but they love knowing that they can spread Saphira’s wings and take flight to wherever the weather looks fine and their whimsy desires.

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Why were we in French Polynesia during cyclone season and an El Niño year? Well, our plan was to sail to New Zealand after six months of cruising in Tahiti, but we fell in love and stayed. So, we ran into cyclone season, which is from November through April in the South Pacific.

The behavior of cyclones changes during El Niño because of differences in sea surface temperatures and atmospheric conditions, influencing the frequency, intensity and paths of the storms. El Niño started in 2023 and continued into 2024, giving the central and eastern parts of the Pacific Ocean warmer sea surface. This can shift the cyclone formation zones eastward. Islands that are typically less affected by cyclones, such as the Southern Cook Islands and French Polynesia, have higher risk.

The Marquesas Islands are outside the typical cyclone belt; their only close call was Tropical Cyclone Nisha-Orama in February 1983. It developed north of the Marquesas during an El Niño year and had sustained winds of 115 mph in the Tuamotus. Areas more frequently affected by cyclones include Australia, New Zealand, Vanuatu, Fiji, Samoa and Tonga—but it is not impossible for cyclones to affect the Marquesas if conditions are right, such as during El Niño years.

Preparation in Tahiti

After a wonderful time diving with humpback whales in Mo’orea, we went to Tahiti to prepare the boat for the journey east to the Marquesas. Wanderlust, our Seawind 1600 catamaran, is equipped with daggerboards. It adeptly sails upwind. This feature, combined with the robust design and comfortable living space, has made it the ideal vessel for us in our long voyages across challenging waters.

In Tahiti, we inspected the rigging and systems, and unfortunately found cracked wires in the cap shrouds and the cross-beam cable (the martingale). The good news was that there are excellent riggers in Tahiti, but the bad news was that the cable had to come from Australia with a lead time of at least two weeks that turned out to be a month. By then, the easterly trade winds would be in full force and on our nose.

Meanwhile, we stocked up at the island’s markets, which are brimming with fresh produce. At every visit, we packed our bags, ensuring our boat was ready to face whatever the ocean had in store.

Papeete Marina

Papeete Marina is on the northwest side of Tahiti, which means it’s open to northern wind and swell. Large waves enter the basin, creating a significant commotion, chafing and breaking dock lines, ripping off docks or surging them over the pilings. In cyclone season, when the northern swells are more frequent, boats are often asked to seek shelter at anchor. As the inclement weather was approaching, we could already feel some of its effects. The monohulls started to behave like bucking broncos.

Finally, our cables for the repair arrived, and Wanderlust was ready.

Strategy

We tossed the lines on December 4 with a plan to sail to Fakarava, setting us up for a good angle to the Marquesas, but the next round of squalls was hot on our tail so we decided to pull into Tikehau, 150 nautical miles to the northwest. The atoll’s sparse population and natural beauty provided a serene backdrop and time to plan the journey ahead. We were held by the weather, but it wasn’t bad at all.

A couple days later, the weather changed, and we had a spectacular sail during the day. Wanderlust chugged miles quicker than expected, and we realized we would arrive in darkness—when it is unsafe to enter the atoll. We furled our screecher and set the jib to slow down a knot or two. A few hours later, the wind disappeared and was replaced by torrential rain. We had to motor and arrived at the atoll’s pass almost two hours after the desired slack tide. Not a real problem with two 80 hp engines, but it could have been with a smaller boat.

Fakarava greeted us with the rare convenience of a fuel dock. However, we did not make use of it, thinking we would be fine with the fuel we had. Rookie mistake. This amenity would have allowed us to bypass the cumbersome process of ferrying fuel in 5-gallon jerry cans, saving time, effort and my rotator cuffs, which I later destroyed in Hiva Oa by shlepping more than three dozen of them.

Fakarava hosts a vibrant underwater world and UNESCO-protected status, with unbelievable diving at the south pass, the famous wall of sharks, and the grouper spawning under a full moon in July. We were fortunate enough to enjoy that during our previous stay. This time around, the squally weather continued, and we did not even take a dip in the water.

Final Leg to Fatu Hiva

With a northwest wind, we sailed close-hauled for three days. Then the wind disappeared, and we motored in flat-calm waters that are unusual for that time of the year. The silver lining was that we were able to land a 143-pound yellowfin tuna that fed us and our friends delicious sushi and tuna tartar for months. And we learned another important lesson: While trying to lift the tuna using the main winch, I may have used the wrong size rope (I admit nothing). The winch stripper arm broke. It was a most expensive tuna, too.

On day four as the sun was starting to set, the southernmost island of the Marquesas, Fatu Hiva, presented its rugged landscape: the perfect gift on Christmas Eve. Giant clouds resting on jagged peaks, the sun’s evening light casting a golden hue on its face. A distant squall reminding us of what we’d been through. We had navigated Wanderlust about 1,000 nautical miles from Tahiti, upwind, to this Jurassic-like sanctuary for cyclone season. In the day’s final light, we anchored in the stunning Bay of Virgins, a spot already marked on the chart plotter from our previous visit.

Fatu Hiva

This land boasts a rich cultural heritage, friendly people and breathtaking landscapes. After spending some time on the island, we found ourselves reverently walking paths surrounded by raw beauty. Eventually, we stopped trying to articulate our awe, and we became part of the larger tapestry of life and nature. Gently running our fingers on the leaves of holy basil to release the magical scent, inhaling the pungent whiffs of drying copra, and bowing over gardenia flowers to take in their exhilarating aroma. Long-tail tropical birds circled above us in the backdrop of lush volcanic peaks.

Kahoha was the greeting we exchanged with the locals. Even Yoda, our dog, became a beloved figure on the island, responding joyously to calls from across the river. We made friends, bartered rope and other items for fruits, and for wild pig and goat meat. We felt a profound connection to this island.

Getting there was worth every bit of effort it took. We lived an unforgettable adventure that brought us closer to each other.

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My interest in the global movement of cruising boats goes back to 1987, when I published the results of my first survey on this subject. I have since conducted follow-up surveys every five years. The latest was done in 2016. During this time, the world experienced two major phenomena that seriously affected offshore cruising: the (hopefully short-term) Covid-19 pandemic, and the longer-term climate crisis, whose consequences are expected to get worse.

The pandemic had an immediate impact on the international cruising community and caused havoc among sailors on long voyages. As many popular cruising destinations closed their borders, sailors had to postpone their plans or leave their boats unattended and return home. Those who were allowed to stay had to remain at anchor. There were several reported cases of hostile, unsympathetic attitudes from authorities and local people, even in areas where visiting sailors were previously welcomed. 

In several cases, the planned voyages were abandoned. International cruising traffic came to a standstill, and my own plans for a follow-up survey in 2022 looked like they would suffer the same fate. Even if I managed to get figures from places that had supplied data in the past, in most cases, the figures would be meaningless. 

To get at least a rough idea of the real situation, in early 2022, I contacted some of the most-frequented hubs on the world cruising circuit, such as Panama, Bermuda, Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, Tahiti and Noumea (in New Caledonia, South Pacific). The figures I obtained showed that while some places had fared better, others had seen an unprecedented reduction in the number of visiting boats.

Las Palmas, in the Canary Islands, recorded its highest ever influx in 2021, with 1,256 visiting boats. As the starting point for the annual ARC trans-Atlantic rally, as well as being an important transit hub, this location proved its lasting popularity thanks to the tolerant attitude of the local authorities. A similar situation was experienced in the port of Horta in the Azores, a favorite landfall at the end of a trans-Atlantic passage from the Caribbean. Horta Marina recorded 1,102 arrivals in 2021, compared to 465 in 2020 and 1,132 in 2019. 

But the figures from these traditional Atlantic hubs were not indicative of the situation in other parts of the world. Panama Canal transits of pleasure craft decreased in 2021 to just 806, down from 1,122 in 2020. The drop-off was even more drastic in countries where pandemic restrictions continued into 2021, such as Tonga, New Caledonia, New Zealand and Australia—all of which recorded no arrivals. In Tahiti and South Africa, like at the Panama Canal, numbers were considerably lower than in previous years.

During 2022, as the pandemic appeared to be under control, most countries lifted their temporary restrictions. I resumed my survey by contacting officials in the most significant cruising hubs or transit points in every ocean. I requested the number of foreign-flagged yachts that had passed through those ports in 2022.  

These figures let me construct a picture of the current movement of cruising yachts.  

Atlantic Ocean

The port of Las Palmas in the Canary Islands has a larger concentration of boats preparing for ocean passages than any other place in the world, with the majority of sailors setting off toward the Caribbean. The port authority recorded a total of 1,237 visiting boats in 2022, flying the flags of 44 countries. The largest contingent was from France (266), followed by Germany (194), the United Kingdom (83), the Netherlands (49), Sweden (42), Switzerland (38), Denmark (27), Norway (24), the United States (19), Belgium (17), Poland (16), Finland (14), New Zealand (13), Spain (12), Australia (11), Italy (9), Russia (8), Czechia (7) and smaller numbers from other countries.

Approximately 75 percent of the boats that called at Las Palmas were bound for the Caribbean, either directly or via the Cape Verdes. An increasingly popular intermediate point for a trans-Atlantic passage is Mindelo Marina on São Vicente Island; it recorded a total of 1,120 arrivals in 2022. Located in the northeast trade wind belt, this is now considered to be a better starting point for an Atlantic passage to the Caribbean than the direct route from the Canaries, as the chance of consistent favorable winds is higher, and the distance is shorter. 

Most of the European boats that sail to the Caribbean cross the Atlantic after the middle of November or early December, and complete their Atlantic circuit by sailing to the Azores the following April or May. Horta, on the island of Faial, Portugal, continues to be the preferred landfall at the end of an eastbound trans-Atlantic passage. Horta Marina has been keeping detailed records of visiting boats since 1985, and the latest data made it possible to extract a raft of interesting facts about the boats, their crews and their routes sailed. 

While the total number of boats (1,131) that cleared into Horta during 2022 has not changed significantly, the data confirmed that the majority of boats on passage from the Caribbean to Europe now sail directly to the Azores, rather than via a detour to Bermuda. While Horta has overtaken Bermuda in overall number of visiting yachts, Bermuda continues to be an important transit point for North American boats sailing between the mainland and the Caribbean or Europe, as well as for boats returning from the Caribbean to the United States or Canada. 

The number of boats that called at Bermuda in 2022 was 838, confirming a steady decline since 2000. This drop-off is mainly due to the large number of American boats that bypass Bermuda and sail directly to the Eastern Caribbean. The situation is reversed in May, when more boats returning to the US mainland call at Bermuda. 

More than half the boats that arrive in the Caribbean from Europe or America used to spend at least one full season in the islands, but in recent years, concerns about climate change creating bigger storms have led more sailors to limit themselves to a one-year circuit, be it from Europe or North America. Those who stay longer in the Caribbean usually have their boats stored on land in a secure place during the hurricane season. 

The island of Trinidad has set up several boatyards for this purpose, with 478 boats spending the summer there in 2022—a significant reduction from 2,664 in 2000 and 1,367 in 2010. According to Donald Stollmeyer, former president of the Yacht Services Association of Trinidad and Tobago, ‘The explanation is the gradual decline in the number of sailors who are prepared to keep their boats in the tropics during the hurricane season.” An even more significant reason is the fact that many insurance companies will no longer cover boats during the critical season in the tropics.

Overall, the total number of boats that spend the winter season cruising in the Caribbean has remained relatively stable in recent years. Cuba was expected to see an increase, with hopes that US restrictions on American boats would be lifted, but this has not happened. Even so, Cuba’s eight marinas recorded a total of 284 foreign-flagged yachts in 2022. According to Commodore José Miguel Diaz Escrich of the Hemingway International Yacht Club of Cuba, “We are always happy to welcome and offer our friendship to all those who love the sea.”

A good distance from Cuba, cold-water cruising is becoming more popular as sailors strike out for more challenging destinations. Two high-latitude destinations in the North Atlantic that cruising yachts regularly visit are Spitsbergen, Norway, and Greenland. The former has become the most popular high-latitude destination in the Atlantic, with 52 visiting boats recorded in 2022. Greenland is poised to become more frequented—as an attractive cruising destination in its own right, and as a base for Northwest Passage preparations. In 2022, 14 yachts called at Nuuk, the capital of Greenland, with most of them limiting their cruising to the spectacular west coast. The more intrepid sailors struck out west to brave the Northwest Passage, which has become more accessible in recent years as a result of climate change and ice melt. Four boats completed a westbound transit to the Pacific, while another four boats made a successful eastbound transit. The total of eight successful transits in 2022 compared to zero in 2021 and only one in 2020. 

This newfound success may not last, though, with concerns about pollution from additional cargo and cruise ships, and the impact of cruise-ship passengers on local communities. Small boats may also be affected, as in recent years, there have been a few cases when the authorities have had to assist sailors. All those factors may result in restrictions being imposed on any vessel planning to use this waterway. 

Such restrictions are already imposed at the other extreme of the Atlantic Ocean, where voyages to Antarctica on private yachts are only possible with permission from the national authorities, and the boats must abide by strict environmental protocols. The Argentinian port of Ushuaia, at the tip of South America, is where boats planning to sail south to Antarctica or north to the Chilean canals prepare and provision. The 38 arrivals in 2022 were down from 64 in 2015, and down from the peak figure of 105 in 2000.

Across the Beagle Channel from Ushuaia is Puerto Williams, a Chilean military outpost and the southernmost settlement in the world. The small port is only a short distance from Cape Horn. The Chilean authorities have jurisdiction over the Antarctic Peninsula and parts of Tierra del Fuego, so any boat planning to sail that way must complete formalities here. The movements of all vessels are monitored by the Chilean Navy, which reports that the total of 77 yacht movements in 2022 was well below the 143 recorded in 2015. There was also a significant reduction in the number of private yachts that sailed to Antarctica, from 43 in 2019 to 12 in 2022.

From Puerto Williams and Ushuaia, most cruising yachts heading for the South Atlantic call at Port Stanley in the Falklands, which saw 12 yachts in 2022 compared with 29 in 2015. From there, the routes diverge and either follow the contour of the South American mainland or continue nonstop to the island of Saint Helena or to Cape Town, South Africa. Both of these have seen an increase in the number of visiting yachts, initially because of piracy in the North Indian Ocean, and then because of safety concerns caused by political uncertainty around the Red Sea. 

 The majority of yachts on a world voyage are sailing the Cape of Good Hope route, with 126 yachts calling at Cape Town in 2022. This was a considerable decline from 2010, when 358 yachts stopped there. With the exception of a few boats that sailed directly from Cape Town to Argentina or Brazil, most boats headed north and stopped at Saint Helena, which was visited by 95 yachts in 2022.

Pacific Ocean

The Panama Canal is the most valuable indicator of yacht movement between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, and on a global level. The latest figures show that the steady increase in pleasure-craft transits peaked in 2010, when 1,177 yachts transited the Panama Canal compared to 919 in 2022. Some 725 were Pacific-bound, and 354 were Atlantic-bound. What has remained unchanged are the Pacific destinations after the transit, with one-third of the boats turning north toward the west coast of Central and North America, and the rest heading for the South Pacific.

The Galapagos Islands used to be a favorite stopover en route to French Polynesia, but restrictions on visiting yachts, complex formalities and associated expenses now deter most sailors from stopping there. There was a record high of 395 in 2010, but the figure for 2022 dropped to 66. 

For those who decide to bypass Galapagos while on route to French Polynesia, the logical option is to sail directly from Panama to the Marquesas. A somewhat longer but potentially more attractive alternative is a detour to Easter Island and, from there, the Pitcairn Islands to French Polynesia. Easter Island, one of the most remote sailing destinations in the world, recorded the steepest decline highlighted by this latest survey. According to the port captain of Hanga Roa, the main settlement and port, “Compared to a record of 79 yachts that called in 2015, only seven stopped here in 2022.” Most of them continued west to the Pitcairns, once the hideaway of the Bounty mutineers, whose descendants live on this remote speck of land and welcome visitors. One descendant, Brenda Christian, emailed me to say: “In 2022, we were pleased to welcome 122 yachts.”

The majority of boats bound for the South Seas, whether from Panama or North America, make their first landfall in the Marquesas. Arriving at those spectacular islands after weeks spent at sea is an awe-inspiring and unforgettable experience. Some 264 boats arrived there in 2022, the majority at Atuona on the island of Hiva Oa. Total arrivals for all of French Polynesia were 404, a significant drop from the record 826 reported in 2010. 

Sailing west from Tahiti, several detours can be made from the main trunk route, such as to Suwarrow, an uninhabited atoll in the Northern Cook Islands where a caretaker is based during the peak arrivals time. Only 16 boats stopped there in 2022 compared with 69 boats in 2015. Another popular place, also in the Cook Islands, is Palmerston Atoll, which was visited by only three boats in 2022, with none in the previous year. This was also the case in neighboring Tonga, which didn’t lift its pandemic restrictions until early 2022. The northern island group of Vava’u, a longtime favorite among sailors, welcomed only 14 arrivals compared to an all-time peak 424 in the previous survey.  

The above places are close enough to the main trans-Pacific route not to entail much of a detour, which may explain why only four boats called at Tuvalu. This small Polynesian community is threatened by rising sea levels from climate change.

Fiji is an important cruising hub in the South Pacific, and its capital, Suva, welcomed 83 yachts in 2022. From there, most cruising boats leave the tropics before the start of the cyclone season and sail to New Zealand or Australia. Both those countries closed their borders at the start of the pandemic, causing mayhem among sailors. The restrictions were only lifted in 2022, when 324 boats were welcomed in New Zealand and 330 in Australia. After no arrivals in 2021, New Caledonia was visited by 241 boats in 2022, a hopeful indication that the situation is gradually returning to normal.

There has also been a considerable decline in the number of visiting boats in the western North Pacific, where weather conditions are noticeably affected by ocean warming. The Philippines now endure tropical cyclones every month of the year, but continue to attract visiting boats, most of them in less-affected areas. On the Asian mainland, the expected boom in visiting cruising boats has failed to materialize, and the figures from Hong Kong show a considerable decline compared to previous surveys. The few foreign yachts that visit Hong King are participants in races organized by the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club. There has not been much more movement in China, either, since formalities for visiting yachts continue to be complicated and expensive. 

A small number of cruising boats make it as far as Japan every year, with an estimated 12 foreign yachts passing through Osaka in 2022. Most of them continued east, with some stopping at Alaska’s Dutch Harbor on their way to Canada or the US West Coast. Dutch Harbor is a busy fishing port at the eastern edge of Alaska’s Aleutian Islands, and nine yachts visited there in 2022. Provisioning and repair facilities in Dutch Harbor are excellent, making it a good base for an eastbound transit of the Northwest Passage.

Although rarely affected by tropical storms, Hawaii still sees relatively few foreign-flagged yachts. The authorities do not keep a record, and the best guess is that about 20 foreign yachts called at the islands in 2022. Hawaii does attract many mainland boats for cruising and racing. Some sail from there to French Polynesia, and a few continue west toward Micronesia and the Asian mainland. Some of them were among the 14 arrivals recorded in the Marshall Islands, which is a fair estimate of the number of boats visiting the Micronesian islands.

Indian Ocean

The number of foreign-flagged boats has shown a steady decrease in the North Indian Ocean, with most boats on a world voyage sailing the Cape of Good Hope route to reach the Atlantic Ocean, rather than the Red Sea and Suez Canal alternative. By contrast, there continues to be significant coastal traffic, with more local and regional boats racing, cruising and joining the rallies and regattas during the winter season in Western Malaysia and Thailand.

For sailors undeterred by the Red Sea who continue west across the North Indian Ocean, a convenient port is Galle, on the south coast of Sri Lanka, where 23 arrivals were recorded in 2022. Some further detoured to Cochin in southern India, which welcomed 11 boats last year. Djibouti continues to be the only safe haven to prepare for the arduous transit of the Red Sea, and 29 boats stopped here before heading north. All of them made it safely to Suez, Egypt, which recorded 36 arrivals in 2022 compared to 2010, when 171 yachts transited the Suez Canal.

Approximately 250 yachts transit the Torres Strait between Australia and New Guinea every year, and half of them continue west into the South Indian Ocean. The others explore the Indonesian archipelago, where formalities have eased in an attempt to attract more visitors. Even so, in 2022, only 46 foreign vessels obtained the required cruising permit issued by the Indonesian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, compared to 236 in 2016.

Significantly fewer boats stopped at Darwin in Northern Australia, which saw 23 arrivals in 2022 compared to 72 in the previous survey. The Australian outpost of Cocos/Keeling, a popular stop on the world sailing circuit, was also affected by the pandemic, with only 31 arrivals in 2022 compared to 99 in 2015. From Cocos/Keeling, the westbound route splits into a southern branch to Rodrigues in Mauritius, and a northern branch bound for Chagos in the British Indian Ocean Territory. The latter recorded six visitors, a significant drop from the 23 boats six years earlier, as the British authorities now limit permits to those who can justify the need for a stop. The most popular stop along the southern route is Port Louis in Mauritius, with 242 arrivals recorded in 2022, a definite proof of the predominance of the Cape of Good Hope route among boats on a world voyage. 

When discovered as a cruising destination, Madagascar was expected to become the major cruising attraction in the South Indian Ocean, but the lack of facilities and cumbersome bureaucracy dashed those hopes. Nosy Be, an island on Madagascar’s northwest coast, has established itself as a modest base, but few world voyagers bother to make the lengthy detour from Mauritius or La Reunion. Only eight visiting boats were recorded in the Nosy Be area in 2022.

On the eve of the cyclone season, all boats make their way south. In 2022, Richards Bay was the favorite South African landfall, with a total of 103 arrivals. The number of boats that called at Cape Town was 126, of which 123 were bound for the South Atlantic and three for the Indian Ocean. Thanks to the Ocean Sailing Association of Southern Africa, this was one of the few countries that didn’t close its borders to visiting sailboats during the pandemic. 

Sailing Hubs

In addition to highlighting the drastic reduction in the number of cruising boats on world voyages, I noted three other trends: the small size of crew on long voyages, with many couples sailing on their own; the number of couples with young children setting off on a shorter or longer sabbatical leave; and the steadily increasing proportion of catamarans among cruising yachts.

These trends may be related, so I widened the scope of this survey to find out more about the type of boats undertaking long voyages, such average length, crew size, whether they were monohulls or catamarans, as well as the predominant nationalities on board. 

Figures obtained from Panama and Las Palmas de Gran Canaria made it possible to calculate the average length of the boats. To arrive at a realistic figure, only boats under 60 feet were included. The average length of monohulls in Las Palmas was 12.97 meters (42.6 feet), and multihulls were 13.80 meters (45.2 feet). In Panama, the average for monohulls was 15.20 meters (49.8 feet), and for multihulls it was 15 meters (49.1 feet). The average length of boats over 60 feet (18 meters) in Panama was 34 meters (111 feet). 

In Las Palmas, multihulls made up 10.1 percent of the total number of boats, whereas in Panama it was 17.2 percent. The proportion of multihulls was even higher during the ARC 2022 from Las Palmas from Gran Canaria to St. Lucia. Among the 140 boats that sailed this classic route, more than a quarter (36) were multihulls, with 33 catamarans and three trimarans, equivalent to 25.7 percent. The average length for monohulls was 15.7 meters (51.4 feet) and 14.1 meters (46.3 feet) for multihulls. The size of boats taking part in the ARC has been steadily increasing over the years, and in this latest edition, 31 monohulls were bigger than 50 feet, with 22 multihulls more than 60 feet long.

More-efficient and better-equipped boats with reliable autopilots, electric winches, furling gears and other accessories have resulted in fewer crew. This was evident from the crews of the boats that called at Cape Town, having an average of 2.9 crew, while in Saint Helena it was 3.2. In Cocos/Keeling it was 2.5, and in Tahiti, the figure was 2.8. In the latter two cases, more than half the boats were crewed by just a couple.

Another interesting trend is the change in the predominant flags of the boats on a world voyage. Statistics obtained from Gran Canaria, the Azores, Tahiti, Cape Town, Saint Helena and the Suez Canal show that US-flagged yachts have lost the top spot to French-flagged boats, with British and German boats competing for third place. 

Conclusions

Since my first global survey in 1987, the cruising scene has seen important changes. This survey found that in a few places, there has been an increase in the number of visiting yachts, but overall, the figures from Las Palmas, Bermuda, Panama, Tahiti, Cape Town, New Zealand and Australia indicate that the popularity of long-distance voyages peaked in 2010.

The reasons all seem related to safety concerns. Climate change, for instance, is affecting offshore weather conditions. In my latest survey among 65 experienced sailors, I asked how they would plan a world voyage today. Without exception, each one stressed that they would take changing weather into account, but would still leave on a long voyage. They all agreed that proper voyage planning was now even more important, and they were confident that a safe voyage could still be accomplished. 

This global survey also confirmed that since 2010 in some of the most popular cruising destinations, there has been a steady reduction in the number of boats undertaking world voyages. The pandemic had a significant negative impact, so it will be interesting to see whether that changes. After all, boatbuilders are reporting full order books with waiting times as long as three years, and the brokerage market is enjoying an unprecedented boom. Carpe diem!

Described as the bible of cruising sailors, Jimmy Cornell’s book World Cruising Routes is the definitive reference book for long-distance navigators. The latest completely revised and updated edition has drawn on the latest weather information and other recent developments to provide the most comprehensive aid to planning a safe voyage to any part of the world. Get it HERE.

Visit cornellsailing.com for information on Cornell’s Ocean Atlas and Jimmy Cornell.

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