In the early days, when I thought about what it might be like cruising and home-schooling, the vision went something like this:

Warm, dappled morning light streaming in through the open companionway, my daughters working on journal entries. Me making coffee while gathering items for our morning science lesson, which would, of course, tie into that day’s reading assignment. My husband, Green, working on route-planning and navigation exercises over breakfast. After a snorkeling break (with fish and coral identification, naturally), the girls would do math without complaining, and then we’d hunt for shells, which we would somehow turn into an art project. Visits to town would be prefaced by a study of the area’s history. 

There would be lesson plans. We would be organized. Our curriculum would be exciting and relevant, and meet all of the standards from back home. The kids would be engaged and eager to learn.

This was, obviously, a fantasy.

When an old friend reached out recently with questions about home-schooling while cruising, I hesitated to answer—even after a couple of winters sailing south with the kids to the Bahamas. 

Why did I go silent? Because, while some of our days had included some of the elements I’d envisioned, most days saw the kids begrudgingly sitting at the salon table doing some pages in workbooks, with me imploring them to “get school done” so we could go ashore. If we were underway, forget about it. School took a backseat. I was not quite the teacher I had hoped to be—nor was I terribly creative or organized. I worried that they’d be behind their peers, and that I was failing to embrace the opportunities around us. 

Looking for advice that I could pass on to my friend, I reached out to a few veteran cruisers who had many years of “boat-schooling” in their wake. What I discovered was surprising and comforting: What they envisioned wasn’t always what ended up working either, and doubts were common.

What Worked, What Didn’t

When Behan Gifford and her husband, Jamie, set out cruising with their three kids—who were entering preschool, first and fourth grades—they knew they wanted to “de-school.” This is a length of time with less, if any, focus on formal schoolwork. It’s sort of an ease in to home-schooling where you learn what the kids’ natural areas of interest are.

“The idea of de-schooling is that we, parents and kids alike, need time to reset on how learning will happen on board,” Behan Gifford says. “Home-schooling on board doesn’t have to include the stress, the approach or many other aspects of mainstream school.”

It’s one of several approaches that I considered for our girls, Caitlin and Juliana, who were in sixth and first grades when we set out aboard Lyra, our family’s Reliance 44 ketch. Our approach ended up being eclectic. I sort of based our materials on where they had left off with their classes, with the thought that we would fill in with lessons that I made up, related to our surroundings. 

Other options could have been a “school-in-a-box” approach where you order a complete grade-level curriculum, and oftentimes have remote support from a teacher or adviser; an online school where kids log in and do activities each day; or unschooling, which lets the kids follow what interests them. 

The Gifford family, after de-­schooling with their kids, went with a sort of unschooling approach. “Natural learning felt like a natural fit,” Gifford says. “We stuffed the boat with primary resources, from field guides to an encyclopedia set to books about the places we’d be exploring together, and let it flow. There were also standard-issue grade-level workbooks, because if a kid wanted to do that, well, then, that’s what they did. Opportunities to learn were everywhere.”

Erin Carey and her family also had a pretty laid-back approach at the beginning. The family left to go cruising in February 2018 when the kids were 3, 7 and 8, and they cruised the Caribbean for two years before crossing the Atlantic. 

“While we thought school was ­important, we were pretty relaxed and open to finding new ways for the kids to learn,” Carey says. “I decided we didn’t want the school-in-a-box approach because we didn’t want to have to send results home or order books via [snail mail]. We also didn’t want to have to rely on the internet. Our approach completely changed after a couple of years.” 

The Eccles family, whose daughters were 10 and 12 when they set out on the Oyster World Rally in September 2021, began with a more structured approach. 

“When we first left Monaco, we planned for the girls to use a full curriculum from Laurel Springs,” Kate Eccles says. “They offered us a more traditional textbook option rather than online schooling because we knew that Wi-Fi and data would be a challenge, particularly when on passage for weeks at a time. Unfortunately, what we didn’t realize until the girls actually started the schooling was that at the end of every lesson, they were required to do an online test, which of course they were unable to do.”

The Reality

Carey says that she needed to adjust her schooling to reality: “I realized that I was not really creative enough or patient enough to make up lessons each day. I also hated wondering if I was doing enough.”

After a cruising pause during the pandemic, the family continued on to the Mediterranean, where they cruised for almost two years. “For the second time around, we went with the complete opposite kind of curriculum,” Carey says. “We signed up to an online school called Acellus. The kids simply had to open their computers and log in, then watch videos and answer questions based on those videos. In theory, it sounded amazing. It took all of the teaching out of the equation for us, and we never had to worry if they were working at the right grade level.”

This went OK for about six to eight months, and then, the younger kids got bored. The oldest son continued with Acellus, and the family added writing assignments because they felt that the program lacked in that area. They moved the two younger kids into a program called My Homeschool, a curriculum that emphasizes high-quality literature. 

Aboard Lyra, our girls kept up with their workbooks, and I kept my fingers crossed that they would fit in with their classmates once we returned to land. A difference in our situation compared with the other families is that our timeline was much shorter. Our girls wouldn’t get too far off course, but we never really were able to settle into a good rhythm with home-schooling. 

Eccles’ family came to a similar conclusion. “A huge part of the Oyster World Rally for us as parents was that we would expose our children to alternative forms of learning,” she says. “The bulk of our days included learning to sail, to log coordinates on charts, and participate in SSB calls.” 

Her kids also learned to prepare meals, organize provisions, and live in a ­confined space. Patience and hard work were emphasized, and they developed a sense of responsibility by being on time for their watches. 

“They experienced firsthand learning about wildlife, not only in the oceans, but also on land all around the world, from the Galapagos to the Gili islands, and were exposed to an array of different cultures and religions,” she says. “Sure, we knew that the girls possibly might return to regular life weaker in certain areas of the curriculum, however, we felt that the rally really was an education in itself and an experience of a lifetime.”

Lessons Learned

There is no “best” way to home-school on board. What will work for your family might look completely different from the family down the dock, and you will likely go through times when you doubt yourself. 

“Know that the first steps into home-schooling will be uncomfortable, and the approach you take probably won’t work out quite the way you imagined it,” Gifford says. “That’s OK. Reset, and try again. You can always stop, breathe, and reset from the place you find yourself. Most cruising families do this—sometimes a few times—to different degrees. It’s a lot of pressure felt by parents. It’s often not pretty to navigate the delicate roles of parent and teacher or learning facilitator, but we have yet to see dismal failures as long as parents are keeping minds and hearts open to continue trying until they land on the right balance for their kids and themselves.”

Eccles agrees: “Get the kids reading as much as possible. If you can, get them used to using e-readers because this will save a lot of time trying to find bookstores as you go around the world.” 

Also try to see everything that you’re doing as a learning or teaching ­opportunity, she says, and enjoy the adventure. 

Things to Consider

The pandemic changed many aspects of daily life, especially school. “Home-schooling has blossomed,” said Melissa Robb, home-school advocate for ENRICHri, a Rhode Island home-school support group. “It was already on the rise, steadily, across the country, really, across the world, but throw in a pandemic along with a plethora of social issues, and it skyrocketed. With the higher numbers comes more resources in the marketplace and locally via libraries, businesses and museums.” 

This availability of resources has been a game-changer for cruising families, but the options can be overwhelming. Before committing to a full curriculum, ask if your kids can try a few lessons to make sure it’s a good fit. Also keep in mind that many of the ­online-learning options require a robust internet connection (and unlimited data), and some courses have a set class schedule. This could all work well if you’re at a dock with great Wi-Fi, but less so if you’re actively cruising.

Resources include the Kids4Sail Facebook group, made up of cruising families around the world. It has a frequently updated spreadsheet with common curricula that cruising ­families are using.

World Book has textbooks and workbooks in all subject areas, as well as digital resources.

Outschool can help with everything from a one-time drawing class to weekly Spanish lessons. Because these classes are over video, Outschool requires high-speed internet access.

Voyaging With Kids by Behan Gifford, Sara Dawn Johnson and Michael Robertson (available in print and e-book) is a treasure trove of information for any family considering going cruising.

Lesson Plans Ahoy by Nadine Slavinski, third edition (available in print and e-book) covers a variety of subjects and can be adapted for kids ages 4 through 12. 

Jennifer Brett is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Home-Schooling Aboard appeared first on Cruising World.

Tomorrow’s probably going to be an unremarkable day of sailing. Odds are, I won’t have 15 knots on the beam. I probably won’t see Willy do a flip over the harbor break wall, catch a double rainbow, or curate a sailing experience that’ll wow friends. Yep, in all likelihood, tomorrow’s conditions will be “blah.” The sailing will be “bleh.” I’ll motor back inside the marina feeling “meh.” And it’s not only okay, it’s often for the better.

As I write this, we’re closing out four weeks of crap weather in Southern California. In any “normal” place, rain and 55 degrees wouldn’t elicit sympathy. But this isn’t a normal place; this is Los Angeles. Out here, cloud cover is breaking news. Rain feels apocalyptic. When temps dip below 60, we put on earmuffs, listen to Joni Mitchell and shelter indoors.

I’m calling it “March Sadness.” In four weeks, I’ve sailed only twice. On both outings, friends got seasick; the bilge was wet; sunny California was sunless. If anything captures my recent mood, it’s the old garbage bags that are taped over Delilah’s unfinished teak.

Yeah, I’ve been a real Eeyore. Seems to me, the more I love sailing, the harder it gets to accept “bad” days on the water. At the same time, I’m also realizing that sailing, like life, isn’t a beer commercial or a motivational poster. Some days have to suck. The key is to embrace it.

Today, I ventured down to the boat with that attitude in mind. Mist-like, upside-down rain bounced off the cockpit floor as the kids and I motored around inside Marina Del Rey. In a stroke of genius, I put on my foul-weather jacket, then immediately sat down in my jeans and soaked my butt.   

My four-year-old, Ederra, held the tiller and steered us through the soup to a guest dock outside a small grocery market. “We can’t sail, but we can eat our feelings,” I told the kids. They scarfed down cookies. I made hot cocoa in the Jet Boil. Then, as rain pitter-pattered outside, we settled in and watched a movie inside Delilah’s tiny cabin.  

There’s a tree-filled park in the marina with a hill that offers fantastic views of the main channel. We tied Delilah to a transient dock. Ederra was using a wet shoe to kick a waterlogged soccer ball to her brother. 

“There are a hundred boats here, but no people,” she said, looking around in disbelief. “Why are there no people?” 

Kids. They’ll remind you of the pleasure and amazement of what life is. Yeah, some days are unremarkable, inadequate, uncomfortable even. But, when we release ourselves from the pursuit of perfection—perfect sailing, perfect weather, perfect parenting—we awaken to the moment with a fresh appreciation for life.

From the park, we watched fishing boats come and go. Long-distance cruisers poked heads from hatches and adjusted their rain tarps. In the distance, the Santa Monica mountains, typically parched and brown, showed a rare emerald green from recent rain. 

We were chilled to the bone and feeding soggy bits of cracker to a couple of ducks on the lawn when a boater on a bicycle sped past. 

“You’re in an overnight slip,” he told me, gesturing down the hill toward Delilah. “The sheriff boat’s coming. They give tickets for that.” 

We ran, slipped and slid down the hill and made it back to the boat just as law enforcement floated past. 

“No worries, we’re just practicing,” one of the officers said as they continued past Delilah. 

“So am I,” I said, powerwalking like a mall-walker down the dock. Looking foolish is so much easier than looking good. 

Anyway, after three rainy hours in the marina, we started back for the slip. I sipped cold coffee and squinted in the mist. Then, about a hundred yards from the dock, a guy in a RIB came motoring by. Behind him, in the pouring rain, a dozen kids were being towed out to sea on Optis. The little boats zipped, wiggled and zig-zagged. The looks on the kids’ faces said nothing of the ongoing atmospheric river, seasonal depression or my middle-aged-man-with-a-sailboat problems. Whatever kind of weather we were having, they were here for it, getting the best of it, soaking it up.

And it was the look on those faces, the time spent with my kids, and, later, the sight of my rain-soaked self, smiling in photos, that got me thinking: Seems to me, you can spend all your energy chasing perfect days on the water. You can swipe at wind and weather apps. You can download charts. You can stalk sunshine, flat seas and idyllic anchorages. And you can totally wear yourself out. Meanwhile, as Herb McCormick recently noted, “Some of the best times you can have on a sailboat are when you don’t actually go anywhere.”

I’m just a noob cruiser sporting wet denim, steering with the tiller cover on, but I’ll second that emotion. Sailing, like life, is about more than pleasure-seeking. It’s about embracing the full spectrum of emotions and a wide range of experiences—even the unpleasant.

And so, my wish for you is that you float on a blasé, windless day. That you motor the marina in the rain. That you spill cocoa, sip cold coffee and get wet. That you tie up to an old dock, feed the ducks, or at the very least feed yourself. 

Because sometimes good enough is good enough. Sometimes the low points turn into highlights. And, even when they don’t, does it really matter?

David Blake Fischer is a “noob” sailor living in Southern California whose work has appeared in McSweeney’s, BuzzFeed, the Moth, and Good Old Boat. He hasn’t crossed oceans. In fact, he’s only recently crossed the Santa Monica Bay. Follow him as he fumbles out the channel, backwinds his jib and sometimes drags his fenders on his Cape Dory 25, Delilah. Stalk him on Instagram @sailingdelilah.

The post The Upshot of Imperfect, Unexciting, Totally “Meh” Sailing appeared first on Cruising World.

Have you got your pants on?” Charlie shouts through a side hatch and into the galley of the 49-foot Westerly Selkie.

Nick wanders over to collect the delicious, crispy French baguettes that Charlie has brought over from Lucky Girl, which is anchored alongside. 

“Thanks, Capt. Charlie. I’ll make sure to put some pants on and come on over for some of that fresh-ground coffee,” Nick tells him.

The four children aboard Selkie tear apart the bread. Crumbs fall everywhere, and tummies fill comfortably as the boats gently sway at ­anchor in the Caribbean waters of Antigua.

“Buddy boats are truly the best when food delivery is included,” Nick whispers. 

Fifteen months later, we all still wake to baguette deliveries from one boat to the other, and the endlessly repeating question about whether people are wearing pants on either boat at any given time. Like a catamaran that has been split in two, our monohulls have crossed oceans as a team. We have made it from the Atlantic to the Pacific as buddy boats.  

How we do it

Cruising is about seeing spectacular new places, experiencing different cultures, and meeting interesting people—but it’s not a holiday. It’s a lifestyle. You could sustain a few weeks, maybe even a few months, with just your own crew and transient friends, but it doesn’t take long before you miss real, long-term human connections. You yearn for people you don’t have to try to impress, people you can invite to a dinner of leftovers and half a bottle of wine.

We became those things to each other starting in Barbuda on a pristine, ­crystal-clear day. Kids were on paddleboards, being dragged by a dinghy, spilling laughter into the waves. Maggie was rowing around the anchorage to meet the adults—cocktails in hand—when she spotted the Scottish flag on Helen’s boat. Maggie shouted to the man aboard, “You’re from Scotland?” 

“Yes,” he replied. 
“We’re going to be friends!” she answered.
Helen’s liveaboard family had just finished a year in Scotland. 
“Are you Nick’s wife from Selkie?” 
“Yes.”  
“You’re right,” he replied. “We are going to be friends.” 

And just like that, our buddy-boat relationship was forged. Later that night, we strengthened our bond with a beach bonfire, marshmallows and reminiscences of Scotland. As it turns out, our husbands mesh well, and our kids mix like a delicious smoothie. We, the wives, are the blender. Our plans, our boats, our education, our cooking, our support of each other—we keep these buddy boats moving with the kind of support that fills the sails like the wind you can’t see. 

Like a catamaran that has been split in two, our monohulls have crossed oceans as a team.

When we have a moment not corralling the kids for school or an adventure, we have conversation. Our husbands play us a song on a guitar or look to the logistics of the next crossing. We hug, because life is not easy, and when that happens, we are recharged. We are two families who know life as survival and exploration, and who take comfort in having company amid the darkness and mystery of the ocean. 

For instance, there was the time when Lucky Girl lost sight of Selkie on Day Two of our Pacific crossing. A call on the SSB, on Day Nine, brought us back together in spirit until, a half-hour later, we could see each other’s lights on the horizon. The Milky Way trailed through the night sky as we reconnected, enchanted to be back together.

Seeing a friendly light on the horizon on a night watch on a long passage is not just reassuring—it can be lifesaving in an emergency. Two boats sailing together also have the advantage of double the spare parts and tools (and provisions—someone always needs an egg for baking). We have double the thinking power for troubleshooting practical problems, and double the people power for doing a job. One of our husbands is an engineer, so he helps with mechanical and technical problems. The other runs his own business, so he’s great on the management of personal relations from country to country. The husbands are always crawling in and out of each other’s engine rooms and anchor lockers. The wives are swapping books for education and ideas for adventures. 

Of course, two boats also means double the waiting time for spare parts or jobs to be finished, or adjusting schedules to fit with obligations such as visitors, work commitments or online education.

And illness can present challenges. When Lucky Girl’s incoming crew got COVID-19, both boats had to wait to keep cruising. Then, the virus hit Selkie too. Both boats waited again. Finally, when everyone was feeling better, we did plenty of ­provisioning to make up for time lost. 

We’ve also needed to make compromises to suit our different family rules, such as screen-time allowances, but we also can work together to motivate our children. With different school schedules and holidays (Selkie is American; Lucky Girl is British), we’ve found adjustments that are beneficial for all, such as adding in “sail camp” as a summer course, more field trips, or study of a local language that doesn’t contain the normal demands of a typical school day at sea. These small changes are easily worth the effort. 

And, we’ve had other buddy boats in addition to each other. Lucky Girl sailed as a group of four in 2021, and it worked well for a few months. Selkie stayed with five boats, before and after crossing the Atlantic Ocean from 2020 into 2021, and it was loads of fun. 

But while big groups can be exciting, planning becomes complicated. With big groups, our recommendation is to sail with generalities—meaning roundabout whereabouts and casual encounters. 

It’s also important to remember the little things. Buddy boating can be filled with shared coffee grinds and espresso presents, kid tea parties on a double-rafted bow, matching T-shirts from matching outings, double paddleboards for double the children, double the participants for board-game ­competitions, extra scuba crew for lost items on the bottom of the sea, more presents for holidays and birthdays, more singing voices for celebrations or howling at the moon, double the comfort when a day goes wrong, more memories to share and enjoy, extra hiking crew to divide and conquer, double the crew to admire sea lions and tortoises, double the snorkelers to notice a shark, double the teams for a scavenger hunt, double the crew for crafts and pizza, more eyes and thoughts for sloth searches and museum visits, double the contemplation on land excursions, more fake laughs for bad jokes, double the toys, more hands for bonfire-­making, double the finger turns for complicated puzzles, lots more toes for sand digging, double the friends for dancing, and an extra person to keep you smiling. 

Buddy-boat tips and advice

Our tips for good buddy-boat relations are pretty simple. For starters, we recommend looking for an instant connection. For us, it was a shared love of Scotland. We got along from the very start.

You also need similar captains. Ours happen to be ­hardworking, exercising-­loving, project-fixing ­adventurers. And, of course, it helps if you and your own friend are similar. As wives, we share the utmost kindness and empathy, cookery and mischief, mothering and teaching, and constant love of exploration. We also have kids in similar situations: Selkie has two teens and two kids younger than 10, while Lucky Girl has two more younger than 10. The teens help, and the younger kids rush to get their schoolwork done to see one another.

Similar itineraries are also a must. We met in the Caribbean after both crossing the Atlantic Ocean and having already made plans for hurricane season. Selkie went to the Dominican Republic and Guatemala, and Lucky Girl went to the ABC islands. We agreed to meet up again in Panama, crossed the canal tied together, and then crossed the Pacific together. We are currently exploring the Pacific islands and planning on time off in New Zealand together. None of us have fixed ideas about where to go, and we all know that it is more important that we go together. Routes and itineraries can be adjusted. 

We also enjoy the same types of side activities. We like renting cars and zooming to archaeological sites. We enjoy scuba, snorkeling and free-
diving together. Though our husbands agree about their hatred of beaches, we and the children play in the waves and build in the sand. We grocery shop together and have chili cook-offs. We find fun local excursions that include pools or hikes. Recently, we both bought small, inflatable ­catamarans called MiniCats, by Guppy, to race in bays for fun.

We are all willing to make changes. When one boat has visitors on board, has a date set to take a break onshore at a rental apartment, or is dealing with illness or injury, the other boat slows down or speeds up. If a mechanism breaks, the other boat helps or waits for the parts to be delivered. We get and give mutual support, because as sailing families, we know what the other is going through. Honesty helps as well. 

Whenever possible, we raft up. Hands down, rafting is the best way to float in a bay (even if you damage a solar panel or bash a bit with swell). And we have similar budget allowances for repairs, land activities and eating out. We prefer to keep accounts and give allowances for wee splurges here and there.

Relationships don’t just ­happen. There’s work involved. Selkie and Lucky Girl know that we do better together, so we work for that, but we also know when it is OK to go our separate ways for a bit and catch up again later. For example, if one boat has visitors on a sightseeing schedule, they move faster. If Selkie’s set of teens is keen to keep up with other teen-boat kids, we separate for a bit.

We often hear families aboard other boats lamenting the lack of other kids to sail with, and we wonder why they are sticking so rigidly to their itineraries rather than making the effort to stay with the family boats they do find. 

After all, when we’re all done cruising, we’re sure it’s the people we will remember rather than the places. So, despite some potential challenges, if you have the same basic expectations, timelines and budgets, we think buddy boating, like all good long-term relationships, is more than worth the effort.

Two boats really become one. When you feel that click, don’t let go.

The post Finding Your People appeared first on Cruising World.

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The idea was perfectly realistic: I’ll get a little pocket cruiser, we’ll take the kids sailing, they’ll be angels, and life will be perfect. 

I imagined sunset cruises, my wife and I canoodling in the cockpit, both of us giggling and drinking spritzers while the boat sailed itself and the kids never spoke. And if they did, they’d speak in nautical (read: British) accents. Look what I’ve spotted in the sextant! I’m just chuffed to bits you’ve taken us sailing, Mum and Dad.

We’ve had a sailboat for a year now, and I still haven’t heard that. My wife and I haven’t had a single sail that felt like a date. And there isn’t a kid aboard who speaks at a volume lower than 80 decibels. 

Yeah, I know, a guy on a tiny yacht shouldn’t be whining. In a few short years, the kids will be grown, no one will be yelling, and nothing on the boat will be sticky. Until then, though, what’s a 21st-century parent on a 25-foot sailboat to do? 

Perhaps not surprisingly, options do abound. What follows are tips gathered around the world from parents who are cruising, daysailing or simply making way on sailboats with kids.

Fabio Fischer, Scorpio 26 Farrapo, Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil

We sail in southern Brazil and the southern Atlantic ocean. On board, we have a 4-year-old son who first started sailing at age 3. To help him enjoy the experience, we make an effort to make sailing social. We often bring friends and other children aboard. And it works: Our son seems happy when he can teach other kids about sailing. We also call him captain.

Nele and Milan Djuric, Oyster 55 Snooty Fox, Flensburg, Germany

As a family of four en route to the Mediterranean Sea, we think it’s important to make it apparent that sailing and living aboard is something that makes us (the parents) happy. We want the kids to see that we’re in a good mood as soon as we’re on the boat. It’s also important for our children to have a chance to play. So we bring along a few of their favorite toys. For example, we have a blanket filled with Lego bricks that we can easily open (and put away quickly) in the salon, cockpit or aft deck.

Maxime Dawson, Lagoon 440 Casablanca, Western Australia

Kids need activity and attention. On board Casablanca, we bring board games and schoolwork. We even give the kids cooking tasks to keep them busy. It’s not easy. Inevitably, the kids get bored. But sailing teaches them to slow down; it helps them understand that boredom is a part of life. Sailing is also a great learning experience. As we travel, we stop regularly to visit beaches and new places. Geocaching is a fun activity during these stops. The kids love it. They think that living on a boat is so much more fun than their former life because we’re always going somewhere new.

Kristianne Koch Riddle, Kelly Peterson 46 Indra, Long Beach, California 

We’ve raised our kids sailing since birth. Even though we haven’t taken off to cruise the world and still live in a house, we’ve made sailing our lifestyle. We’ve always encouraged both kids to explore the many ways they can be a part of sailing and on-the-water life. Over the years, we’ve read sailing stories, learned together about the creatures and natural world we share our lives with, and talked about the historical relevance of all the places we sail to. Today, at ages 13 and 16, the kids sail, surf, snorkel and swim.

Johannes Erdmann, Delphia 33 Maverick, Germany 

My wife and I have been living full time aboard boats for many years. We’ve done several ocean crossings. But, after moving ashore and becoming parents, this is our first season with kids aboard, and we’ve been learning a lot. While the kids seem to love life on the water (which makes us happy), they also need some off time every day. So we go ashore and explore playgrounds and beaches. In difficult situations, and during ­maneuvers, we have also occasionally been “bad parents” who rely on the hypnotizing effect of Paw Patrol. Our oldest son, age 2, is such a big fan of the series that he will not leave the iPad while we are docking the boat.

Jessica and Jeroen, Harmony 47 Sans Souci, Menorca, Spain

We have some simple advice that works for us: Always be one step ahead of the kids. The moment they get bored is the moment they get mischievous. So, keep them entertained. We let the kids help us with small jobs or chores. Our boys are 4 and 3, so they can’t do too much, but they are keen to help with whatever new things we throw at them: drawing, reading, board games, arts and crafts. Our last resort is putting on a movie for the kids, which, funny enough, also helps with seasickness.

Ben Doerr, Pearson Countess 44 True, Bainbridge Island, Washington

We are a liveaboard family with a ­sailboat charter business. When we’re not chartering, we gunkhole and explore local waters. My advice is this: When it comes to engaging the kids with the actual art and tasks of sailing, don’t teach them. Don’t set a time and force it on them. If you enjoy it, they’ll see it, and they’ll ask questions when they’re ready to learn specifics. Always offer them the opportunity to engage, but let them come at their own pace.

Seth and Elizabeth Hynes, Outremer 51 Archer, San Francisco

We’ve found that it’s important to get kids excited for each adventure. Before departure, we let them pick out toys. We have new stuffed animals on board when they arrive. And we talk endlessly about all the new and cool things they’re going to do on the boat. For long passages, we bring along audio stories (like the Hardy Boys books) to keep those who are prone to seasickness entertained.

Juliana Kolling, Hunter 375, Santa Maria, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil 

We don’t have a TV or electronics on the boat to entertain the kids. Instead, the adults take turns playing with them. For a few hours each day, we go ashore to play on the beach, swim, paddle or ride bikes. Inside the boat, we keep the kids busy and have them help us make food and wash clothes. They also like to draw, read books and play with our dog. It’s not easy, but we’ve all become quite used to the simplicity.

Tina Vranken, Lagoon 46 Nohma, Ostend, Belgium

For us, sailing is about spending quality time together as a family. When the kids are bored or unhappy, we talk, rest, eat snacks and play word games. We also find it helpful to have some strict rules. For example, the kids understand that they have to be quiet during stressful situations. This also keeps us from losing our tempers, which would cause even more stress. In the end, it’s important to respect one another’s feelings, especially when someone is feeling sad, unhappy or homesick. Having a talk, offering a hug, and a lot of love mostly do the trick. Still, there are moments that kids are bored or the parents are annoyed. Just remember that this is normal, and it will pass.

Emily Blake Fischer, Cape Dory 25 Delilah, Marina Del Rey, California

With two kids, ages 3 and 7, on a sailboat, there are often situations that create upset: waves, wind, no wind, heeling, heat, seasickness. As a parent, my goal is to regulate myself first and the kids second. When tantrums happen, I do my best to breathe, maintain my composure, and stay calm. I know I can’t control a toddler’s emotions, but I can control my own. When I’m internally calm, I can respond to the kids with empathy, remind them that they are safe, tell them that they can handle whatever is happening, and slowly teach them to be aware of their emotions. Then again, there’s always a glass of wine.

David Blake Fischer lives in Pasadena, California. Catch his latest new sailing ­adventures (and mishaps) in his hilarious web column “The Noob Files” at ­cruisingworld​.com/thenoobfiles, and follow him on Instagram @sailingdelilah

The post Have Kids Went Sailing appeared first on Cruising World.

A bareboat charter is perfect for kids. It’s fun, it’s educational, and it bonds parents and children. Rediscovering the joys of boating through the eyes of a child is a remarkable experience that transports you back to your own first days on the water. 

But, as with everything involving kids, you’ll need to plan ahead for success. 

Set the ground rules long in advance, reinforce them before you cast off, and offer subtle reminders during the charter. The most important rule is that the skipper’s word is law. With two families aboard, parents should sort out the various issues in private. Bottom line: One person is in charge.

Life jackets are essential, but how and when you require them is up to each parent. In my case, all preteens have the run of the cockpit and the cabin without life jackets. Set one foot on deck, and the life jacket rule is in force. Adults should set a good example by wearing their own PFDs so that the kids don’t feel like outcasts.

Before you depart for your charter, find comfortable life jackets for the kids: Wearing bulky PFDs is a quick way to turn a swell trip into a hell trip. Life jackets for youngsters should be lightweight and flexible for their active lifestyle, and ideally have colors that are “cool” designs. With a comfortable PFD, kids won’t think twice about wearing it constantly. If possible, have them wear the life jackets before the trip to make sure there aren’t any chafing issues.

Kids also need nonslip shoes just like adults, and they need sun protection in the form of hats, sunglasses (with cord!), sunblock and protective clothing. And, to fully integrate them into the “crew,” they should have their own sailing gloves as well.

No running and no horsing around until they get ashore. And no kids on deck unless an adult is present. No youngster leaves the boat without permission from an adult. For smaller kids, no one goes forward (even at anchor) without an adult present and on watch.  

When it comes to swimming, the buddy system is always in effect, either with another youngster or with a parent.

The Boat and Trip

For several reasons, I’m partial to catamarans, both power and sail, when it comes to kid charters. Cats have more room inside for playing, they’re more stable, and kids love the trampolines on the foredeck.  

When planning your charter, try to break the distances into small chunks to prevent boredom. A four-hour passage between two harbors can benefit from a short beach stop that creates a pair of two-hour trips, and lets the kids unleash that pent-up energy too. 

 As any parent knows, comfort foods can save the day. Whether it’s a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch or a special cereal for breakfast, make sure you have all the makings on board. It’s a good idea to pack some of their favorite treats in your luggage too because snacks and candy brands aren’t universally available.  

Trust me, kids will be hungry from all the activity, so take plenty of nonperishable snacks. It’s nice to think that they should all be nutritious, but, hey, this is a vacation. Mix up a routine of potato chips with cereal bars, and dried fruit with peanuts.  

A bareboating pleasure for adults is the happy hour, so include the kids. Create virgin piña coladas or Shirley Temple daiquiris to enjoy with the grown-ups.

Time for Fun

Snorkeling is a part of bareboating, but let them try it first in shallow water on a beach. Not only does it feel more secure when they can put their feet down, but it’s a lot easier to adjust masks and fins in shallow water.  

Most charter companies offer masks, snorkels and fins with their charter package, but my experience is that children’s sizes are slim pickings. Buy these at home so you know they fit, and take them with you.  

Kids need sun protection in the water, so take some tightly knit T-shirts to protect their backs. Since they’ll want to explore the beaches and reefs, have reef-runner slip-on shoes too.

Get the kids involved on the boat. Let them take the helm, crank a winch, place a fender. Give them a piece of line, and teach them a few knots before the charter. Then, during the charter, have them tie a few knots for real projects such as fenders or dock lines. Reinforce these efforts with praise. 

For better or worse, this is the digital age, and many kids are addicted. One professional skipper solves this problem by telling young guests that he has to confiscate their gadgets because, as on airplanes, they interfere with the navigational equipment.  

On the other hand, kids love the electronics on board, and a chart plotter (with supervision) can fascinate the youngsters with planning courses and setting waypoints.

Share the responsibilities. One family regularly appoints different youngsters to specific duties, with titles such as dinghy captain (tending the tender), buoy officer (pointing at the buoy for the helmsman when mooring) and forward lookout. Most kids get a kick out of cooking, and the barbecue on board is the perfect chance for them to learn how to flip burgers and steaks. After all, every restaurant has a sous chef to handle the details. Why not a bareboat?

A bareboat charter is a wonderful educational opportunity in so many ways. One family takes books on birds, fish and the local area. Learning about the islands and the wildlife then becomes the key to evening trivia contests.

Encourage and help your youngsters to keep a journal or log of the charter. They can add postcards and drawings, as well as everything from shells to postage stamps from the area. These are not only fun to look at in future years, but they also provide the basis for school reports or show-and-tell sessions. There are a number of logbooks aimed at youngsters in most marine stores, or you can make your own.

Kids need their space, so be sure to designate areas where they can keep their things and have their private time. Have enough blankets and pillows available if they want to curl up for a nap (or make a blanket fort). 

Don’t forget the simple stuff. Being allowed to stay up late and sit on deck with the adults to gaze at the stars (a star chart is helpful) is always a special treat. On one drizzly charter, we taught the kids to play hearts, and they loved beating us. 

One last piece of advice: Don’t overplan everything. Families already have overcrowded worlds with too much scheduling. Use your bareboat charter as a chance to play together, enjoy each other, and just relax.

 Most important, chill out and have fun.

Award-winning writer Chris Caswell is a regular CW contributor and the ­editor and publisher of Charter Savvy, a digital magazine for bareboat charter. 

Pirate Treasure 

Pirates are endlessly enthralling to kids, so you might trace a treasure map that, amazingly, matches your itinerary. It could be “found” in a bottle on a beach, and it might just lead to a trove of chocolate doubloons. You’ll need to take the bottle with you (glass, not old merlot), along with parchment-type paper, a pen that seems old (not a ballpoint), and doubloons. Stash the “treasure” and then “find” the bottle. Don’t forget the “10 paces due west from the colored rock” directions. —CC 

The post Tips For Chartering With Kids On Board appeared first on Cruising World.

Last month, my husband, Jamie, and I, along with our daughters, Siobhan and Mairen, traveled from the boatyard in Puerto Peñasco, Mexico, where our Stevens 47 Totem is undergoing a 40-year-refit. We headed to the Pacific Northwest to attend the graduation of our son, Niall, from Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon, and to catch up with loved ones in the region.

The trip was filled with the kind of incredible moments that travel brings, and reminded me how lucky we are that a steady stream of differentiated experiences are the drumbeat of our life. We drove through territory that, in theory, was familiar to us, but many of the miles were no longer familiar or had become jarringly different. 

It’s often outside of our comfort zone that our eyes are opened to new realizations. Call it world schooling, boat schooling or homeschooling—travel facilitates a unique, remarkable education. 

Travel challenges us to adapt

Maybe the flavors are new, or the climate. Sometimes it’s local attitudes. It might be an uncomfortable situation. I remember how it felt to go ashore in a small Maldivian village, covered from head to toe—minimal skin visible—in intense tropical heat. Unapproving stares burned into the narrow skin showing at the bottom of a sleeve, or long hemline. We were intruders. 

Sometimes, it’s adjusting to everyday interactions or etiquette. Here in Mexico, a genuine greeting is a preamble that accompanies the most basic transactions. Jumping right to business is rude.

Watching Niall graduate, we thought about the many adaptations he’s had to make in the past few years. Leaving the boat and nomadic life to be fixed in one place: Would he get bored or restless? We wondered if he’d fit in among students with conventional upbringings, who spoke slang he didn’t know and loved music he hadn’t heard. How would he find friends? Shifting from highly unstructured learning to class schedules, tests and deadlines: Could he manage? Going through on-campus lockdowns in a single dorm room with cafeteria takeout meals and classes online: Would isolation be bearable? 

He did it, with personal strength stemming from a life that normalized change and adaptation. 

This is the education we want for our children.

Travel builds self-confidence

If self-confidence is trust in your abilities and judgment, then how better to hone self-confidence than regularly putting your abilities and judgment to the test? 

Our constant need to adapt provides ongoing practice. Travel forces us into situations that cultivate better understanding of ourselves: the strengths to appreciate, the weaknesses to work on. It teaches us to trust ourselves, as once again we try something new, or navigate a process without a clear road map or directions. 

A sense of themselves, instead of being defined by others: This is the education we want for our children.

Travel fosters compassion

Experiential learning provides deeper understanding about a situation of a particular place or people. When we can encounter the relics of history, an unfamiliar culture or a natural wonder firsthand, the takeaway has vibrance. The impacts to people and place are tangible instead of elusive. 

I recall traveling through South Africa, hearing from so many people about their experiences with apartheid and its legacy, and seeing the beautiful and painful ways that a post-apartheid era has unfolded. Learning this way makes us want to do better, understand better and appreciate that there are rarely simple or easy solutions. 

This, truly, is the education we want for our children.

Travel engenders appreciation 

A corollary for compassion toward our fellow humans is the appreciation for the world we live in. As cruisers, we’ve been privileged to see a spectacular range of the world’s flora and fauna on a scale of grandeur that defies retelling. A volcano’s eruption nearer than the horizon, the bristles on the nose of a gray whale, the charge of uncountable dolphins coming from the horizon. 

Internalizing these scenes has taught us that nature is precious, beautiful, vulnerable and important to defend.

This is the education we want for our children.

Travel creates learning opportunities

When your norm is change, the manuscript of your life story is a succession of shorter, often highly differentiated chapters. Travel presents us constantly with opportunities to learn and grow. This is the education we want for ourselves. Ongoing learning and growing is our definition of a life well-lived. 

We are grateful to have stumbled into a way to realize it, and to help others do the same. The rewards for all of us are great. Earlier this month, during a meetup with TRU crew (our coaching community) on the shores of Puget Sound, I looked at the faces around the beach fire and thought, This is why we coach too. We hope our crew’s future as salty cruisers will bring them happiness as well. It is a privilege to ease others toward that life.

The past few months could have tested our patience, as delays with delivery of a new engine for Totem cost us the seasonal window to sail for the South Pacific. But it’s impossible to have regrets. We had this amazing opportunity instead, to help Niall celebrate.  

Road trips, like passages, offer the chance for reflection. But unlike passages, this one gave us the sweet chance for reconnection, to give a lot of hugs, and to play a bunch of cards and share some delicious meals with people we love.

If you’re interested in homeschooling while cruising, we have a homeschooling resource page. It includes reference books, posts about how to think about what boat schooling might look like for you, podcasts and videos, and links to posts from other cruising families that are homeschooling on board.

The post Sailing Totem: World Schooling appeared first on Cruising World.

Gather round for the story of Thunderbird, a 49-foot cruising trimaran for a growing family with, yes, a half-dozen adventurous and athletic kids —a huge step up from the Open 40 monohull they used to call home…and a truly magic ride to the surf spots and rock walls where they all thrive.

After two days of air travel from Port of Spain, Trinidad, a layover in Paramaribo, Suriname, then to Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport, our motion finally came to a halt. The airport shuttle stopped in the arts district of Amsterdam Noord on a quiet street that ran between the former NDSM shipyard and a waterfront canal. My husband, James Burwick, our five kids, and our driver off-loaded bags out of the van onto a sidewalk next to docks adjacent to the Rhebergen Multihull Yachts yard. Sweet-smelling summer wildflowers taller than my three youngest ­children stretched along the verge; the sun was shining, ­butterflies fluttered, and bees were buzzing.

On the ground next to us, our entire lives were packed into four duffel bags, one tool bag and a camera bag. The kids each carried a backpack with their personal belongings. We told them they could bring from our former boat, an Open 40 called Anasazi Girl, to our new yacht—a completely different one in almost every way—­anything they could fit into bags and carry on their backs.

We looked through the chain-link fence. All of us were wild with excitement as we stared at the big white trimaran floating on the canal with blue Victron Energy logos on the amas and the name Sound of Silence on the hull. There before us was our new home and sailboat.

It was late June 2019 when we’d found her: a Peter Bosgraaf-designed Gaviota 49 cruising tri. The seven of us had been living aboard Anasazi Girl like sardines at Crews Inn Marina, in Trinidad’s port of Chaguaramas. Over a year had passed since we had made any significant sailing passages.

On so many fronts, things were about to change dramatically.

Where to begin?

So many amazing life experiences had ­unfolded in the five years since breaking Anasazi Girl’s mast in the Southern Ocean in 2014. After more than two years of hard work in the high latitudes of South America, we’d successfully earned the funds needed to pay for the replacement rig and cost of the epic transport from Watsonville, California, to Puerto Williams, Chile. During our dismasted period, we became residents of Chile, formed a Chilean LLC for our marine services, yacht brokerage and photo business, and I gave birth to my fourth child, Tarzan.

Miraculously, Buzz Ballenger’s alloy rig and two pallets of equipment and sails had arrived safely and undamaged. With the help of the Armada de Chile—the Chilean navy—we successfully stepped the replacement rig on the existing carbon mast stump in November 2016.

After sea trials in the Beagle Channel and completing our voyage prep list, we were ready to depart. In March 2017, we sailed with our family along the entire Atlantic coast of South America from the Beagle Channel to the Caribbean Sea. Our four kids—Tormentina, Raivo, Pearl and Tarzan—were ages 8, 6, 4 and 11 months, respectively, when we departed.

While en route from Rio to the Caribbean, we crossed our old track from 2011 off the coast of Recife, completing our ­circumnavigation with our two oldest kids. A milestone.

From July 2017, when we arrived in Grenada, to March 2018, we did a refit and delivery, as well as a brokerage project that allowed our family to keep sailing on a bigger boat: a Kiwi-owned, Chuck Paine-designed Bougainvillea 62. We took the Bougainvillea halfway down the coast of South America, from the Caribbean Sea to Rio de la Plata, off the south coast of Uruguay. The vessel was sold underway to a buyer we showed the boat to in Salvador, Brazil. Our bags were rolling down the dock two days after arriving in Punta del Este, Uruguay, and we were soon en route by buses and planes back to Chile.

Our kids are exceptional athletes, so after the delivery, we invested in private rock-climbing and surfing lessons with pro instructors. The kids climbed in the mountain towns of El Chalten, Argentina, and Puerto Natales, Chile, and learned how to surf the waves surrounding the famous Chilean break at Punta de Lobos. We dealt with residency papers, Chilean taxes, drivers’ license renewals, our LLC, and reporting Tarzan’s birth to the US Consulate so he could get a US passport in addition to his Chilean one.

By the end of May 2018, business was in order, we were back in the Caribbean for hurricane season, and I was pregnant with our fifth child. We stayed aboard Anasazi Girl, now tied up at Camper & Nicholson’s Port Louis Marina in St. George’s, Grenada. The marina’s high-speed, on-the-dock cable internet made working in our virtual offices efficient. We carefully lived on the income from the Bougainvillea and my photo sales, keeping constant watch on any tropical systems that might force us to move south to Trinidad.

Port Louis Marina facilities were clean and secure, with an ATM, bakery, restaurants, shops and various marine businesses on the property. Six on the boat was tight, but after caring for someone else’s vessel and renting funky short-term housing in South America, it was nice to be back in our own space. We appreciated the low-maintenance and functional simplicity of Anasazi Girl. Lack of indoor space was balanced with a full-time, active outdoor life.

The kids wanted to surf bigger waves and climb higher-grade stone routes. They got strong, lean and fit, swimming laps in the pool, in inland freshwater holes, and snorkeling and freediving at Grand Anse Beach. The island was an excellent backdrop for creating outdoor and active kids’ imagery aimed at the photo department of a longtime supporting client, Patagonia Inc.

Because we had one more on the way, James was constantly working and scouring the internet for a bigger boat. Our circumnavigation was over. Thanks to the kindness of the owners of the Bougainvillea, we had been fortunate to prolong the gift of sailing with the family a bit longer, but now our sailing days seemed finished. Anasazi Girl was on the market, and though there were always interested parties, nothing serious materialized. With no sailing voyages planned and our funds slowly disappearing, it was not long before we began mentally rotting in port.

In October 2018, James flew to the Netherlands and France to help a client from Brooklyn inspect several boats, one of which he purchased. The funds from the sale provided us with just enough of a budget to fly to Chile and back for the birth of our daughter Jade that December. Like Tarzan, she held dual US/Chilean nationality. Afterward, James got a job managing the refit of a Chris White-designed Atlantic Cat 55 in Chaguaramas, and we returned to Trinidad.

The project was estimated to take two months. We were totally unsure how we could pull it off aboard Anasazi Girl with seven people—after all, the boat had originally been designed for solo and shorthanded adventures—but decided we would make it work.

On arrival to Trinidad in February 2019, we relaunched the boat and got a monthly berth at Crews Inn Marina. Trinidad’s crime statistics seemed worse than two years previously. Despite many invitations from local friends to do activities outside the marina, we stayed mainly in the marina bubble. The facility provided us with on-site security, a pool, a fitness center, a couple of restaurants and a grocery store.

That year, there was also a drastic increase of Venezuelan immigrants seeking refuge in Trinidad. With sadness, we read about the desperation and exploitation they experienced on both sides of the border. We met many Venezuelans waiting outside the port’s immigration and customs clearance offices. With delicacy, we asked what was happening. Some were more open than others about sharing their experiences. We watched as they stocked up on basic life necessities such as rice, flour, toothpaste, diapers, toilet paper, salt and sugar before heading back to Venezuela with supplies.

All these encounters made us feel grateful. Despite whatever hardships we personally experienced in our lives, the reality was we were so fortunate and privileged. Lack of personal space was nothing. We had work, freedom and the ability to feed our kids.

By the end of June 2019, the first phase of the Atlantic 55 refit was coming to a close. And we were all ready for a change. The seven of us living in a such a small space was bordering on ridiculous. I am sure the other marina guests thought we were nuts. We loved our Finot-Conq Open 40. She had allowed us to make a truly memorable circumnavigation with our older kids, especially the legs in the incredible high latitudes. But the reality now with so many people aboard was that we no longer had the capacity to carry enough food and water to make any long passages.

We were done with being nonsailing liveaboards tied to ­marinas. We wanted to get our family off the dock, on the hook, and sailing again in a completely different cruising mode.

Because we were seeking minimalism, creature comforts were not so important, but we did want the ability to carry a few things, such as a dinghy, surf boards, a small sailboat, or a couple of kayaks. Adequate water, fuel, food and off-grid capacity were necessities. Pubescent teen years were just around the corner for our oldest kids; more space and privacy would soon be critical.

We mentally struggled. With the refit funds we’d earned, we could instead invest in an undeveloped parcel of land or make a down payment on a fixer-upper commercial property in Chile. It would be a practical thing to give to our kids for the future. We thought hard about it but just could not do it. It did not feel like this would be choosing to live la vida loca.

James was 65, and it felt like our window for sailing together would soon close. For him, there was no “later.” If we did not go now, then maybe we would never voyage as a family again. If we went now, then there was hope that he could pass on whatever knowledge of seamanship he had to the kids while he was still mentally and physically sharp.

We stopped looking at real estate and dived into an intensive search for a new boat. James found a trimaran in Madagascar and a proa in Australia. The proa was not a vessel we could imagine circumnavigating aboard, but we did see a plausible project of sailing between Australia and Indonesia, a workable scenario where our kids could be full-time surfers.

With the trimaran in Madagascar, we saw the potential for having a really wild cultural experience. I was turned off by the idea of bringing my kids to a place where child-prostitution ­tourism was prevalent, but the Malagasy history, culture, landscape and unique fauna were all positives. With that vessel, we could do a South Atlantic loop between South Africa, St. Helena and Brazil.

Either way, the reality was that the current condition and seaworthiness of the boats were unknown until we committed to going and looking. Both felt like somewhat of a gamble—in time more than money—and a step down from the incredible sailing machine that we already had. But we had to do something. Time was ticking; the moment had come to make a change for our family.

James’ friendship with sailors and marine-industry pros around the world has always been a great sounding board for problem-solving, ideas and advice. One friend in particular, a Dutch solo multihull sailor named Henk de Velde, told him that he honestly didn’t like either of the boats on our wish list. He knew we did not want a full refit project, that we just wanted to go sailing.

He asked James to wait on moving forward. He thought there might be a boat in the Netherlands that would work for our family. He was sure it was a strong, seaworthy, go-anywhere vessel. He believed we could make a circumnavigation on it, and there would be enough space that we could stretch into it at least for a few years. It was not on the market yet, but he had a hunch that it might be soon.

We waited to hear from him, and true to his word, Henk soon sent us information about a 49-foot trimaran called Sound of Silence (aka SOS). Immediately after seeing photos and reading the specs, we felt like it just might be the perfect boat. She was a 1996 design but had great lines and appeared to be a super-sexy-looking sailing machine. Dutch-built, she was made of fiberglass, epoxy and strong plank. Beams were constructed of carbon, glass and aluminum, and she had a carbon mast with Navtec rigging. The tri was just shy of 50 feet long and very wide, over 36 feet, but she had a Farrier folding ama system that shrank the beam to a little less than 20 feet, allowing for ease of haulout, storage and maneuvering in tight spaces.

All living space was in the center hull, and there were three cabins that could fit a total of six crew—still a bit tight for a family of seven but palatial compared with an Open 40. All the systems had top-of-the-line gear, and for certain it felt like we could potentially make a smooth transition from one incredibly cool boat to another.

We were unsure that we could financially pull it off, both in the initial purchase price and the ongoing maintenance. But we had an undeniably good feeling about her. We decided to follow our instincts and pursue it, figuring we had nothing to lose by trying. We asked Henk to go to Amsterdam to inspect the tri for us. Upon returning, he reported that it was in excellent ­condition and just needed a little TLC. He sent us updated photos and was certain it was sound enough that we could get on board and start sailing right away.

Trusting him, we made an offer on SOS sight unseen, with the funds from the refit project as a down payment and a loan from the owner of the Atlantic Cat for the remainder (secured with Anasazi Girl as collateral). We were incredibly nervous to live beyond our means but believed somehow we could pull it off until Anasazi Girl sold.

Unbelievably, our offer was accepted. It would be binding, contingent on James’ personal inspection of the boat.

The first week of July 2019, James flew to Amsterdam for two nights to see the boat. He hauled her out, called me, and told me that all the sailing gear looked excellent, functional, and in good condition. The systems on the boat were much more complicated and required a lot more maintenance than Anasazi Girl, but he felt confident we could manage the work or simply not use the systems that were not critical for sailing. After all, we had been “camping” aboard Anasazi Girl for the previous eight years. The well-maintained vessel had only two owners for the past 20-plus years and had been sitting in a freshwater canal most of its life when not at sea. The four separate compartments of the amas were for storage but could potentially become in-port berths for the older kids.

With my approval, he signed the final purchase and sale contract papers, then flew back to Trinidad.

We dropped the price of Anasazi Girl to cover the balance of the loan we had taken, and spent a week preparing for haulout, decommissioning and long-term storage. We packed our bags, then booked flights to Amsterdam via Suriname. Our lives were about to seriously change.

Now here we were, teleported from the Caribbean tropics to the Northern European summer. I’d spent the previous couple of weeks looking with excitement at photos from Henk, the broker, and even an old Google Earth satellite image of the vessel on the dock. Our plane landed two days before my 42nd birthday, and this was an amazing present.

My stomach was filled with joyful anticipation as we walked through the gate. The kids ran down the docks, jumping in pure bliss on the trampolines.

She was impressive. Despite being an older design, Bosgraaf’s lines made her a classic and timeless beauty. Having no experience with a trimaran, I had no idea how we were going to sail the boat, nor even any idea of how we would move the massively wide beast out of the canal. SOS looked as though she had been parallel-parked like a compact car on a one-way city street into her berth at Rhebergen’s.

All of this we would figure out with time. The reality was we had been given a true gift. We were so grateful to Henk who found the boat for us, our friend Colin Dykstra (the owner of the Atlantic 55 who loaned us funds), Bosgraaf for his brilliant design, and to Reinout Vader (founder of Victron Energy and the owner of Sound of Silence) for giving our family the gift of sailing.

Vader allowed us to move aboard before the transfer of funds was complete and offered to go out for a daysail when we were ready. A few days later, funds were dispersed, papers signed and in order, and we were officially the new owners. We renamed the boat Thunderbird. Our first night aboard, my oldest son, Raivo, was so used to sleeping on a hard surface that he got out a camping pad, laid it down and slept on the floor! Not only did we have mega cushions, but we had space, both inside and out.

The creature comforts were a bit overwhelming: a microwave, two-burner induction cooker, freezer and fridge. Hydraulic systems folded and unfolded the amas; lowered and lifted the boom, centerboard and rudder; and controlled the bow-thruster, windless and several winches. Three sources of power generation charged the boat’s lithium batteries: an alternator on the 51 hp Yanmar, a WhisperGen DC generator (serving also as a hot-­water and space heater), and eight Solbian 50-watt solar panels. Wiring was 24-volt, and Thunderbird had a Victron Multiplus inverter for controlling charging and converting to 220-volt AC.

We were now in serious pump land, with a big Spectra ­watermaker, indoor and outdoor shower, 110 gallons of water, 158 gallons of diesel, and more than 50-gallon holding tanks. The navigation system included two modern B&G Zeus 3 chart plotters with AIS and radar; an older B&G processor; and Hydra 2 autopilots, speedos, compass and depth sounders. In our sail quiver was a 968-square-foot main and 538-square-foot jib from North Sails, and a spinnaker and gennaker from Incidences.

We spent the next month in Amsterdam waiting for reflagging, servicing and learning about all the systems of the boat. Henk gifted us his Rocna 72-pound anchor, which never failed him on his voyages with his trimaran, Juniper. New lettering and graphics were made for Thunderbird. We made our pre-voyage checklists and dived full time into our new project.

We did little tourism, only a token trip to the Rijksmuseum to see all the classics. We ate amazing Dutch bread, baked goods and cheeses, tried bitterballens (a deep-fried Dutch snack) and local beer. Our kids helped us with the workload, balanced with recreational time rowing around in a small dinghy in the canal, climbing fences in the boatyard, running wild on the docks, picking wildflowers, swimming in the canal, foraging for summer berries, and exploring the surrounding neighborhood.

We were most definitely in Amsterdam. Across the canal from us was a cannabis cafe. Along the wharf was Rhebergen’s yard and the NDSM shipyard, which was now converted into a space for a hundred artists of all disciplines. Twice a month, the biggest flea market in all of Amsterdam (IJ-Hallen) was set up in the open-air outdoor spaces surrounding NDSM. Spray-paint art was encouraged, and we watched artists creating epic murals on the old shipyard buildings, the walls of which were sometimes completely transformed daily.

Though there was a marina in Amsterdam Noord and canal boats everywhere, our location was not within walking distance of all the yacht services and chandleries we needed. For this, we rented a vehicle and went to the port of IJmuiden at the end of the North Sea canal to get needed parts and new netting for our trampolines.

James met with Bosgraaf at his floating design office—a canal houseboat—in downtown Amsterdam. A couple of weeks later, Bosgraaf drove through the canals in a small powerboat he had designed to visit us aboard Thunderbird. He spent an afternoon answering questions and talking about the history of the boat.

Henk visited us weekly at Rhebergen’s and became a surrogate grandfather to my children, always bearing chocolate and local treats. We spent time with Laura Dekker—the Dutch sailor who was the youngest to sail alone around the world, at age 16—who we knew from New Zealand back in our Auckland days; we met her family, and she taught the kids how to sail a Pico.

Vader took us through the locks and bridge canals to the inland lake of Markermeer for a daysail. We learned the history of how he started Victron Energy, and watched in amazement at how he sailed the tri. “No using hydraulics,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. Tall, fit and lanky at 75, he was still grinding winches with joy and making sail changes.

The US Coast Guard Documentation Center at last emailed us our paperwork, and we were ready to depart after five weeks. We set sail from Amsterdam in August 2019, making our way through the English Channel to the port of Caen, France. In September, we crossed the Bay of Biscay to the port of La Coruña, Spain, and got approved for a Schengen visa extension. In October, it was on to the Canary Island of Lanzarote, where the boat was hauled out in preparation for crossing the Atlantic. Two days after Christmas, we were again on the move, bound for Cape Verde, arriving in São Vicente just after the 2020 new year.

Departing from there the last week of January, we crossed the Atlantic in 10 days, arriving in the port of Cabedelo, Brazil, where we learned we were expecting our sixth child. We sailed south to Salvador de Bahia, Caravelas, and then Vitoria, when the COVID-19 pandemic broke out. We stayed there for almost two months in self-quarantine, doing repairs and maintenance on Thunderbird, awaiting the arrival of a used sail to replace the 20-plus-year-old delaminated main, watching as the early stages of the pandemic unfolded. We then decided to continue south, seeking isolated areas to cruise safely with our family.

While awaiting the birth of our next child, we explored the region between Ilhabela and Ilha Grande. Our son, Atlas, was born in late August of last year.

Our aim in raising our kids has always been to give them time with us, to choose their teachers and offer rich life experiences, to expose them to inspiring people, give them a practical understanding of the world, and support their passions.

Sailing is an excellent platform for all these things—and much, much more.

Saving for college educations, lucrative financial investments or a pile of material things is not part of our life goals. All of which would be wonderful to have, but we are just not savvy investors. For us to achieve even some of these things would require both of us working full time plus overtime, a sacrifice of time with each other.

Working really hard and then “gambling” all of it into impossible sailing dreams for the opportunity to experience the world is something we can do, and do together. It feeds our souls. We work and sail and do everything together. What we have is time to invest in our kids now, before they choose their own life paths. We don’t know everything, but we can teach them what we know and seek out teachers to show them the rest. The hope is they will have the confidence to follow their own outrageous dreams, and understand how to navigate the steps needed to achieve them.

Here in this voyaging life, we operate in our mode of feast or famine. We departed the Netherlands in a state of financial famine, but we felt positive and hopeful. Somehow things have always worked out, much of it having to do with our amazing friendships, leaving a clean wake in every port, and a lot of serendipitous moments.

With Thunderbird, we feast on the sea, the world’s oceans fully open to us. We are officially a family of “rafters” with the ability to cross oceans, now able to live at anchor and get into shallow-­draft spaces. What an unreal feeling to once again give our family the gift of sailing, taking with us all the rich things that ­accompany the life of a voyager.

Following the birth of Atlas last year, photographer/writer Somira Sao and her family are continuing to explore the coast of Brazil. She writes: “As a family of eight, we participated in the 70th Santos to Rio Race and the 2020 Ubatuba Troféu das Ilhas Race. For us, there are no shortcuts when it comes to learning about sailing. We are doing the miles, moving to a different anchorage every single day.”

A Freedom Machine Called Thunderbird

Peter Bosgraaf designed the custom-built cruising trimaran for a Dutch businessman named Willem Woestenburg, who fanatically sailed a Farrier 31 trimaran with his son, Rob. When Woestenburg hit the jackpot in the stock market, he decided to build a bigger tri with the same folding principle. Bosgraaf had just designed two smaller trimarans, so Woestenburg commissioned him to design his 49-foot tri.

A Dutch woodworker/boatbuilder named Fred Winter built the boat at Woestenburg’s metals and hydraulic factory. Woestenburg’s factory team fabricated all of the hydraulics and metalwork for the boat. Winter, along with Rob Woestenburg, worked on all the construction and interior. The folding system works just like the small Farrier systems, but due to the weight, hydraulic cylinders were added to control folding from behind the wheel.

The boat was built out of strong plank, which was widely being promoted by a boatbuilder in the Netherlands at the time. Strong plank uses PVC foam-cored strips with fiberglass sheathing around those strips. Due to the stiffness of the battens, it takes the minimal amount of building frames to set up the hull. Once the hull is sheathed with the strips, only one or two layers of fiberglass cloth is sufficient to obtain a stiff hull.

After the boat was launched in 1998 and named Gaviota, Woestenburg did not get to sail much, but his son, Rob, logged some miles on the boat. Financial problems forced him to sell the boat to Reinout Vader a year after it was launched.

Vader is a Dutch physicist who developed a pure sine wave inverter. He is the founder of Victron Energy and developer of the WhisperGen Stirling generator. He renamed the tri Sound of Silence, or SOS. Over the course of 20 years, he sailed to the Caribbean, through the Mediterranean, and in the North Sea.

Thunderbird sails fast but is a cruising tri, so she’s a little on the heavy side. She needs approximately 12 knots of apparent wind to really get going. She sails upwind super well. We try to maintain 10 to 13 knots on average, but in the Bay of Biscay and going around Brazil’s Cabo Frio, we saw boatspeeds of up to 17 to 20 knots. James is working now with Bosgraaf to offer for sale a modernized, stripped-out racing version of the boat as a new construction.

The post Family Cruising on a Trimaran appeared first on Cruising World.

This story originally appeared on Sailing Totem.

Immersing in the natural world was a meaningful part of our cruising dream. We anticipated the rewards of living with a lighter footprint, and helping our children internalize the wonder that is our planet.

Senegalese poet and naturalist, Baba Dioum:

“In the end, we will conserve only what we love. We will love only what we understand. We will understand only what we are taught.”

And so we hope to teach our children about the world we live on and the people who inhabit it, and to instill value and advocacy, while seeing breathtaking natural beauty. And yet what we saw over and over in hand with that beauty was the devastation of a planet abused, while whitewashed and kept at a distance from privileged lives.

While I remain grateful for our far-flung travels, looking back it smacks of the privilege we have to observe and process and consider from a safe distance. How will we use this opportunity? One way is to bear witness. And so, here, we bear witness to a few of the environmental tragedies we have seen around the world.

Borneo- Illegal Mines Poison Rivers

Winding up the Kumai river to see orangutans in the wild, in one of their last natural habitats, was anticipated to be a highlight of our six months in Indonesia. But the indelible impression this national park left on us was as much of environmental tragedy as it was the apes. That the protected parklands they were meant to live on had been appropriated for palm oil plantations, their vibrant green sometimes visible behind the fringe of tropical forest. On our way to the orangutan’s preserve, we navigated through runoff from an illegal gold mine and watched the milky water cut into the tannic river. Nearby indigenous Iban people fished to feed their families.

Sydney- Kids and Haul

In Australia, everyone knows the phrase “Clean Up Australia” after the event (and subsequent culture) initiated and promoted by Australian solo sailor, Ian Kiernan. Seeing plastic trash litter the shores of pristine islands, thousands of miles from anywhere, left an impression on Kiernan – and on our kids, who embarked on a mission to collect and dispose the garbage that floated around the marina where we lived in 2011, trapped in shocking volume by the dock floats.

Despite cultural orientation toward sustainability and waste management, the consumer driven population produces (as we do) an astonishing amount of trash. Every time it rained, the lip service paid vs action taken to environmental stewardship is painfully clear. Runoff and spillover carries bottles, Styrofoam, ear plugs by the hundred, entire computer cases, and of course plastic bottles until every berth in the marina is clogged, and the water beneath obscured by floating trash.

Chagos- Fluorescing Coral

The British archipelago of Chagos sits nearly smack in the middle of the expansive Indian Ocean. Meaningful populations don’t exist for wide stretches of ocean, and yet the coral here was stressed by the man-made impact of climate change. Underwater, these equatorial islands held striking corals in fluorescent colors. Beautiful? To some eyes, but those fluorescent colors presented instead of ‘normal’ coloration because the coral is bleaching in response to stress from unusually high water temperatures. If the conditions don’t improve, the coral dies. A marine biologist cruising through just ahead of us estimated 80 to 90% of the coral was bleached or bleaching during our 2015 stay. (To learn more about this fluorescing phenomenon, and coral bleaching, see the excellent documentary Chasing Coral – currently on Netflix.)

Comoros- Burning Garbage Mountain

Garbage disposal is a problem in much of the world that cruisers traverse. At our first anchorage in Comoros, the island nation between Tanzania and Madagascar, a literal mountain of garbage lined the beach. Cars backed up to dump loads; it appeared to substitute for a public facility, and burned 24×7. When winds shifted to blow it towards Totem, the stench of plastic burn made breathing difficult. When surviving from day to day is your priority, working out a healthier waste management system is harder to prioritize.

Indonesia- Daily Tidal Garbage

Most of the islands we visited in Indonesia don’t have waste management, but Ambon was an exception. Not only was there a recycling facility in development, but the entire community had public days for picking up garbage! We’d see lines of children in brightly colored school uniforms collecting garbage to be properly sorted and disposed. And then, the tide would run through a cycle, and once again the bay would fill with floating plastic. Despite the public effort, the public will lags and there remained no stigma against throwing wrappers on the ground where you stand.

Indian Ocean- The Thinking Chair

When it’s possible, we pick up garbage and carry it to be disposed. It’s rarely practical; the facilities simply don’t exist. But occasionally it adds a colorful slice to life for a while. While sailing through atolls in the Maldivian chain, we saw a larger object floating; it proved to be a plastic chair. This chair subsequently attended numerous beach potlucks, and was a suitable aft-deck “thinking chair” before being re-homed to an island where it was put in use.

Sri Lanka- Water Sampling

We see a lot, and it’s natural to want to do something about it. Participating in citizen science projects is a goal but the logistics can be complicated. But water samples we took along the way – here, filmed in Sri Lanka’s Trincomalee harbor—fed into a global study on microplastics. 48°N readers have the benefit of living in an area teeming with opportunities to learn and contribute!

Uninhabited Islands Everywhere – Garbage Nets

The cruisers dream an uninhabited tropical island to call your own for a while! That dream bubble pops when you land on the beach. Islands are nets, catching all that floats their way. The most trashed beaches we’ve been on are where nobody lives, because there is nobody to be offended by the sight and pick it up—or see the utility in the flotsam and take it for use. On this island, going ashore to collect firewood turned comically into going ashore to collect plastic shoes. This square of around 200 shoes represent about 20 minutes worth of collection in an area where plastic bottles outnumbered shoes.

Maldives- Sea Level Rise

The highest natural point of land in Maldives is less than 10 feet tall. Most of the nation sits at mere inches above sea level on sandy atolls. As sea levels rise, these islands are losing ground. Highly recommended by Totem’s crew, the excellent documentary “The Island President,” the story of Maldives’ former head of state and his effort to get attention for their plight at the Copenhagen climate convention.

Mexico – Everywhere Garbage

Garbage is poorly managed in many places for a range of reasons. The acrid smell of burning plastic wafting to Totem upon our arrival to Mexico in the fall of 2008 sadly offered a nostalgic throwback to the time I lived in Southeast Asia. In rural or poor areas, there and here, local waste management often uses one of the most toxic methods possible: the low-temperature burn. EPA studies now show that the relatively low temperatures of beach or backyard fires (as compared to commercial incinerators) for burning create staggeringly toxic emissions, and not just from plastics. And yet this is probably the most common method of waste disposal we have experienced as cruisers. Image above snapped when we rented a car to see grey whales on the Pacific coast earlier this month; we pulled into a turnout for what we thought was a scenic vista, but was actually an impromptu garbage dump.

Now What?

Friends of ours darkly refer to their cruising adventures as The Farewell Tour. I reject the perspective of “ah, too bad you couldn’t see it when…” (fill in the blank of someone’s story about visiting a place X years ago, or before Y happened; it’s so tiresome, we know)—but in this case there’s a different bit of urgency. So much is destroyed so we can have fashionable clothing or cheaper goods or industrial oil to fuel our consumer machines.

I don’t have any suggestions for what you should do. Maybe this ramble through the widespread problem—and how it lives unmasked in places outside our usual view—prompts introspection. Last Saturday at 8:30pm in your time zone was Earth Hour. Started in Sydney, Australia, in 2007 as a symbolic hour without lights on, it’s been a catalyst for awareness—and some driving legislative changes. This year’s virtual video is… intriguing! We took part from our corner of Mexico.

The post Sailing Totem: Bearing Witness to our Folly appeared first on Cruising World.

My liveaboard family of six finally docked. We pulled off our Irish sailing dubarrys, slipped into our knee-high wellies, and stepped off the boat onto the floating pontoon at Oban Marina to stretch our legs after having crossed the North Atlantic and up the Irish Sea.

When I put on my Wellies, my sea body became a land body again. I walked through the boatyard and trudged through the muddy paths, and my sailing soul was filled with the piece of land my heart needed. Floating offshore aboard Selkie is the life we have chosen, but this land, this place, the family of Oban Marina and the Isle of Kerrera was a home we had chosen for winter.

“I never want to leave here,” said my 10-year-old daughter, Lily, four months in, as we walked the puddle-filled path past the baby pigs. Just beyond the boatyard, a visit to any new puppy, either on Ardentrive Farm or Balliemore Farm, was frequent.

“Really?” I asked. After our first week here, and after the first couple of initial explorations, Lily had been ready to move on like a true cruising sailor. Now there was a different atmosphere about her, an epiphany. She had found a new home, a place where people will remember her, a place her heart will always yearn to return, and a place she loved to wander and risk thistle and thorn to bramble-pick. This home is called the Isle of Kerrera.

Our family—including my husband, Nick, and our four children: Tristan, 12, Lily, 10, Mara, 6, and Rory, 3—crossed the Atlantic from the Caribbean on our 49-foot Westerly, Selkie, with the ARC Europe rally in May 2018. We’d started our liveaboard life nearly a year earlier, in June 2017 in the British Virgin Islands, and enjoyed cruising the Caribbean. We sailed as far north as Anegada and as far south as Grenada, but we canceled our plans to circumnavigate and decided to take a shortcut to where we truly wanted to be: Scotland. With the hospitality of the ARC, we enjoyed mingling with other cruisers in Tortola while preparing for the rally start. Once underway, however, we quickly came to realize that even though you’re sailing in company, you are still by yourself at sea.

But we did it: We crossed an ocean—something I was very apprehensive to do. We split from the ARC, which was heading to Lagos, Portugal, and went north, landed in Cork, Ireland, then finally reached Gigha, Scotland, in August.

We wanted a place to call home, and online, Nick discovered Oban Marina’s discount for a six-month winter stay. We had been to Oban before on a seven-day, six-castle tour in 2015; and we had cruised the Caledonian Canal with LeBoat, and rented an RV on the Isle of Skye in 2016. We knew we loved the waterfront of Oban, but Kerrera, where Oban Marina is actually located, is a small island just across the Sound of Kerrera from Oban with fewer than 50 full-time residents. It is nestled on the northeast in a protected bay vulnerable only to an east wind. We would live on this tiny, hardly inhabited island (about 4.5 miles long and 1.5 miles wide) and take a ferry to and from Oban for provisions and fresh seafood. We had changed our parallel from 12 degrees to 56, and our meridian from 65 degrees west to 5.

I don’t know if others would like something so secluded, but immediately, as cruisers, we were welcomed, and especially so when we shared our plan to stay.

“What’s it like here in the winter?” I asked Robin, the marina manager.

“It’s like being caught inside a washing machine,” he replied.

Fantastic, I thought sarcastically. This will be an interesting winter.

But we loved the countryside of Scotland so much, we would have endured anything to stay. The open air, the hillsides of the highlands, the mountains on the horizon, the endless water in every direction, the hairy cows, the sheep, the brisk and fresh air, the damp and fertile soil, the heather, the smell of peat, the seal colonies—all of it. And even if it meant living inside a washing machine.

So, in September 2018, Oban Marina became our line-tied, cleat-knotted home.

Being a full-time mom, home-school teacher and chef on Selkie, I enjoyed the time I took out the trash at night. I know it sounds silly, but in the dark after dinner, I often ventured alone. The errand took but a minute, and then I was free to look at the night lights of the Oban coast: the fishing boats, the ferries, McCaig’s Tower and its forever-changing light displays. The air was crisp and clean; the water (every once in a while) gently bobbed the docks. If the clouds cleared, an unforgettable moon and set of constellations blessed my soul with the experience and a sense of mystic. Sometimes I brought my phone for music and danced on the empty docks. Other times I brought my son and we messed about. Mostly, though, I went out into the quiet and thought of those with whom I wish I could have shared this experience.

During a sunny day, the most pleasurable walk was the one to Hutcheson’s Monument. David Hutcheson was a ship owner who took people to and from Oban to the Inner and Outer Hebrides. His services later became Caledonian MacBrayne, which today is a major ferry line that brings visitors and locals to 22 islands on the west coast. Or for a true walk, a hiker can wander all the way to the south of the island where the ruins of Gylen Castle, dating back to 1582, stand next to a tea shop. My boys preferred to stay near the marina to throw rocks by the waterside, and have a wee bit of swordplay with our boat hooks.

The Waypoint, the seasonal restaurant at Oban Marina, was delicious and cozy, with an unforgettable view. Since we arrived in fall, we got to enjoy quite a few dinners there. Sam, the manager of the bar, would dance with our children during dinner, and the chefs were grateful to hear compliments in the nearby kitchen. In winter Waypoint shut down and became a clubhouse for the few people still left around. I enjoyed doing aerobics, dancing with my kids or homeschooling within its doors. On Fridays it opened for the locals. Either Sam or Robin minded the bar. Bill, a mariner living on the hard, always sat to the left and encouraged all to imbibe. Gary and Catherine, the owners, were usually there. David and Karen would show up with one of their dogs from Ardentrive Farm and, at times, Gill and Tim would come with their boys, or Donald wandered in from the north. At Waypoint, everyone knew each other so well that a big cheer was shouted for any arrival. Kids played with Lego bricks on the floor, and the adults shared stories about past adventures and future plans, but most of all, we enjoyed each other’s company.

In October, the Oban Marina family threw my daughter her 10th birthday party. On Halloween, or Samhain, there were not many houses to trick-or-treat at, but we were invited into homes for cocktails and chocolates, and because we were invited in, it was one of the best Halloweens we have ever had. We even thoroughly enjoyed tromping through the wet, muddy paths in our Wellies. Lily, in her zombie-prom-queen dress, hid about the boatyard jumping out and scaring us.

In November, Oban had a Winter Festival, which reminded me of a Dickensian village. The streets were lined with beautiful open shops, and there were craft sales, carnival rides, a Santa parade, tree lightings and fireworks. On the day of America’s Thanksgiving—obviously not celebrated in Scotland—everyone was quite interested in what I was going to cook on the boat, and my husband and I (with little Rory) took a sunset dinghy ride around the entire Isle of Kerrera. It was breathtaking.

At Christmas we had an amazing potluck dinner at the Waypoint. I made a sweet potato casserole, and Sam and Robin cooked a turkey. Afterward there was chaotic and fun karaoke. Everyone was nice enough to let my girls start it off with sailing songs. Gary and David were pros. By the end of the night, even I was screaming into the microphone. After the Christmas party, the sun came out for a beautiful day, and the Waypoint held a children’s Santa party. Tim served mulled wine for the adults who were hurting from the night before, and Santa, played by Donald, handed out a toy for every child who attended. It was a perfect weekend.

Fireworks were seen from Kerrera to Oban on New Year’s Eve, and we had front-row seats.

Despite the merriment, though, we knew winter had set in. “Another storm is coming. Double-check your lines,” was often repeated as another huge wind event came spiraling in off the North Atlantic. It was like living inside the tornado that takes Dorothy over the rainbow. But if you could endure the rigging whining in the wind, the water slapping the hull, and the dock lines stretching, squeaking and pulling, you truly were living in a brightly colorful, magical land of adventure.

Every week it seemed that a storm blew through, and we got used to it as one would a weekend. Each one became a two-day family holiday aboard. We would hang tight, listen to Selkie get yanked back and forth, cook a giant pot of spicy chili in the galley, get busy with home-school work or explore another mechanical endeavor in need of improvement. When the storm settled and everything was still, we could hear distant highland cattle moo, folks laughing, dogs barking and an announcement of the CalMac ferry coming across the bay.

In spring our family rented the nearby cottage, referred to as the boathouse, while Selkie was hauled at the yard. I walked to the Waypoint through the mud in my new knee-high fancy red boots. I knew I didn’t care about their appearance; I cared about the present countryside. It was high tide. I could not reach the Waypoint from the cottage without walking way around, but the stroll in the dark with my headlamp was why I was there, to sink my feet in the soil, walk the cliff, hear the lines flapping from boats on the hard, and dodge the puddles to go see some friends along way

A winter in Kerrera is for sailors who love highlands and the rolling hills, and who feel the wind and water in their soul. Our family highly recommends a short or long stay. Slàinte mhath, as the Scottish like to toast. Cheers.

At press time, Maggie Hirt and her family were sailing Selkie back to the Caribbean with the ARC+. Follow along with the family’s adventures at sealongingselkie.net.

The post Wintering Aboard in the Scottish Highlands appeared first on Cruising World.

One of the most common observations people make after they meet my little family and see Ganymede, the 31-foot boat that we once called home, is, “How very simple everything is!” We are mistakenly taken by some as pioneers of simplification, as bastions of off-the-grid living. And we are, I suppose, in a way—but it’s purely accidental.

For starters, the reason we went to sea without a 12-volt electrical system is mostly because I can’t stand the ­constant upkeep and ­bother they entail. To be perpetually cleaning contacts, running wires, changing fuses and poking multimeter leads everywhere would put a crimp in my relaxed cruising style. Not having batteries, of course, cuts down on all the lovely and useful gadgets they normally power, but there again my reasons against them were purely practical. Even if I had the money to buy and maintain lights and chart plotters and refrigerators —which I didn’t—there’s nowhere they could have gone. It was enough of a challenge trying to stow three children and all their necessary gear on a smallish sailboat without having to make room for battery banks, inverters, chargers and solar panels.

It was the same with galley plumbing. A sink would have taken up space I needed for my full-size chart table, and hoses, tubing and galley pumps need to go somewhere—and that somewhere didn’t exist.

A plastic tub tucked discreetly under the counter served for dirty dishes, and washing up was done in the cockpit with water drawn up in a bucket. Neither the easiest nor most convenient way, especially in colder weather, but it’s one of the many small things, taken together, that allowed us to be out cruising at all.

Now, I’m not against conveniences: I would have loved to have a double sink with hot and cold running water, a full-size refrigerator, and while I’m at it, a laundry with washer and dryer. But all those had to wait until we took a break from seafaring to live on land. With our boat and budget, they simply were unattainable.

Nor am I saying that I begrudge the simple lifestyle. The glow of our kerosene cabin lamps was a source of constant joy; rowing the dinghy, casting the sounding lead and cranking the windlass kept me in shape; and I loved the mental exercise of actively piloting and navigating the boat rather than giving those tasks over to a computer.

Please don’t think we denied ourselves any necessary safety or navigational gear—I wouldn’t be the sort to set off with nothing but an hourglass and astrolabe even if I didn’t have a wife and three children to be responsible for. Though they took up lots of room, we carried five compasses, two sextants, all the necessary books and a current nautical almanac, and we were always careful to have good chart coverage of any area we might be going. Not only that, but three handheld GPS units, a VHF and an EPIRB rounded out the supply of electronics not requiring a 12-volt feed.

There were times, to be sure, when a radar and an AIS receiver would have been most comforting, but those times were nothing a careful watch and diligent forethought weren’t sufficient for.

There are those who love simplicity for its own sake, and while I see their point, I’m not really one of them. The reason we followed simplicity in many things is because it was the only way we could put to sea at all. A bigger boat with more equipment might have been possible if we had waited longer, saved more, worked harder—but it would not have been when we were ready to go, and who knows whether a dream bigger than Ganymede would have even gotten off the ground. As it is, she was all the boat we comfortably cared to handle, and about all we could afford to decently maintain.

Eventually we outgrew the boat—the children and their things weren’t getting any smaller—so we moved ashore into the untold luxury of electricity and running water. There’s a refrigerator, internet connection, and even an air conditioner for the two weeks of New England summer. But we don’t think about those things; they’re just there, a natural part of ordinary land life. We’re grateful for them, of course, and enjoy them immensely (did I mention the AC unit?), but what we enjoy the most is getting out on Ganymede again.

We’ll go out and mini-cruise for a couple of days from time to time, anchoring any old place we happen to sail by as dusk falls. The greatest thing for the girls then is to sit at the saloon table around a guttering oil lamp, playing card games while the boat swings gently to her anchor, without even a thought for hot showers, movies, ice cream or any of the comforts left on shore. Their only regret is that in a day or two we’ll have to head back home. Looks like it’s time to put to sea again.

Ben Zartman is a boatbuilder, sailor and occasional CW contributor.

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