The most important word when jibing is control. The helmsperson, sail trimmers and entire crew need to be diligent. The mainsail boom will swing across the boat with great force if important steps are not taken. There are many cases of serious injuries to unsuspecting crew who were hit in the head by the boom, or who tumbled overboard with the rapid change of course.

By contrast, completing a successful jibe provides great satisfaction when executed with precision.  

The best time to jibe is when a boat is sailing at full speed. The force of the apparent wind on a sail is less when sailing swiftly, which makes steering easy. The reason to jibe is to head on a more direct course toward a desired destination, or to take advantage of a shift in wind.

In advance of a jibe, one person, who is usually steering, should hail the crew about the intention to jibe. This is the proper time to assign specific duties to each crewmember so that everyone is clear about their role during the jibe.  

Once in proper position, the crew should stand by for a countdown to the maneuver. The helmsperson should turn the boat slowly, leaving no one caught off guard. Verbally state the new course, and visually look at any references, such as objects on shore or other boats, to know where the boat will be heading after the jibe.   

The sail trimmer should trim in the sails as the boat makes the turn. This is particularly important with the mainsail. Keep the sail under control so that the boom doesn’t swing wildly across the deck. Trim in the mainsail as the boat turns, and let it out rapidly as the sails fill on the new course. Just before the mainsail swings over, the helmsperson should hail, “Heads!” This will alert the crew to keep their heads low. 

In heavy wind, the ­helmsperson can execute an S-course jibe. Just as the mainsail is swinging across, the helmsperson turns the boat briefly in the direction the mainsail is heading. This action depowers the wind’s force on the mainsail. Once the boat is on the new course, the mainsail can be eased out to its most efficient position. The course that is steered is the shape of the letter S.

In winds less than 10 knots, most boats will jibe through 70 to 90 degrees. In stronger winds, a boat will jibe through 60 degrees or less. In a good blow, I suggest easing off the boom vang and securing the traveler in one place before jibing. This will depower the pressure on the sails and the rig.   

The jibing process is more complicated when a ­spinnaker is being flown. If the ­spinnaker is symmetrical with a ­spinnaker pole, then the helmsperson should be particularly careful when steering. The foredeck crew needs to exert downward and forward pressure on the spinnaker pole to keep it under control as it is being rehooked to the mast.   

Avoid rapid turns. Give your crew adequate time to shift the spinnaker pole. The sail trimmer in the cockpit is positioned to keep the sail full. Good teamwork is the key.

In recent years, the asymmetrical spinnaker has become a popular sail. I find that inside jibes are generally more efficient. This is when the sail passes inside the fore-triangle. The sail trimmer eases out the old sheet so that there is plenty of line to trim on the new jibe. The turn of the boat is usually a little faster than when jibing with a symmetrical sail, but it should not be any faster than the sail trimmer can move the sail from one side of the boat to the other. Continue changing course smoothly and constantly when jibing with an asymmetrical spinnaker. A pause can cause the sail to wrap.   

I find it interesting how many modern yachts resort to roller furling systems to handle forward sails. This applies to headsails and staysails. The sail is simply rolled up before jibing and rolled back out after the jibing maneuver is complete.  

I suppose I could add a technique or two for schooners and other multimast boats.  For example, schooners set a gollywobbler between the masts. On some schooners, it is best to have two of these quadrilateral sails ready to set on either jibe. When it is time to change course and jibe, take down one and hoist up the other on the new jibe. You just need two sails. But that is a story for another day. 

5 keys to safe jibing

1. Give the crew ample warning that a jibe is about to take place.
2. Assign each crewmember a specific job.
3. Keep the mainsail under control; don’t let the boom fly across the boat.
4. Look for a reference point on land to head for on the new course.
5. Do not turn the boat too quickly.

Hall of Fame sailor Gary Jobson is a CW editor-at-large. 

The post How To Jibe Like the Pros appeared first on Cruising World.

Sailing south from Lefkas in the Greek Ionian Sea, I found a calm anchorage in a ­deserted cove on the east side of the hilly, wooded island of Ithaca. This was the home of Homer’s hero Odysseus, who was seeking to return home to his wife, Penelope. I, on the other hand, was seeking to get away from home and find a secure anchorage for the night. In deference to Odysseus, I kept the sails up in a desultory 10-knot breeze. I was always a sucker for the appearance of inauthentic antiquity. My Hanse 415 Adagio’s refrigeration, however, remained on with the Greek beer chilled. Odysseus would have been thrilled; the god Poseidon, probably not.

The next morning, I sat down in the cockpit to enjoy a freshly brewed cup of coffee. No sooner had I settled down than I heard the raucous noise of a high-speed powerboat. 

The only vessels that traveled that fast in the Mediterranean, apart from Italian speedboat cowboys, were the coast guard. Sure enough, the Hellenic Coast Guard roared into the bay and, slowing only a little, executed a tight U-turn around my boat. Their wake rocked Adagio violently. Annoyed, I nevertheless waved with what I hoped might be taken as a friendly but not overly familiar gesture. With no acknowledgment, and seemingly assured that there were no illegal migrants or unsanctioned toga parties aboard my ­Italian-flagged vessel, they sped off into the horizon. Paradise, or the illusion thereof, is invariably a fleeting phenomenon.

With no agenda or itinerary other than to get Adagio out of the water and fly home to Southern California in early November, I returned to my coffee and pondered the day. Avoid expectations, be open to what shows up, and let the day unfold, I reminded myself. The thought of calling my office or clients in the States did not even occur to me.

Conventional-cruising narratives had always told me that to genuinely experience a cruising lifestyle in locations such as the Mediterranean, I needed to fully drop out from my domesticated land life. This would include abandoning my ­business and the work I enjoyed, my friends, skiing, my home, and my physical-­fitness routine. For me, however, this posed what I initially saw as an insoluble conundrum: Did I really want to be that liberated?

As much as I was passionate about cruising, I also loved my lifestyle in Ventura, California, and, yes, my joint-custody dog, Murphy, from a recent divorce.

In 2008, at age 60, I came to the stark realization that my biggest enemy in life was time. This awareness led me to the conclusion that if I were going to live the balance of my life to its fullest, then I needed to start doing it now. I did not want to have any regrets, and I dreaded finding myself in a conversation with my orthopedist that began: “Well, Jim, you know you are at an age where you need to start slowing down. Have you considered taking up miniature golf?”

In the fall of that year, I chose to do the Baja Ha-Ha—the fun cruise from San Diego to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico—with a friend. For the balance of the fall, winter and early spring, I mostly solo-sailed my 41-foot Wauquiez in the amazing Sea of Cortez.

I discovered that I thrived in solitude with total self-reliance, and I loved the ability to get away from it all, if only for two to three weeks at a time. Moving around the sea, I would berth my vessel in a secure marina for several weeks, and fly home to resume my work and land life in Ventura.

By fall 2015, I had spent two seasons in the Pacific Northwest, two seasons in Mexico, and eight months in the Hawaiian Islands following the Transpac race. Commuter cruising, as I came to call it, had become a chosen and well-trodden—albeit still adventuresome—lifestyle. I had become comfortable, if not confident, in my ability to schedule and meld my work, my team, and my cruising life. This skill allowed me to spend at least three to four months a year on the water.

In winter 2015-16, I looked for new commuter-cruising grounds. Cruising to the South Pacific did not appeal to me; where could I park the boat and return home? Nor did I relish long, solitary ocean passages. My limited bareboat experience in the Caribbean had left me with the impression—superficial, to be sure—that there was a repetitive sameness to these admittedly beautiful islands. The Mediterranean, on the other hand, held the allure of a rich history, varied cultures, big cities, quaint villages, and a friendly and engaging people. It also offered an established cruising infrastructure and secure marinas. I rationalized that if I continued working, I could afford to purchase a better boat in the Mediterranean.

I bought the three-year-old Adagio in spring 2016 just outside Genoa, Italy, and began the first of four seasons, each one around five months, in the Mediterranean. My initial goal was to cruise the entire Med in two years. I subsequently modified that to a more realistic four years.

Adapting my flexible itinerary to such constraints as the pesky 90-day EU visa and the reality that there is, at best, a Mediterranean cruising season of six to seven months, I soon developed a lifestyle that had me in the Med in early April and out of the water in early November. I’d return to California in July and August for a five- to six-week working hiatus. My time afloat in the Med became more like two- to three-month mini sabbaticals, and my working life adapted accordingly.

July and August in the Mediterranean were hot, crowded and expensive. Did I really want to be seen in trendy marinas in that heat while paying more than $400 a night for a mooring, if I could even get one? Cruising in the shoulder seasons, however, came with the challenge of more-variable weather. The sailor’s adage that the wind blows either too much or not at all in the Med I found to be especially affirmed in the spring and fall.

One of the pluses of cruising the Med is that it rarely required me as a solo cruiser to do any overnight sailing. And I was almost always within cellular range. Now, with devices such as Starlink and videoconferencing, conducting business afloat in the Mediterranean is no more difficult than doing it remotely in the US, aside from the time difference.

Like any cruising area, the Mediterranean does have its drawbacks and risks. There are some definite no-go areas, such as most of North Africa and the Middle East. And there is the ongoing illegal migrant crisis. 

And then there is the challenge of Med mooring singlehanded—especially in Greek and Turkish waters, where I needed to drop the anchor and back down, all while steering to hit my slot on the quay. It’s a good case for having three hands, or four if you have a bow thruster, which Adagio did not have. As with much of cruising, you adapt, though I would still embarrass myself from time to time.

The Mediterranean also offered an unexpected bonus: the opportunity to engage with a friendly, culturally diverse cruising community at anchor and in the marinas. Singlehanded cruisers are a bit of a rarity in the Med (I met only one other) and a curiosity. I got used to predictable questions of “How do you do it?” and “Don’t you get lonely?” Yes, I would think, that’s why I initiated this conversation with you. Some would speak of having met other solo sailors, invariably prefaced with the word “crazy,” as in, “He was a crazy Swede.” Perhaps I earned the moniker of “that crazy old American who ran and had a rowing machine on his boat.”

My advice to aspiring commuter cruisers is to start with a smaller boat and go for shorter durations. Learn, adapt and, in some cases, endure.

Most of us have multiple passions in life. For me, these became particularly hard to let go of the older I became. Is there a way for each of us to craft a ­cruising lifestyle that allows us to pursue all of these? I believe there is. Leap, as nature essayist John Burroughs put it, and the net will appear. 

Jim Eisenhart is the author of the ­forthcoming book Nomad Sailor: Adventures Commuter Cruising the Mediterranean. He currently owns a Moody DS41 and has been commuter-­cruising the US East Coast and Bahamas. 

The post Part-time Cruising Fits My Lifestyle appeared first on Cruising World.

Your choice of which dinghy to carry aboard is pivotal to successful cruising. This is especially true if your cruising kitty is small. A good dinghy is a requirement for frugal cruising. 

Notice that I wrote carry aboard. I never tow a dinghy that I don’t want to lose. Why? Basic seamanship. Squalls approach fast. A swamped or flipped dinghy is a major problem offshore—for you and the environment. Painters can end up in the prop. Personal watercraft run over the tow lines. Towed dinghies get caught on navigational buoys, lobster pots and bridge fenders. 

Towing a tender is fraught with complications. Even a skillful boathandler can get into trouble approaching a slip while towing a dinghy. And being forced into your gyrating dinghy while at sea exposes you to extreme risk. Many a sailor has met Davy Jones just after pulling in their dinghy, casually hopping aboard, ambling aft, and leaning toward their outboard—just as the painter sharply takes up and catapults them over the outboard and into the water.

I’ve known three sailors who have ended up overboard this way. One was in the Lesser Antilles, without anyone in the crew even noticing. There’s one thing that every offshore sailor dreads: watching the transom recede as their vessel sails away. 

Yes, innocent choices can have severe consequences. And we haven’t even talked about the evil dinghies themselves. 

Offshore, dinghies can seem demoniacally possessed, ­especially while running downwind in heavy weather. They can hole your boat or wipe off its rudder or twist up the self-steering gear. I’ve even had dinghies pass me—then stop immediately ahead. Having a rigid-tender ­submarine zigzagging 50 feet beneath the surface like a berserk shark is no fun.  

One more tip: Never tow kids you love astern in the dinghy without an assigned watcher. Do this only with someone else’s bilge brats.

But seriously, the first ­question to think about when choosing a dinghy is: rigid or inflatable? 

I love to row, so we carried a Lawton-designed, fiberglass Graves tender for 15 years aboard Carlotta, our 36-foot Endurance ketch. Rowing is great exercise and a wonderful way to meet your fellow cruisers. It’s quiet and nonpolluting—two nice qualities if you reside on a warming planet like I do. 

If well-constructed, these dinghies are almost ­indestructible. At worst, you might injure one cosmetically, but it is almost impossible to destroy a Tortola-style dinghy, even in boisterous trade winds amid sharp reefs. 

Unfortunately, everything is a compromise. Well-constructed also means heavy. Of course, these heavy, rigid dinghies do more damage than the lighter, softer ones. So, I always tell my passengers to “keep your hands inside the dinghy.” They always comply until, suddenly, they don’t, and jam their hands between the surging dinghy and the immovable dock.

If you row a rigid tender, always remove the oar horns before coming alongside a ­vessel—especially if the ­graceful vessel has long ­overhangs. Dinghies yanked under a counter (or multihull wing) can do major ­damage in an instant during an ­unexpected wake. 

Ash oars are best. Oar leathers aren’t just about style; copper blade tips will greatly extend the oar’s life. Yes, the sailor and the length of the oar are related for best results. Of course, you should learn to feather your oars, and stow them in such a manner that they can’t be yanked into the water by the painter or float away if the dinghy is swamped. (Consider an oar lock through the thwart as well.)

Here’s a sad fact: If a dinghy rows well, it powers poorly. And vice versa. 

Stowage is another factor. Davits are cool on monohulls if you sail in, say, a swimming pool. It is best to stow a dinghy upside down on the foredeck while offshore in monohulls smaller than 70 feet long. We think of our foredeck dinghy as our backup life raft. And we put extra water and bulkier survival gear under it—in suitably tied-in watertight containers. 

Part of seamanship is to, again and again, prepare for the worst while expecting (and, hopefully, experiencing) the best. We’ve never used our dinghy as a life raft (or our life raft as a life raft, for that matter), which is exactly why we prepare it so diligently before each offshore passage. Just in case. 

In blue water, I carry a knife with me at all times (even sleeping), and I have dive knives made of 316 stainless steel in my cockpit and on my foredeck. Think about having to launch your dinghy while sinking, at night, naked and disoriented, after being hit by freighter. Those knives just might come in handy.

Currently, we have a 10.5-foot Caribe RIB for a tender, as we have for the past couple of circumnavigations. With a Tohatsu 9.8-­horsepower outboard (lighter than most and super dependable), the Caribe planes with both of us aboard, along with a case of beer and a full gas tank. This dinghy is small enough to hoist easily into our davits while coastal cruising in light-air venues such as Southeast Asia, or to bring on deck if we venture offshore. 

While initially expensive, the Caribes generally give us 12 years or two circumnavigations. This makes them quite affordable. How do we get twice the longevity that the average cruiser experiences? We always keep our tender protected by a Sunbrella cover, and we are careful where and for how long we leave it. 

The Achilles’ heel of modern inflatables isn’t abrasion; it’s puncture. Keep the tender away from sharp objects. I’ve poked a small hole from a nail sticking out of a dock, and my wife, Carolyn, barely touched a piling with a sole oyster that made a 6-foot slit in a ­dinghy’s starboard pontoon (that took three laborious attempts to fix). 

Sadly, some popular ­anchorages are regularly visited by organized dinghy thieves. An older guy, in his 20s, piles a bunch of local kids into his boat, gives them each a knife, and drops them all into the water. The kids cut the dinghy painters as they swim through the anchorage at 3 a.m. The older guy eventually collects all the drifting ­dinghies and swimming kids. 

We had our dinghy out of the water in South America when this happened in one anchorage, and were the only anchored cruisers with a dinghy left come morning. 

Now, about folding ­dinghies: They fold well. At least that’s what the guy with all the dripping cameras around his neck told me after I fished him out of the water off St. Barts. 

And while I love T-tops, ­center-consoles and fast boats, I keep my own dinghy as simple and light as possible. Sadly, too heavy and too light are both problems. When I had a lightweight 2-horsepower outboard on my inflatable, it would flip so often that I painted the outboard with antifouling inside the case. (To avoid this problem, pull the transom plug at anchor during a sudden squall. The inflatable dinghy won’t sink and will never flip, even in a gale.)

Another bonus of inflatables is that other yachties don’t cringe like they do if you approach their boat in a rigid tender, especially one lacking a soft rub rail. 

I was amazed in Western Samoa to have a fellow Virgin Islander come up and rail-cling while his heavy wooden tender banged repeatedly into my delicate gelcoat. When I said something like, “Careful, don’t allow your dinghy to hit my boat,” he just grinned, took another swig of his bottle of rum, and replied: “Don’t worry, Fatty. My rail is air-dried oak and through-bolted. Not a problem.”

Sure, for him.

One of the reasons we love our inflatable so much is because it saves us money while providing us with so much peace and tranquility. Marinas can be expensive, noisy and hot, so we almost never tie up. However, the anchorage closest to a marina is often also crowded. Our lightweight dinghy and its powerful engine allow us to anchor amid nature a couple of miles away, and yet have all the benefits of civilization when we want and need them. (We also have good ground tackle, a stout companionway locking system, and a loud burglar-alarm system on the main boat.)

It’s great to be able to sail a couple of miles to the inlet, catch a hundred pounds of grouper and snapper, and sail back again without raising a sweat.

Sailing tenders are another option, especially if you spend four months in deserted Chagos, as we did. It’s great to be able to sail a couple of miles to the inlet, catch a hundred pounds of grouper and snapper to share with the entire anchorage, and sail back again without raising a sweat. Or making noise. Or polluting in a pristine paradise. 

Alas, everything is a compromise. Rigs, a rudder, sails, and centerboards all take up room and cost money. I love sailing tenders dearly, but the confusion and weight of the gear doesn’t help you while passagemaking. Having clean, clear decks is a safety advantage offshore, especially in a breeze. 

On the plus side, there’s no denying how romantic sailing tenders are. If we have long-term guests aboard, we often disappear for an hour or two because (we tell them) the wind dropped on the other side of the island.

One more thing: If you haul out your dinghy each evening, as we do, it probably will never be stolen or acquire too much growth. However, it you leave it in the water, the clingy barnacles will certainly discover it. Sure, you can paint it with antifouling, but then, on passage, you, your sails and your sheets will gradually turn blue (as happened to us). 

If you don’t paint it, you’ll have to take it to the beach regularly, empty it, remove the outboard, and flip the dinghy over to scrape it. That’s not the bad part; the bad part is that it is easy to damage the RIB’s fabric while cleaning it. We’ve learned this the expensive way. Thus, we hoist at sundown, a nightly ritual in my life for 63 years now. 

The bottom line is that a proper tender, properly tended to, will save you money and time as it brings you joy. Seamanship is important. The wrong tender in the wrong sea at the wrong time at the wrong end of a tow rope can cost a life.

The choice is yours.

The post On Watch: Tender Feelings appeared first on Cruising World.

Cruisers often bypass the small and lesser-­known southeastern Bahamian islands on their windward passage through the Exumas on their way south to the Caribbean. But they shouldn’t. Take the advice of Bruce Van Sant, legendary sailor and author of The Gentleman’s Guide to Passages South: “Don’t rush through the islands; they are too perfect.” So, Google up a map, friends, and follow along. 

Because the Bahamas are shallow, the water they occupy in the North Atlantic Ocean is that much lighter, and, frankly, more beautiful than the Caribbean Sea. You can sail for miles in 10 to 15 feet of the lightest hues of blues and turquoise, suddenly plunge into thousands of feet of dark blue ocean, and return to shallow turquoise toward the edge of the next island. The shelf acts and feels like a large V.

Conception Island is possibly the most beautiful of all the Bahamian islands and is only 45 nautical miles northeast of popular George Town on Great Exuma Island. As Van Sant suggests, to reach Conception Island, anchor the night before just south of George Town at Fowl Cay, an uninhabited island with a small swimming beach. This will save you 4 miles of motoring to exit Great Exuma. Raise your mainsail at first light, and a southwestern wind will give you one long, straight starboard tack to Conception Island. Uninhabited and pristine, the beach has water so clear, you’ll swear you can drink it. The whole island is less than 3 miles at its widest, and it’s low-lying like all the small Bahamian islands, making it almost unnoticeable on electronic or paper charts.

The Bahamas National Trust has designated Conception Island a national park, which protects conch, fish and lobsters. The coral heads and reefs that surround the island make for great snorkeling and diving. At high tide, an entrance to a creek two-thirds of the way down the western side allows you to dinghy into mangrove flats to see turtles, sharks, conch and other marine life.  

To relax, simply walk the deserted white sandy beach and let your mind wander in your escape to this stunningly beautiful anchorage. Or, from the deck of your boat, simply stare at the magnificent crescent-shaped beach, and imagine why no more than five sailboats and catamarans are anchored outside the island on any given day.  

Like this solo sailor, you might chance upon the only other sailors on the beach who happen to know the Bahamas like the backs of their hands. If you are fortunate, like me, they will buddy-sail with you 35 nautical miles northeast to San Salvador. There, anchor in deep white sand just east of the only town on the island, and your new friends will take you to their favorite coral head, where they will spear two huge spiny lobsters and share their spoils in a tasty dinner on their catamaran. For thanks, buy them cocktails the next day at one of the only open bars ­overlooking the beach.

Sparsely populated and somewhat larger than Conception, San Salvador Island hosts a handful of small resorts and, surprisingly, an airport that brings in daily flights from Florida. Still, it maintains the feel of a quiet and secluded Caribbean island. You can walk the traffic-free main road, and a friendly local might drive you to one of the two small grocery stores on the island. Much controversy surrounds the claim that Columbus made his first landfall in the New World at San Salvador Island, though a plaque on a building in the middle of town states that he landed there October 12, 1492.

From San Salvador Island, you can sail 30 miles southwest to Rum Cay in prevailing east winds. (An island with the word rum in it must be good.) Find yourself wind-protected on the absurdly beautiful, quiet and pristine Flamingo Bay on the western edge of the island. Your charts will show a submerged wreck, giving you fair warning to watch the depth and weave the coral heads using eyeball navigation. You can sleep soundly under a clear sky and shining stars in tranquil water. Among life’s finer experiences, one should enjoy a morning cup of coffee on the bow of a gently swaying sailboat in a warm, clear bay that is yours and yours alone. Dinghy to the deserted shore to create the only tracks on the white-powder beach.

On a rising sun, sail out of Flamingo Bay against an east wind to seek civilization around the corner to Port Nelson, the only inhabited town on the island, with reportedly fewer than 100 residents. With a handful of tacks, you will turn a 6-mile sail into 15 glorious sailing miles where you will see small flying fish burst out of the water to escape predators. At 30 miles in total area but still tiny in size, Rum Cay dwarfs Conception Island.

Port Nelson consists of a welcome sign and a government dock that accepts a mail boat three times a month. Near the dock, you might find yourself at The Last Chance, a ramshackle bar with sand floors, a pool table and a book rack. Kaye Wilson, the proprietor, will sell you a Bahamian beer for $3, a dozen eggs for $8 or a bag of frozen green beans for $6. She also will make you the tastiest burger for $12 and serve it in a foil wrap rather than on a plate. 

You might chat up the only other patrons, two Bahamian police officers also enjoying a lunchtime burger. Even though the island is crime-free and all residents know one another, the officers are on daily foot patrol. One might be wearing a polo shirt, while the uniform of the other is a ball cap and T-shirt that say “police.”

Don’t shy away from requesting a police escort to the only other open eatery, the Ocean View Restaurant, an establishment with wood floors that’s been proudly owned for 45 years by Ruby Bain. Her son will serve you a Guinness in a bottle delivered to the island on a mailboat. I watched in awe as she affectionately taught one of the officers a local song. After you share a beverage with the police and they insist that you stay on the otherwise sleepy Rum Cay for a weekend festival, you know that you have met some of the friendliest people on Earth.

To seek protection from an oncoming stiff and persistent eastern blow, depart Rum Cay at 4 a.m. and motorsail 30 degrees off an east wind to reach the western side of Crooked Island in daylight, some 60 miles southeast. You might find several sailboats and catamarans already there seeking shelter. 

At Crooked Island, it is impossible not to make new sailing friends, either on the beach or at Gibson’s Restaurant, where they seat customers, mostly sailors, cafeteria-style on a long table. They serve everyone the same delicious fare of locally caught fish, meat and vegetables.

Take the advice of legendary sailor and author Bruce Van Sant: “Don’t rush through the islands; they are too perfect.” 

At Crooked Island, you also might be lucky, like me, to find a stainless-steel spear pole washed up on the beach that you can use to spear your own lobsters. If you need diesel and water, motor a few miles to the Crooked Island Lodge and Marina, the only marina on the island. You might as well spend one night there instead of rolling on anchor in the big blow. The ­marina’s knowledgeable ­general manager will show you the nearby coral heads to hunt lobsters. (Using the ­newfound pole spear, this ­novice ­fisherman came up empty-handed, but the ­marina’s chef prepared a lobster dinner for me, the restaurant’s only customer for the night.)  

Sailors can do major provisioning at the marina for Bahamian beer, wine, local fish, vegetables, frozen hamburgers and delicious rolls. And what the marina does not have, the general manager will drive you 4 miles to find at the small grocery store. The marina is undergoing big renovations, including new hotel rooms, small cabana-like lodges, a new restaurant and a pool. It is also enlarging its jetty, so boats will enjoy a swell-free dock experience.

So far, you will have had days of pain-free windward sailing. That might end as you sail east toward the lightly populated Mayaguana Island, a staging ground for a ­southeast run to Turks and Caicos. If you have no time to wait for a favorable wind north of east, you might ­experience moderate bow-bashing and ­wave-crashing sailing to the small and uninhabited West Plana Cay, a good stop-off 43 miles toward Mayaguana. After you pass Acklins Island off your starboard and you steer 30 or so degrees south, the waves begin to behave, and you will reach West Plana Cay in calm conditions.  

Again, you will have all to yourself another beautiful ­turquoise-blue bay protected by an east wind, and you will ask why you are not ­spending long days there reading, beachcombing, fishing, ­sleeping, and just enjoying your escape from civilization. 

Last, the 37-mile east sail from West Plana Cay to Abraham’s Bay on Mayaguana will likely be similarly uncomfortable. Protected by a barely visible long stretch of coral reef, Abraham’s Bay will feel like you are ­anchoring in 15 feet of open ocean, but the overnight roll will be ­moderate and easy to handle. 

The next day, sail east in 14 miles of pain-free ­tacking across a small bay to Southeastern Point, where Van Sant suggests that you stage your departure to Turks and Caicos. From this point, you will have a better ­southward angle to sail a reach to Sapodilla Bay on the Caicos banks.

Damian LaPlaca is currently in Puerto Rico aboard his Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 39i Performance, Beckon.

The post Cruising the Southeastern Bahamian Islands appeared first on Cruising World.

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.

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Eibbor and Knarf’s parents were kidnapped by Frost Giants. The boys desperately needed help. Scooter Squirrel raced to Winston Woodchuck, who dived into his burrow, frantically digging until he reached the tunnels of the Dwarves. They summoned Frey, who came with his longship, Skidbladnir, and took the boys to Asgard to plead their case to Odin. Skidbladnir was enchanted so that, among other magical traits, it always had fair winds and got where it needed to go. 

Such were the bedtime stories Dad told my brother, Frank, and me more than 60 years ago in the wild hills of West Bolton, Vermont, overlooking Lake Champlain. Despite the US Navy being born on Lake Champlain and the famous Capt. Phillips living a few miles from our house, Vermont is the only landlocked state in New England, so it might not seem an apt setting for nautical lore and traditions. However, a few years after my grandfather returned from World War II, he and my then-preteen ­father built a 16-foot Moth and ignited an obsession in Dad for sailboats. He found plans for a 26-foot ketch that became his lifelong white whale. I grew up with those plans and, under Dad’s tutelage, learned almost every rig that had sailed for the past thousand years by copying illustrations in The Book of Old Ships by Henry B. Culver and Gordon Grant.

 My initial 20 or so were canoes. I bought my first canoe with my paper-route money at age 11 and got a Gunter-rig sailing kit. That Grumman canoe still hangs in the barn in the winter, but in 55 years, it has never had a name. My first experience with naming a boat was as a teenager, when a 16-foot Rocket-class sloop that had been in a chicken coop for 25 years was donated to our Explorer post. We restored her and sailed the chickens—I mean the dickens—out of her on Lake Champlain. Our best adolescent workmanship notwithstanding, her seams could work the caulking in a chop, and we named her Kon Liki. It was 39 years before I named a second boat.

On the cusp of October 2009, another artist, Cole Johnson, and I stood at the lip of the 1,200-foot canyon of Canada’s Kogaluk River (“Little River” in Inuktitut) with our canoe in the howling wilderness of the Labrador Barrenlands. A river we’d been on nine days earlier had wandered into a boulder garden and had not come out, so we struck out overland, north to the Kogaluk, hoping that it would have water. As we stood, buffeted by the gale winds of the Barrens, it was a profound relief and joy to look down to the sparkling river far below. At that moment, a feeling welled up to name our silent companion, the stalwart canoe that would, days later, on the Labrador Sea, save our lives. The name came to me instantly, Bonnie, my then girlfriend, now wife (it was also, by chance, Cole’s mother’s name), steadfast and true no matter the challenge. That was one of only two canoes I have ever named. 

After COVID struck and closed Canada, I was stuck in Vermont, so I hiked the 273-mile Long Trail end to end as a painting trip. The paintings from the hike sold out so, in 2021, I decided to do the same thing on Lake Champlain. But I needed a bigger boat. I found a wooden, double-ended, 20-foot pocket cruiser (appropriately for my transition back to sail, a “canoe yawl”) at the Lake Champlain Maritime Museum. It was essentially a nice trailer with a free boat on it. Bonnie and I spent two months restoring that boat. I’d planned to spend at least six weeks aboard, so the boat needed a name. We bandied several about as we sanded the boat to bare wood, sealed the hull, and built accommodations in the cabin. Years ago, I had toured on the national art show circuit in a 15-passenger Dodge van dubbed the Artful Dodger. This boat was cute and a bit plump, but well-rounded with lovely lines. As a sleek creature of the water and my nascent floating studio, it almost named itself the Artful Otter.

The voyage of the Artful Otter was a wonderful experience during which I named my second canoe, a tubby 11-foot bright-green cutie that Bonnie had owned since childhood. That was the canoe that helped bring us together (another story), and I used it as Artful Otter’s tender. With the tiny green boat trailing lightly behind on the waves, its name became obvious: Leaflet.

The voyage raised funds for charities and made the artists some money. Expanding from the idea of the Long Trail trip, I involved other artists who all wanted to continue the project, so we needed a yet bigger boat. I cruised the yacht websites looking for an affordable, artistic vessel. That turned out to be a tall order. Brother Frank, now a retired US Coast Guard captain, steered me away from a couple of old wooden beauties that appealed to the artist in me but would have probably sunk—my plans, anyway. 

Then, I found it: a wooden, 1962 Aries 32 ketch in Chester, Nova Scotia. A double-ender like Artful Otter, this boat underwent a marine survey that impressed even sea dog Frank. And I could afford it by selling Artful Otter. That was a ­painful thought. Nonetheless, I brought the printout of the listing down to dinner, the one meal that Dad, Bonnie and I share every day.

Dad is an old-time Vermonter with Yankee frugality deeply ingrained, so I never saw his reaction coming. He had gotten his teenage ketch plans out while Bonnie and I restored Artful Otter, but presumably the enormity of the project hit, and he had not proceeded beyond that. Looking at the ­photos of this ketch at dinner, though, he set his jaw and quietly said, “That’s my boat.”

“Huh?” I started to explain the plan when he cut me off. 

“Don’t sell the Otter. I’ll buy this boat,” he said. 

And that was that. I suspect that, at age 90, he was realizing that lifelong dreams needed to come to reality ASAP, and he would not discuss it. 

Chester, Nova Scotia, is at least a 1,200-mile sail back to Vermont. After dinner, Bonnie upped the ante with the idea of Frank and me taking Dad on a bucket-list trip of a lifetime by sailing home with him in the ketch. He will be 91 when we get underway in July, but his mind is sound, and he is healthy and strong. Frank jumped aboard immediately, and I’ve never seen Dad so enthused.

Rub-a-dub-dub, three old men in a…well, the boat needed a name. Yet apart from a brief inspection in a heavy snowstorm, I had no physical connection with the boat. My names for other boats had been bestowed organically, but this time, it seemed, we might need to dream up one out of thin air. 

Artful Otter II, the working name during the search, was jettisoned ­instantly, closely followed by my overlong fixation with plays on art and ­ketches such as Sketchy Otter, Art S’Ketch, ­Sketch-A-Ketch, CanUS’Ketch (Bonnie is Canadian) and other such ideas. Sea dog Frank thought my Bonnie Pearl was a wonderfully nautical play on Captain Jack Sparrow’s Black Pearl and Bonnie. Dad was politely nonplussed. 

Then, it hit me. The three of us setting off on an adventure: Eibbor and Knarf stories, Scooter Squirrel, the Dwarves, the Norse gods, and a magic longship, like a double-ender ketch. 

As is true of many Germanic-language names, it is not pretty to an American (or Canadian) ear, but it resonates with the three of us 60 years later: Skidbladnir.

Hailing from Lake Champlain, wildlife artist, naturalist, and outdoorsman Rob Mullen operates out of his floating studio, the canoe-yawl Artful Otter. Lately, his sailing and painting grounds have grown to include the 1962 wooden Aries 32 ketch Skidbladnir.

The post To Name a Boat: The Art and History of My Many Vessels appeared first on Cruising World.

We had departed Santa Catalina Island, California, at midnight aboard our Peterson 46, Esprit. It was October, and we were making the 60-plus-nautical-mile passage at night because of a favorable wind forecast. Our destination, Ventura, lay upwind. Winds would be fairly light but enough to avoid motoring the entire way.

 My husband, Mitchell, and I are both originally from a landlocked mountain town: Park City, Utah, which we still call our official home port. We bought Esprit in Panama in 2018, then sailed back to San Francisco Bay, where we could operate charters to earn money for extended cruising. When the pandemic hit, ­charters were no longer an option, so we relocated to Southern California to live aboard and work. We chose Ventura because we had friends there and could easily get into the boat-repair and management business. This industry thrived during the pandemic—a great way to stock the cruising kitty.

Dawn is my favorite watch time on passage. As the sky ­began to brighten, I updated the ship’s log, scanned the horizon once more, and popped down below. My mission: Brew hot coffee and extract a Mason jar from the fridge. In the jar was my “instant” breakfast: a luscious mix of coconut milk, rolled oats, honey, and spice, topped with nuts and fresh fruit. (I often alternate this quick onboard breakfast with an equally delicious “pudding” made with chia seeds.) 

With my mission complete, I settled into the cockpit, enjoyed each bite as the sky turned tangerine, and watched seabirds hunting for their own breakfasts. 

Something big splashed in the distance. Dolphins? I had no one to ask because my crew, consisting of my husband and our cat, were snoozing peacefully down below. Soon, Anacapa Island came into view off the port bow. It’s one of eight islands that make up the Channel Islands archipelago. Five of them, including Anacapa, are national parkland. They are all rugged and pristine, and provide us with challenging and epic cruising grounds. 

In just a few more hours, we’d be back in Ventura Harbor, our temporary home port, before we sailed south to Mexico and beyond.

When it comes to passage-­planning, one of my favorite tasks is figuring out what to eat. We are foodies, and my studies and work background are in nutrition, so there are always fresh, made-from-scratch meals and snacks aboard Esprit.Overnight oats and chia pudding are two of my favorite make-ahead boat breakfasts, and I almost always make a batch or two for passages. Oats have the benefit of being more readily available in markets; they don’t provide quite as much protein as chia seeds, but they’re a great source of filling fiber and quality carbohydrates. (Just add more nuts or seeds to boost protein.) 

There are countless ways to vary each recipe, depending on what you have on hand and what sounds delicious to you. The base is dry rolled oats or chia seeds soaked overnight in coconut milk. (You can use any milk, but I love the tropical taste of the coconut.) You can even combine the chia and oats (see Cook’s Notes). Dress it up with a variety of seasonal fruit, nuts, or seeds for a satisfying, filling breakfast that’s high in protein, fiber, healthy fats, and antioxidants; that’s sure to provide long-lasting fuel for your adventures by sea or land. 

Both recipes will last for several days in the fridge. Consider making a few batches, divided into single-serve containers. This convenient, pre-made breakfast also makes a great snack during passages, or it can be a pretty addition to brunch at anchor with friends. 

Better yet, take time to enjoy a slow morning as I did with this easy, tropical pudding, and transport yourself to paradise, if you’re not already there.

Tropical Breakfast “Pudding” (Serves 2)

For oats:

• 1⁄2 cup dry rolled oats
• 1⁄2 cup (or to taste) coconut or any other milk 

For chia seeds:

• 4 Tbsp. chia seeds
• 1 cup coconut or any other milk
• 1⁄4 tsp. cardamom (optional)
• 1 Tbsp. honey or maple syrup 
• 1 very ripe mango, pureed; or fresh berries, peach or any fruit, diced
• 2 Tbsp. chopped pistachios, ­pumpkin seeds, chopped walnuts or slivered almonds

Combine oats or chia seeds, milk, cardamom, and honey or maple syrup in a small bowl. If using nonhomogenized coconut milk, you first might need to warm it in a ­saucepan to get rid of clumps.

Once combined, divide equally into 2 small Mason jars or other containers. Leave room at the top for fruit. 

Cover and refrigerate overnight, or a minimum of 4 hours, to thicken pudding consistency. 

If using mango, slice and scoop out the flesh. Use a blender or food processor, and blend until smooth. Store in a container in the fridge, and spoon over the mixture once it’s firmed up. If using other fruit, add it to the pudding once it’s firm, or just before eating. 

Top with nuts, and savor.

Prep time: 10 MINUTES, PLUS 4 TO 8 HOURS TO CHILL
Difficulty: EASY
Can be made: AT ANCHOR OR UNDERWAY

Cook’s Notes: 

As a topping, pureed peach is also divine, or a blueberry compote. A good-quality jam is a great substitute if fresh provisions are low. Add a sprinkling of crushed, freeze-dried raspberries or pineapples for extra zing. For oats, a dollop of plain Greek yogurt before adding the fruit is also delicious.

Do you have a favorite boat recipe? Send it to us for possible inclusion in Sailor & Galley. Tell us why it’s a favorite, and add a short description of your boat and where you cruise. Send it, along with high-resolution digital photos of you aboard your boat, to sailorandgalley@cruisingworld.com.

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With the cold season approaching in many parts of the country, it’s time to take a look at gear that will let you enjoy time on the water with toys such as kayaks, rowing and sailing dinghies, paddleboards, and the like. 

Samples of cooler-weather kit were ­provided by the manufacturers and by Team One Newport in Rhode Island, which sells brands such as Helly Hansen, Musto and Patagonia. The hands-on testing was rather informal. 

Living outside Boston, where big boats often get put away by mid-October, I was launching my inflatable for dinghy rides and my paddleboard late into the fall thanks to Mustang Survival’s Taku dry bib and Taku dry top. The chest-high overalls and socks are watertight and rugged, with room to wear heavy socks and a pair of jeans or long underwear underneath. Made from waterproof fabric, the bib’s seat, knees and socks are reinforced with Cordura to resist abrasion, and the overall-style outerwear comes in designs for men and women. The men’s version includes a waterproof Aquaseal relief ­zipper, and the men’s and women’s bibs have an adjustable neoprene waistband.

Wearing the dry bibs and my trusty Crocs for footwear over the rocks, I was able to wade into some pretty chilly water and go as deep as I needed to mount a motor on the back of an inflatable or land a paddleboard without grounding out its fin. On windy days, spray was not an issue, nor was rain, especially with the dry top on.

The dry top, made from the same waterproof, breathable fabric, has an extended skirt for kayaking, and has trimmable latex neck and wrist seals to keep water out. The top’s neoprene waist has hook-and-loop flaps on either side, so it’s adjustable too.

For paddleboarding in the dead of winter in icy water, a drysuit would probably be more advisable, but in late fall and spring, I found that if I tightened the waist straps built into the bib and top, not a lot of water came in when I went for an unintended dip. As a bonus, air trapped in the clothing added buoyancy.

Prices for the top and bib varied online, but expect to pay $400 to $450 for each.

Gill offers its own cool-weather ­protection for active watersports such as paddling, windsurfing and kayaking with its ThermoShield top, available in sizes small to extra-large. On paddling and boat rides, I found it warm and comfortable for extended periods. The ThermoShield is made from a nonabsorbent laminated fabric, and a fleece lining keeps in the heat. I really liked the fleece-lined collar, which can be drawn tight or left loose. The top’s neoprene waistband seals tight with hook-and-loop flaps. 

I paired the ThermoShield Top with Mustang’s Taku bib. The combo worked quite well and kept me mostly dry, even with an occasional dunking so long as I didn’t go under all the way. You can find the ThermoShield top for $165 online.

Gill has a few other neat things to consider when the mercury dips and the water beckons. The Fisher fleece is a heavy-pullover wind-resistant top that’s comfortable to wear around the yard or on the boat. Its large kangaroo-style pocket is a good place to warm up your hands on a cold day. It sells for about $130.

And for cold, raw nights in the ­cockpit—or to change into dry clothes on the beach or in the parking lot—Gill’s Aqua parka has you covered. Literally. The parka is a big coat, with a waterproof shell, welded seams, a soft high-loft thermal lining, a big hood, and large zippered pockets. The one I tested fell well past my knees, had tons of room if I wanted to pull my arms inside to juggle shorts, and kept me warm as toast. Top it off with a Seafarer beanie, and you’re ready to chill. The coat is available in three color schemes and in sizes from extra-small to large. Expect to pay around $200 for the parka and less than $30 for the hat.

For three-season inflatable rides and dinghy sailing, Musto’s ESS Softshell jacket is lightweight, comfortable and warm. The coat has a water-repellent coating and stretch cuffs for a close fit. The ESS is available in black, navy and platinum, and in sizes ranging from small to extra-extra-large. I tried on an extra-large, my normal size, and found it a bit tight. The coat is priced at just under $150.

I have a daughter who likes sailing and fishing, and on a blustery day this past fall, she found that Helly Hansen’s Pier 3.0 sailing jacket and bib would be fine for either activity. The bibs were easy to adjust and move around in, and she liked the elastic cinch around the waist, which she said made the pants snug and warm.

The Pier 3.0 jacket is designed for coastal and inshore sailing. It’s fully waterproof, windproof, and breathable, with adjustable cuff seals, a high collar, and fleece-lined hand-warmer pockets. Expect to pay around $200 for each piece of kit.

Wearing the dry bibs and my trusty Crocs for ­footwear over the rocks, I was able to wade into some pretty chilly water and go as deep as I needed to.

For a midlayer, HH’s Verglas tops for men and women are comfortable and warm. The ones I tried out fit well and weren’t in the way when I moved about. They come in a variety of styles, including half-zipper and hoodie. Prices range from $30 to $60.

Another good layering top was Patagonia’s Capilene Cool Daily hoodie. The sample I tried was thin, but it was warm and fit well. The top is available in sizes extra-small to triple-extra-large and runs right around $60. 

The above is just a sampling of the smart clothes available these days to help you handle the elements. With winter coming and the holidays approaching, hit the fall boat shows and keep an eye out for deals on duds that can withstand whatever Mother Nature has in store.

The post Review: Gear Up for Cold Weather appeared first on Cruising World.

I’ve learned during my 35-year marine career that it’s easy to break the ice with boat owners by bringing up one of two subjects: anchor selection or fuel filtration. Here, I’ll discuss the latter.

Diesel engines require only a few elements to start and operate reliably: air, cooling water, compression and clean fuel. 

Air is rarely a problem. Air filters, if they’re present on marine diesels, rarely clog because there’s little dust at sea. Cooling water can be problematic, strainers might clog, and impellers do fail—but all of those are easily serviced. Compression can be controlled, to some degree, by ensuring that valve adjustments occur at scheduled intervals, to check piston-ring condition and wear. 

Fuel cleanliness, on the other hand, is almost entirely within the boat owner’s control, with proper filtration.

Primary Filters

The primary fuel filter—the one that the fuel encounters first as it travels from the tank to the engine—is the most critical line of defense against contamination. 

Fouling can take many forms, from water and the bacteria it supports to asphaltene, which is diesel fuel’s natural “dirt.” Primary fuel filters come in several forms; the one you choose should embody a few key features, including ease of maintenance, a large and see-through bowl, the ability to drain water quickly and easily, and readily available replacement filter elements. 

The filter must be sized to handle the engine’s fuel-flow rate, which is different from fuel consumption. Most diesel engines pump more fuel than they use, returning the excess to the tank, with the return serving as an injector cooling method. However, there’s nothing to prevent you from using a filter with a higher rating. In fact, there are advantages.  

Larger filters can hold more water, and their filter elements can retain more debris before becoming clogged. Equally as important: Larger filters are often easier to service, with a removable top lid, making them more desirable for ­virtually any installation.

Most primary filters let you select the micron rating of the element. Here’s where ­controversy often ensues. 

Engine and filter manufacturers are virtually universal in their guidance that the smallest filter-element rating, usually 2 microns, should be reserved for secondary filtration (the second filter encountered by the fuel as it passes from tank to engine). Primary-filter elements are typically 10 or 30 microns. Some people suggest using a 2-micron primary-filter element, believing that it will catch all fuel-born debris. These people also think that they’ll have to service only the more easily replaced primary filter, leaving the secondary element in reserve.  

In fact, this approach halves the effective filter-element surface area, making clogs more likely. Using the correct approach—a larger-micron element in the primary, and a smaller element in the ^­secondary—lets you segregate contamination by size. While clean 2 and 30 micron elements offer the exact same resistance to fuel flow (virtually none), the 2-micron element will clog faster as the primary filter. 

Primary-filter elements should be replaced when the filter’s vacuum gauge reaches about 5 inches of Hg (­mercury), or annually, ­whichever comes first.

Secondary Filters

Secondary filters are located after the lift pump. They’re nearly always mounted on the engine, are metallic with no plastic or clear-sight bowls, and are typically of the spin-on variety, although some use a sandwich design.  

Secondary filter elements are available from engine manufacturers and aftermarket suppliers. If you opt for the latter, make sure the filter is of the same micron rating as the original version, and of the highest-possible quality.  

Steve D’Antonio offers services for boat owners and buyers through Steve D’Antonio Marine Consulting.

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57°38’07.3”N, 18°16’41.9”E
Port of Visby, Gotland, Sweden September 2022 

Sidse Birk Johannsen had just settled into an 18-hour journey across the Baltic Sea when her sailboat’s autopilot malfunctioned. Her sails were flapping. The waves were choppy. It was the middle of the night, and, to put it mildly, she was very cold and very alone. 

By all accounts, Johannsen’s first solo sea crossing had gone awry. With a sleepless night ahead, a pot of coffee was in order.

If you’re looking for an activity where everything sticks to the plan, stop now and cross sailing off your list. Sails tangle. Water leaks where it shouldn’t. Storms appear out of nowhere. Generators break. Engines fritz.

Things go wrong. A lot.

“Sometimes there’s a huge potential in being naive and not knowing what you’re walking into,” Johannsen says. “Because if you knew all the hassle beforehand, you would not do it.”

Five years ago, this 33-year-old Danish sailor’s life took a turn. Working in Greenland as a high school teacher, Johannsen broke up with her boyfriend of seven years. She had nowhere to live, no job. And a pandemic had shuttered the world.

“When life hurts, I run,” Johannsen says. “I go somewhere else. And that wasn’t really possible because of COVID.”

When Johannsen received an offer to work on a boat in Tahiti, she said yes. After a year of working on deck, she wanted more. Johannsen returned to Denmark, where, rather than sign a
lease on an apartment, she bought Anori, a 1976, 31-foot, Swedish-designed B31. The name in the Greenlandic language means “the spirit of the wind that will bring you home safely.”

Johannsen and the community of sailors she would discover fit within a broader story of travel and adventure in our post-pandemic world. But for women like Johannsen, many of whom are new to sailing, their launch out to sea meant joining a male-dominated community—one that frequently calls into question these women’s identities as captains. 

21°17’05.7”N, 157°57’35.4”W
Mamala Bay, Oahu, Hawaii April 2020

On the morning of April 17, 2020, Olivia Wyatt woke up anchored off the coast of Oahu. She had recently relaunched her 34-foot Ta Shing Panda, Juniper, after a series of maintenance issues required time in a shipyard. At home in the harbor once again, she was eager to explore the islands by sail. 

But that same morning, David Ige, then-governor of Hawaii, issued an emergency pandemic proclamation. It included a ban on more than two people inhabiting a single recreational boat in Hawaii waters, and a requirement that each boat remain at least 20 feet from the next. 

“Maybe I’ll just make loops around this island until I’m dizzy,” Wyatt wrote on social media.

Wyatt had arrived in Hawaii eight months earlier, having sailed Juniper 2,269 nautical miles over the course of 23 days from San Diego. Both places were a far cry from Wyatt’s landlocked hometown in Little Rock, Arkansas. Wyatt had learned to sail in her 20s, when she was working as a multimedia journalist in New York City. She received sailing lessons for her birthday from a boyfriend. It was the first time she’d stepped foot on a sailboat.

“I just fell in love with it,” Wyatt says. “It’s kind of like a game of chess. It’s unpredictable.” 

Wyatt wanted a strapping man to take care of the mechanical work while she braided sailor’s knots and danced on deck. After a string of boyfriends, Wyatt was living in Los Angeles, 34 years old and boatless. “I made a list of all the bluewater boats I liked and began searching for ones that were for sale,” she says. “I narrowed it down to a boat in Mexico, one in Hawaii, and one in San Diego. In the end, Juniper was the one I fell in love with. It was just by chance that it was the closest to me.”

She bought the boat in San Diego and sailed it up to Los Angeles. Six months later, she sailed back to San Diego for work.

“It was there that I met my friend Elana, who had already sailed solo across the Pacific,” she says. “I was considering sailing to Hawaii, and she encouraged me to do it.”

Wyatt spent a year learning her way around Juniper, sailing in Los Angeles and San Diego, and soon realized that she couldn’t fix and do everything herself. Between repairs, she’d sail out each ­morning, testing Juniper’s limits and quirks, and discovering her own.

If you’re looking for an activity where everything sticks to the plan, cross sailing off your list.

In the 23 days it took Wyatt to sail from San Diego to Hawaii, she found that ­writing kept her grounded. She ­experienced frequent auditory hallucinations, hearing questions in the air. Once, she started clapping to the beat of a funk song bouncing off the waves. 

“I try to recall the voices of my family now,” Wyatt wrote in a blog post in August 2019. “I want to hold onto those voices and take them with me, and I’m crying uncontrollably because I can’t. Because things like this can fade. Everything can fade and wilt on the vine of time. I can speak out here through satellites. When my ears are thirsty for a human voice, I call my mom, but our connection is distorted by the dance it does through space.”

8°26’18.9”N, 78°59’40.2”W
Pearl Islands, Panama March 2020

Holly Martin forgot to buy eggs. Normally, she would wait until the next grocery run, but she was starting her Pacific crossing from Panama toward Polynesia the next day. 

By the time Martin had returned to Panama City to get the eggs, the urban center was under lockdown. Guards were outside the grocery store, forcing ­customers to enter one at a time. 

Sitting in a small boat full of fresh food just off the shore of a city with 1.5 million people, Martin felt uneasy. With her Pacific crossing now off the table due to COVID, Martin had to stay put, so she and a group of 30 or so sailors sailed instead to the Pearl Islands, about 45 ­nautical miles away. 

After two months there, Martin heard rumors that Polynesia would open its ports. That August, she set sail for the Marquesas Islands. The winds were calm when she left Panama City. On her second day of what would be 41 days alone at sea, a little gray bird landed on her bow. 

“The buildup, it’s like a buildup of a storm,” Martin says in an online video. “And then once you leave, it just breaks, and suddenly, I’m sailing.”

The only communication device Martin had was a satellite tracker capable of receiving 40 texts with 140 characters each month. So, for 41 days, the only news Martin received was weather updates from her mother. 

“When I arrived in Polynesia, anything could have happened,” she says. “It could be gone. It could be worse—half the population could be dead, there could be nuclear war.” 

She describes her Pacific passage as being like “a very long meditation.” By the second week, she and her boat, Gecko, a 27-foot Danish Grinde, had become a single, mellow entity. Things still went wrong. But when Martin found herself free-climbing her mast in the middle of the night during a squall, she just did it. 

Sailing alone, Martin says, means no one is waiting for you to unravel. And when there’s no one to hold your hand, fear dissipates. Still, Martin says that she also has the space—an entire ocean of it—to air her emotions as they come. 

“I’m more likely to cry at a beautiful sunset at sea,” she says. “I think when we don’t have to protect ourselves from the people around us, we can allow our emotions to lie wherever they want to.”

For Martin, sailing wasn’t an unknown when she started her circumnavigation in 2018. In fact, Martin sailed before she could walk. Her parents sailed the world with their three young children for nearly a decade before landing in Round Pond, Maine. When Martin graduated from college in Maine with a degree in marine biology, she took a job on a vessel in Antarctica, working as a research support technician. 

“The out-at-sea alone part,” Martin says, “it’s quite irrelevant that I’m a woman.”

After six years of working with a crew, she wanted to learn how to make mistakes on her own. Until a year ago, she avoided inviting friends and family on Gecko. “I’ve spent a lot of weeks on passage thinking about my life and myself and digging in deep,” Martin says. “I feel like I’ve dug enough by myself now that I’m ready to start inviting other people into my world.” 

Though not quite as long as her ­to-dos, Martin also has a list of things she’s learned about herself while sailing alone. For one, she’s given up small talk. Often, silence is better. Martin has also realized that the stresses and burdens that exist on land can vanish at sea. 

“The out-at-sea-alone part,” Martin says, “it’s quite irrelevant that I’m a woman.”

38°54’19.6”N, 77°04’06.7”W
Washington, D.C. March 2023

It’s 5 p.m. on Wednesday, March 15, when Wyatt calls me by video. I’m sitting in a basement in Washington, D.C., wearing a wool sweater. She is tan, in a bright-purple tank top, on a boat in Fiji at 9 a.m. 

We chat about Martin — one of the few sailors Wyatt knows who is also sailing in the South Pacific— and Johannsen. If you’re thinking, Small world, you’re right. But the world of solo female sailors is also tightknit, despite these women sailing hundreds, even thousands, of miles apart. 

Wyatt, Martin and Johannsen connect on social media and ask questions about their latest boat malfunctions. When Martin was in New Zealand preparing for a Pacific crossing and needed a sewing machine, she posted a request online. Turns out, someone at the Richmond Yacht Club in Auckland had exactly what she needed.

Wyatt and Johannsen have similar ­stories. The sailing world, Johannsen says, is about finding a balance between trying to take care of things yourself and admitting when there is something you do not know. 

Back in the spring, Johannsen walked down the dock in Egå Marina, in Aarhus, Denmark, and approached a neighboring boat where a group of men chatted. They’d spent the past 40 years sailing. 

“Having this kind of connection is a huge value for me because it means I can call them and they can tell me what it means to buy a kind of boat,” she says. But, other times, Johannsen adds, “I want to be the one with the tools in my hands.” And if she doesn’t know what she’s doing, her followers online usually have the answer. 

If Johannsen’s female sailing followers have anything in common, it’s their camaraderie about broken engines, ripped sails, delayed starts, bad weather and mansplaining. Wyatt too: “All of the women who I’ve met along the way, we’re so similar,” she says. “It’s hard because you’re making all these decisions by yourself, and something is always breaking. It’s a financial burden. It’s a mental burden. It’s a weight.”

Martin says that they feel like sisters: “It’s just this unique community of people going through it all together. We have the same struggles.”

57°24’04.6”N, 21°32’27.3”E
Ventspils, Courland, Latvia September 2022

Out in the dark water of the Baltic Sea, Johannsen really had only one option. One way or another, she had to get her boat across the remaining 87 nautical miles between her and the Latvian coast. Her autopilot was broken. She had to hand-steer. 

When Johannsen docked Anori in Ventspils, a deepwater seaport, she knew that she’d have no problem falling asleep. After 18 hours of focus, she could allow herself to feel everything she had kept at bay for those long, cold hours. There is no room for fear, she says, in moments of ­discomfort or danger. But allowing ­yourself to feel those emotions after the fact, on land, is essential to staying sane. 

“You need to take those feelings seriously, because otherwise, they will build up in your body,” she says. “Your body will remember to be scared or very, very cold. It can turn your brain into oatmeal.”

And, alone on a boat only 34 feet long, extra baggage simply doesn’t fit. 

Follow these solo sailors online

Sidse Birk Johannsen: @sisi_atsea on Instagram

Olivia Wyatt: wildernessofwaves.com, ­@wildernessofwaves on Instagram

Holly Martin: @windhippiesailing on YouTube, @boatlizard on Instagram

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