We were cruising  through one of Desolation Sound’s towering fjords when the wind hit 35 knots. This type of a headwind is to be expected in this part of British Columbia, and it made me glad that I was—for the first time in my life—exploring a region not aboard a sailboat but instead aboard a 53-foot Grand Banks trawler with twin 650 hp engines. The term “powering through” took on a whole new meaning.

I’ve enjoyed more than a few sailing adventures in my lifetime—not just racing America’s Cup boats, but also on expeditions to remote places including Antarctica, Cape Horn, Sable Island (off Nova Scotia) and Norway’s Svalbard. I’ve completed trans-Atlantic crossings on sailboats too. Now in my 70s, I decided to try a trawler charter with NW Explorations, which is based in Bellingham, Washington. Our crew included my wife, Janice, who has cruised extensively in Maine and on the Chesapeake; longtime friends David and Christy Elwell, from Florida, who had cruised this area twice before this trip; and Kitty Mountain, also from Florida, but a veteran Desolation Sound cruiser. We were all of similar age, and we all had ­experienced our share of health issues in recent years. Somehow, letting a reputable charter company do most of the planning and make sure the boat was in good working order seemed like a reasonable compromise this time around.

It’s hard to keep me away from a helm, and I particularly enjoyed the solitude of many hours spent running the trawler from the upper deck. The views are fantastic from this perch, with the mountains along Desolation Sound rising 5,000 feet straight up out of the water. I thought about how, when the wind was exceedingly light, it would have been difficult to make progress under sail. Instead, we cruised onward at 9 knots, burning 6 ­gallons of fuel per hour. There was no hurry. We were having too much fun.

Desolation Sound is surprising in so many ways. Often, we would find a suitable cove to anchor, only to discover that the depth next to the shore was 600 feet. We’d have to look elsewhere or tie up to a few trees or rocks. And although the water was deep, it was surprisingly warm during our September cruise. The water was also, often, ours alone, with few other boats around.  

It’s counterintuitive that it could be so (relatively) easy to get to a place so remote, but that’s precisely what the five of us—a perfect-size crew for a trawler this size—had done. We had picked up the boat from the charter base in Bellingham and then cruised over to Port Sidney, Canada, to complete the immigration and customs process for Canada. The New York Yacht Club had organized a few rendezvous of which we took advantage (it’s always fun to compare notes with the crews aboard other yachts), and we were far from the only out-of-towners who were awestruck by the scenery.

Desolation Sound’s remoteness also gave us a liberating break from internet and cellphone service. We stayed busy with hikes, reading, and in-depth conversations about world affairs, the economy, and our grandchildren. We played spirited nightly games, took occasional naps, and focused on some of my favorite things: navigating and steering. The boat had an autopilot, but I like having my hands on the wheel and my eyes all around. Every few miles, an interesting sight or object would appear: a pod of whales, tidal rips, the ever-changing shoreline. The farther north we sailed, away from the impressive waterfront homes of Vancouver and the San Juan Islands, the more remote the scenery got.

After we anchored each afternoon, we enjoyed dinghy trips where we found all kinds of nifty things. We poked our bow into small coves, intriguing creeks, marshes and lagoons. We went ashore and worked our way through thick brush. Climbing was hard work, as was walking along the rocky coastline. We never saw bears or cougars, but we did see fascinating birds in the skies. The osprey clutches a fish with its face into the wind, making flight easier. Who knew?

Two cruising guidebooks were particularly helpful: Desolation Sound & the Discovery Islands by Anne and Laurence Yeadon-Jones, and Cruising Guide to British Columbia Vol. 2: Desolation Sound and the Discovery Islands by Bill Wolferstan. As a rule, the authors ­caution mariners to be mindful of tidal rip currents between islands. They’re correct. A few times, it was nice to be able to power up the engines and motor through passages that would have been challenging under sail. All kinds of boaters embrace the challenge, though; we encountered several flotillas of kayaks, including on one of the windy, rainy, chilly days. They waved happily as we steamed past.

I enjoyed Prideaux Haven, a scenic, protected cove that’s crowded during the summer months but had just eight boats scattered around on the day we arrived. The entrance is narrow and shallow, with Mount Denman off in the distance at about 6,500 feet high. For a (brief) minute, I thought we should attempt to scale the peak. The tidal range was about 18 feet, which meant anchoring with care. In one cove, we looked for the remains of an indigenous peoples’ village. We found only rocks, shells and sand, but it was fun to look around.

A few times, it was nice to be able to power up the engines and motor through passages that would have been challenging under sail.

At other spots, we encountered the fishing and logging industries that dominate this region. Signs ask mariners to reduce speed when passing the fish traps and working zones. On Toba Inlet, we watched a ground crew cut trees while a helicopter hovered over the trunks and grasped them with a heavy-duty clamp. At times, two or three trunks were hoisted together. They were moving 60 to 80 trunks per hour.

We followed the advice of the guidebooks at the Yuculta Rapids, a stretch of water with fast-moving currents at the northern end of Desolation Sound. The books strongly suggest transiting during periods of slack water; we experienced fierce rapids about one hour after slack water. Whirlpools, steep and choppy waves, and overfalls were evident as we motored through. Dent Island had a ­seating area where you could watch the churning rapids. We had a great dinner there, and, the next morning, a full ­breakfast before continuing on our expedition.  

I had to smile at some of the waterway names. Two of my favorites were the Hole in the Wall passage, which is a small opening connecting the Okisollo Channel to the Calm Channel, and the One and Only Inlet.

Along the Toba Inlet, we found ancient images of land animals and a sea serpent painted on the shoreline rocks. Equally as mesmerizing was a nearby 150-foot waterfall near picnic benches. One scene was more spectacular than the next.   

At one small general store, I found ­candy bars. My plan was to have one treat per day. The next afternoon, behind the wheel, I was enjoying my 3 Musketeers when the rest of the crew started asking, “Where’s mine?” I took some heat for the next few days, until we came across another general store where I was able to secure a larger supply, along with Raisin Bran cereal for one of our crew who loves it.

We also took comfort in our trawler’s solid hardtop and upper-deck chairs. I had to smile, remembering how, when I was 6 years old, I used to sit on the side of a small boat and marvel at the water gurgling alongside the hull. Here on Desolation Sound, I was still marveling at the water passing by. This instinct to appreciate the view has never left me, no matter whether I’ve been racing on the Irish Sea or from Rhode Island to Bermuda. I thought about my first sighting of the Antarctic peninsula with ice-covered peaks jutting into the sky, the surprising beauty of the Mediterranean, and the lush beauty of the Caribbean. The size of Chesapeake Bay is surprising, as are the endless destinations on the waters of New England. 

I have enjoyed all of it. What a nice life we have, being on the water. A few days after our expedition on Desolation Sound, I started to wonder, What’s next? 

CW editor-at-large and award-winning writer Gary Jobson is a Hall of Fame sailor.

The post Switching Gears: Exploring British Columbia on a Grand Banks Trawler appeared first on Cruising World.

Way back in the 1850s, the wise Indian Chief Seattle (clearly an early environmentalist) said, “Take only memories, leave nothing but footprints.” The words remain true for today’s bareboaters: Take memories, leave nothing.  

But how do you take memories, and which ones should you take? First, choose memories that will last. A bottle of wine or liquor brought home is a wonderful remembrance…once. Sorry, Mr. Pusser, but it’s better to soak off the label so that you can remember it long after the bottle is dry. Tip: Soak the bottle in warm water in the sink, and then gently ease off the label. Or tie the empty bottle (securely) and hang it in the water overnight. The label will come off easily. 

The same goes for local T-shirts. They’re great fun at the time, but, like a bottle of wine, they don’t last. We have many dusting rags that were once a not-inexpensive T-shirt.

A logbook or diary is the absolute minimum. We have bareboat diaries that date back decades. Each one is a fun read that brings a flood of memories of sights and sounds, mistakes and recoveries. Pick up simple notebooks (with a pen attached) at the local dollar store, and give them to everyone aboard, including the kids. Tell your crew to include everything: descriptions, sketches, even tracings of a special shell.

Next on the list is a simple waterproof camera. Again, everyone on board should have one and should be told to immortalize memories—from the breezy rail-down sail to the steak someone dropped in the sand. Shoot from dawn to dark. You can sort and edit when you get home. For now, leave nothing undocumented, and don’t be shy about selfies with your crew.

You can find an Ausek underwater camera for $42 or so, or the Polaroid 16-megapixel underwater camera for about $49. Either is well worth the investment for pointing and shooting. 

Bring clear plastic bags to stash your treasures. Grab a handful of sand from your favorite beach. A few shells can be keepsakes, but be absolutely certain no little creatures are still inside them. Colorful pebbles and sea glass will also add to your mementos.

When it comes to paper memories, get creative. Grab the brochures from the ferry, resort, marina, and restaurants where you dine. These make great scrapbook additions. I’m not sure what this means, but bar coasters and cocktail napkins populate our collection and readily stir memories. Pick up postcards at local shops and marinas. Every bareboat destination is near a post office with colorful stamps. 

Bric-a-brac and trinkets are also great. I have a friend who has a keychain from every charter destination, and another who buys shot glasses (certainly more practical). Refrigerator magnets and souvenir plates all fit into this category to put on a shelf (or use) for memory lane.

Artwork is a delightful reminder of a trip. At your check-out briefing, ask if there are any street art shows in the area. A watercolor or sketch from a local artist is a perfect memory for your wall at home.

In local shops, you’ll find pins and iron-on badges for every destination. We have a friend who collects tiny bells from every European charter. Snow globes are fun, but beware: They quickly add up in your luggage weight.

Books aren’t light, but you can find small photo books of your destination that are packable. Also keep your eye open for local recipe books that will help you re-create some of the foods you enjoyed on your charter. As with the wine labels, take the labels off foods you cooked aboard (and that scalded everyone’s tongue with local spices).  

At the end of your charter, don’t trade in all your money. Keep a few small-denomination bills and some coins as great memory-makers.

On your charter, think ahead in terms of how you’ll use these mementos at home, such as in a scrapbook or in a shadowbox frame hung on a wall, or displayed flat on a coffee table. Our walls are covered with shadow-box frames memorializing various bareboat adventures. Several have the sand we brought home, glued to the inner backing, and then we hot-glued or taped in a mélange of photos, shells, pebbles, ticket stubs, and anything else that sparked a memory.

Personally, I like being able to glance at a frame on the wall, but many bareboaters prefer to create a scrapbook of their adventure. Craft stores have entire sections devoted to scrapbooking, including albums of all sizes, filler pages that make short work of photos, and other paper items. This approach leaves the question of what to do with your shells, so our house has several glass bowls filled with a worldwide collection of shells and pebbles on a base of sand.

Whatever you do, plan ahead to create memories that will last a lifetime. To ­paraphrase Chief Seattle, you’ll not only have the ­memories, but you’ll also see your ­footprints forever.

The post Charter Life: Making Memories and Bringing Them Home appeared first on Cruising World.

We were six aboard Stressbuster, our Greek-designed Atlantic 70, on the day spring arrived.

It was late March; we were under sail in the Gulf of Gökova on Turkey’s Carian Coast. Our guests had joined my husband, Kostas, and me a week before, on the Greek isle of Lesbos, to begin their preseason 28-day charter. The plan was to meander slowly south through Greece’s easternmost Dodecanese islands, with a short foray into Turkey before ending the trip back in Greece. 

Claudia, who’d booked the boat, was an experienced Lake Superior captain and boat owner with roots in southern New England. She was gathering local knowledge while hatching a plan to retire and sail the Aegean a few years hence. “I want a real cruise,” she’d said with a grin, “not a relay race.” She’d asked a few adventurous friends to join her.

The weather so far had been cold, damp and cloudy. Sailing south, we kept warm with hot drinks and conversation. Cockpit discussions often included ­questions for our crew about Greek history and culture.

“What’s the significance of the ­pomegranate in Greece?” someone asked. “I see the symbol and the actual trees everywhere.”

“Ah, the pomegranate,” Kostas answered, leaping at the chance to expound on two of his favorite topics: Greek history and mythology. “It was Persephone’s fruit. She was the goddess of spring and new life, but also queen of the underworld and death. Every year, when she emerged to spend six months aboveground, spring came. When she returned to the underworld, all plants died and it turned to winter.” 

“Evidently, she’s still underground,” someone said with a smirk.

That day, we were bound for Castle Island, home of Cleopatra’s Beach (yes, that Cleopatra). None of us had yet shed our fleece jackets and long pants. As we ate a quick lunch underway, clouds melted away to dazzling sunshine, blue skies and a warm, 12-knot breeze. 

“Persephone heard you,” Claudia said, peeling off her jacket. One by one, ­fleeces fell. Faces turned toward the warmth. Eyes closed, all aboard were lulled into sleepy silence by the riffs of gentle wind and the swish of the hull through the sea.

A soft splash came from abeam. 

“Dolphins!” I screeched, shattering the peace. 

Around me, guests launched into a full-tilt boogie. I headed to the bow, like a mama duck with charter ducklings following. Behind me, I heard: “Where’s my camera?” and “Oh my God, this is awesome!” followed by various attempts to engage with the animals: woos, clicks, soprano la-las, and mangled attempts at wolf whistles.

By the time the dolphins veered away in choreographed unison, we were approaching Castle Island. We dropped anchor in an empty Cleopatra’s Bay, surrounded only by olive trees, pines, and the scattered remains of ancient structures ashore. The queen’s beach was on the windward side, a short hike across the island. We dinghied in to explore it. 

Ashore, it appeared deserted. A small concession shack was closed tight. 

Cleopatra’s Beach was a pristine stretch of deserted white sand with wooden walking platforms. Evidently, the extravagant queen spent considerable time here, and ordered sand brought in by ship from Africa so that her lover, Anthony, could sunbathe in style. Scholars have since confirmed that the sand is not local. The sea looked inviting. It was deceptive. From the corner of my eye, I caught a sudden movement.

“I have to swim here,” Claudia said as she streaked toward the water. “It’s Cleopatra’s Beach!” 

A splash and a beat later: “Holy crap, it’s cold!” 

Back on the boat, the time was edging toward cocktail hour.

“I need a Cape Codder,” Claudia said, referring to the popular New England cocktail made with vodka and cranberry juice. “I have a craving. That cold swim did it.”

We didn’t have cranberry juice, but we did have pomegranate juice, which is sold all over Greece. Similar in taste to cranberry, it’s tart; better with a little sweetener such as apple juice or dilution with club soda, but very refreshing.

“How ’bout vodka and pomegranate juice?” I suggested. “We can call it a Persephone.”

Claudia volunteered to bartend, and we put our heads together to create the delicious cocktail below. In honor of the Greek goddess who’d served up this perfect first day of spring, we christened it Persephone’s Potion.

“To Greek goddesses and Egyptian queens,” someone said as we raised our glasses. The answer was a unanimous, “Hear, hear!”

Persephone’s Potion (serves 1)

• 1 jigger vodka or rum (1.5 ounces, or to taste)
• 2 parts pomegranate juice
• 2 parts sweet apple juice
• Generous splash orange juice
• Splash club soda

For garnish:

• 1 sweet red apple
• 1 green apple
• 1 orange
• Fresh mint, if available

Prep the fruit: Core apples. Halve the fruit, and cut into thin slices. Set aside.

Fill a large cocktail glass with ice. Add vodka or rum. Add pomegranate juice and apple juice; stir. Add a splash of orange juice and a splash of club soda. Stir again, and garnish glass with a half-slice each of apples and orange. Add a sprig of fresh mint, if available. 

Serve with bowls of salty nuts, and ­consume garnish. The salty-sweet flavor combo is delightful.

Prep time: 5 minutes
Difficulty: Easy
Can be made: At anchor

Cook’s notes

This cocktail doesn’t require ­precise measures. You can pour by eye, taste, and then adjust the ingredients ­accordingly. If you abstain or just aren’t in the mood for alcohol, this makes an equally delicious mocktail.

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.

The post Sailor & Galley: A Pomegranate Cocktail Fit for a Goddess appeared first on Cruising World.

Sitting at the flybridge helm station aboard the new Leopard 40 power cat, taking in the view of Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline, was an excellent way to spend a sunny February morning. It was the day after the 2023 Miami International Boat Show, where the latest model from South African builder Robertson and Caine had made its world debut. I was thoroughly enjoying my allotted time at the helm.

Did I mention that I was a thousand or so miles from the snow and ice back home in New England? Or that the three-person helm seat was far comfier than a similar-size chairlift on any ski hill? Or that the table, surrounded by an L-shaped couch directly behind me—never mind the adjacent chaise abutting a counter with grill, sink and fridge—promised nothing but fun times for both skipper and crew?

With another nine hulls already in the works, and more to come by year’s end when production is fully ramped up, the boat will soon be available for charter vacations with The Moorings. At first, it will be in the British Virgin Islands, the Bahamas, Croatia and Greece, and eventually, it will join the company’s bases worldwide.

Off the Florida coast, we monitored miles per gallon at 500 rpm increments. In slow motion (1,000 rpm), the twin 370 hp Yanmar diesels sipped fuel at an estimated rate of 4.8 miles to the gallon. The boat’s sweet spot—3,000 rpm, where we cranked along at 17 knots—came at a cost of 0.8 miles per gallon. Any more or less, and efficiency dropped, according to onboard gauges. Top speed was a little better than 22 knots.

At cruising speed, the boat’s hydraulic steering felt nimble and responsive as I cranked the wheel into a turn. Conditions were fairly calm, but crossing our own wake, the 40 PC plowed on through the chop without missing a beat.

At low speed, the 40 PC turned easily when I adjusted the twin fly-by-wire throttles and shifted between forward and reverse. The sailor in me wondered if the builder really needed to include a bow thruster in the port bow, though the feature had made getting out of the tight slip at the marina a simple enough maneuver. For extra-tight quarters with a shorthanded crew, cameras can ­monitor the stern and bow, and deliver the imagery to either of the twin Raymarine displays at the ­upstairs helm station.

The 40 PC joins a lineup that includes the Leopard 46 PC (also sold as the Moorings 464) and Robertson and Caine’s flagship on the power side, the Leopard 53 PC. 

A word of explanation here: Robertson and Caine enjoys a somewhat unusual relationship with Travelopia, which owns The Moorings and Sunsail, and oversees the Leopard sales team. All of Robertson and Caine’s sailing catamarans go into the charter companies’ fleets or are sold to private owners as Leopard Catamarans. Robertson and Caine’s power models are branded as Leopards or Moorings models, depending on how an owner plans to use the boat. All of Robertson and Caine’s current models—power and sail—are developed by the in-house design team, along with Alex Simonis of naval architecture firm Simonis and Voogd, and Franck Bauguil, vice president of yacht ownership and product development at Travelopia. Bauguil also manages sales of all three brands.

At present, he says, approximately half of Robertson and Caine’s sailboats are sold for charter, and half are for private use. The same is expected to be true for the 40 PC. Robertson and Caine plans to build 20 of the boats this year and increase the number to 31 next year. A well-equipped model, delivered from South Africa to the United States ready to go, comes in at under $1.2 million. 

The three current power models comprise the fourth generation of power vessels from Robertson and Caine in terms of design. Previous generations shared some furniture modules with boats from the sail side, but Bauguil says that this new line started with a blank sheet of paper. The result is increased volume for interior accommodations without disturbing performance.

The boat in Miami was powered by optional twin 370 hp Yanmar diesels. Charter models are fitted out with 350 hp Yanmars, and 250 hp Yanmars are also available. Tankage is cruiser-friendly, with 370 gallons of fuel and 170 gallons of water.

Aboard the 40 PC, the owner’s stateroom occupies the starboard hull. It has a queen berth aft and a head ­compartment forward with a shower in the forepeak. Amidships are a desk and ­television, hanging lockers, and a fair amount of stowage.

The port hull includes guest staterooms fore and aft, each with a queen berth, and a shared head between them.

It’s bright and airy in the salon, thanks to windows that offer a near 360-degree view, a sliding door that opens to the cockpit, and another door forward that leads to the foredeck, where a couple of cushioned sun beds await. The cockpit is shaded by the flybridge, with a cushioned seat across the transom, and a dining table.

The salon itself is well-laid-­out, with an indoor helm station tucked into the forward starboard corner. To port, an L-shaped couch surrounds a coffee table (a dining table is optional); opposite is an upholstered chair. The galley is adjacent to the cockpit, with a full-size, home-style fridge to starboard and an L-shaped counter to port that includes an induction stove top, a convection microwave oven, a sink, and a dishwasher.

On deck, a solid stainless-­steel rail around the boat provides secure handholds for moving about underway.

Inside and out, the lines of the 40 PC are sharp and stylish. Bauguil says early orders indicate that the boat is appealing not only to multihull sailors who want to make a jump into power, but also to powerboaters looking for the efficiency gained by two hulls. As for charterers, I can state it pure and simple: Put me on a 40 PC somewhere warm and sunny for a week, and I’ll guarantee a good time.  

Leopard 40 Power Cat Specifications

The post Boat Review: Leopard 40 Power Cat appeared first on Cruising World.

Perspective is everything. To Puritans, being publicly dunked was a humiliating punishment. To our grandkids, however, “the dunking chair” provides endless fun. 

Even the most modest ­cruising sailboats probably have all the bits needed to create a dunking chair: a bosun’s chair, a spinnaker pole and a couple of halyards. A kid swims into the chair, is slowly hoisted “super high” (which might translate to 6 inches for a youngster) amid much fanfare, and is then abruptly released as the crew cheers. 

“Again! Again!” is the immediate, universal response of the dunkees. 

Here’s the key: Your job as skipper and organizer is to make sure that everyone is safe without appearing to do so. Rule No. 2 is equally simple: Don’t teach. Allow them to learn. There should be no helicopter parents afloat. 

Fun is fun—and fun is best done for its own sake. Kids instinctively know this, while adults lose a bit of this sage wisdom each day. So, don’t turn this into a lesson. Keep the focus on the goofy fun. 

On the other hand, do ­display your lustful enthusiasm at every opportunity. What could be better than being dunked in the water? Not much.

Kids love to be watched, to receive attention. The audio track is important. “Look at that splash!” and “You were soooo high!” and “Did you see how Tessa swam to the surface, Grandma? Was that cool, or what?”

You can’t lay it on too thick. Life will soon temper their ­embryonic egos. Right now, the objective is to nurture and encourage—to make them preen with their newfound marine skills. (The most dangerous moment is when, underwater, they swim out of the chair. Beware. And be ready to hoist if a foot gets caught.)

Of course, our daughter Roma’s marine skills didn’t start with the dunking chair. When she was 2 months old, we started holding Roma Orion while in the water, to acclimate her to being wet, while we were wet and having family fun. We’d hand her back and forth. One of us would stay with her while the other parent swam and Roma watched. 

No pressure, and we never scared her or stressed her out. This wasn’t about her passing a test; this was about the family having fun together. 

When she was 4 months old, we’d take her to a pool almost daily. My wife, Carolyn, and I would stand a couple of feet apart. We’d grin, slowly rise up, take deep breaths, and then the person holding the baby would strongly blow into her face. Instinctively, babies hold their breath when blown upon. 

Then, we’d all three ­submerge. At first, for only a moment, but, within a couple of days, for increasing durations.

Roma loved it. She’d look around and see her other parent underwater. She’d see bubbles. Soon, she’d hold her breath whenever we’d take her underwater. 

We’d constantly hand her back and forth on the surface, and play games while doing so. Next, we’d submerge together, and I’d hand her to Carolyn underwater. Roma thought this was just about the coolest, most exciting thing in the universe. 

Gradually, we’d get farther and farther apart, and Roma would help by wiggling her arms and legs. Progress. (Kids’ heads are extremely heavy in comparison to their bodies, so holding their head out of the water is far more difficult than swimming underwater.) 

Roma learned to swim with a minimum of instruction. We’d later have her hold onto the side of the pool or onto our dinghy, and then swim to us while we inched away. 

Ever since, Roma has loved the water. And not only did she learn to swim well before her first birthday, but she’s since taught dozens (hundreds?) of kids to swim. She also earned her PADI scuba-diving card and is a PADI-certified rescue diver. 

First fun, then accomplishment, followed by high interest, and eventually success on all fronts. 

Roma Orion, her 12-year-old daughter, Sokù Orion, and Tessa Marie all come to sail, cruise, and swim with Grandpa and Grandma nearly every weekend now. Goodlanders easily bond over water, and we firmly believe that the family who swims together, stays together.

Each of our “bilge rats,” of course, vividly recalls the first time they were able to swim unassisted around the boat. By long tradition, I am forced to immediately jump into the water with all my clothes on. What could be more fun than having the befuddled skipper swim to the surface, sadly holding his (fake, prepared in advance) wallet over his head?

Did Roma or our grandkids balk at any point? Sure. Roma would happily dive over the side in nearly 30,000 feet of water (off the Puerto Rican trench) but get nervous at a beach if she discovered that she was in water over her head. Fine. We allowed her to work through it with our support and encouragement. It didn’t become a big deal, and, within the month, her fear was gone. 

Ditto Sokù’s sudden fear of live fish swimming up to her. And Tessa’s amazement at seeing a huge shark glide by in the crystal-clear Caribbean Sea. Eventually, all of these “greatest fears to be faced” turned into ho-hum, everyday fun experiences.

Swimming is great exercise, sure, but it is also highly empowering. Some rock-­huggers are too timid to get to this point. Those who do, however, profit for a lifetime. 

More About the Dunking Chair

Now, since I’m an adult and I’m writing for, mostly, adults, let’s take a moment to take a deeper dive into the dunking chair. 

First off, the connection ­between the bosun chair and halyard should be soft. A simple bowline will do. Why? So that no heavy or sharp hardware, such as a snap shackle, hits the kid during the drop. 

Also, the end of the spin pole should be held aloft independently of the hoisting halyard. That way, when the kid drops, the pole remains in place. 

Initially, it is good to have an adult in the water. While I operate the halyard myself for the first few hoists, I then complain that I’m too old and enlist one of the older kids to help. This allows me to talk to them about rope burns, how to operate a halyard winch, how to cast off a halyard safely, how to avoid having your head cracked by the winch handle, and the difference between casting off and easing. 

Obviously, no one should be standing in a loop on the deck; the deck crew must be all clear before the halyard is let go. 

In a few words: This is about teamwork and common sense. A dozen lessons in ­seamanship (and life) are revealed, but without anyone being a boring adult. Kids are smart. They don’t like being talked down to any more than adults do. Yet, they know little. It is the adult’s job to be one step ahead, always. 

Lessons for Life

Having been raised aboard the schooner Elizabeth, and having raised our daughter aboard the ketch Carlotta and the sloop Wild Card, we are now coastal cruising with our grandkids aboard the 43-foot center-cockpit ketch Ganesh in Southeast Asia. I can tell you, dear reader, that the key to kids, boats and learning is not to teach them when you feel like it, but rather to teach them during a teachable moment when they feel like it. The best teachers have students who don’t even realize they’re students. From their perspectives, they’re just fellow adventurers.

Is this difficult? Time consuming? Frustrating at times? Of course. Being a good parent isn’t easy, and nobody ­promised you that it would be. 

When Roma was born, I didn’t particularly wish that she did well academically, only that she be an avid reader. We’d be sitting at anchor with Roma playing with her (homemade) dolls on the cabin sole while my wife and I read on opposite sides of our vessel. When Roma would become bored, she’d bother me to see if she could stir me into action and capture my attention. 

“Don’t bother me,” I’d say as I returned to my Wilbur Smith novel. “I’m wrestling with a lion in Africa.”

“No, you’re not, silly Daddy-O,” Roma would say, “You’re reading a book.”

“How bad is it?” I would ask. “My shoulder wound, I mean. That lion bit me pretty badly. Am I losing much blood?”

“Don’t be crazy, Daddy-O!” she’d say with a giggle. “There’s no lions on St. John.”

And for the remainder of the day, we’d talk about Africa, medical first aid and lions.

“Could you check for me?” I’d ask Roma, “Just to be sure?”

“Mom, Dad thinks there’s a lion in the head,” she’d say with a giggle. 

One of our major cruising expenses from 1985 to 1998 was children’s books: first, the Ladybird series of books; then the Baby Sitters series; then Pippi Longstocking; The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe; anything by Judy Blume—right up to The Clan of the Cave Bear as Roma headed off to Brandeis University on a full merit scholarship. (With her master’s degree, she currently works with Singapore Management University.)

Here’s the truth of it: If you raise a child aboard, he or she is seldom more than a dozen feet from you or your spouse. Everyone hears one another other. Everyone smells one another other. Everyone experiences everyone’s moods, and the moods of mother ocean as well. The result, if you work at it, is a closeness and interdependence that landlubbers can’t even comprehend. 

My father was an orphan, deserted by his mother and taken away from his alcoholic father. His plan to buy our schooner wasn’t merely to sail to Tahiti; it was to raise his family aboard as we wandered the world. I guess it worked. I’m still wandering, if at a more sedate pace than when I first purchased my double-­ended sloop Corina at 15 years of age. 

And, I will say that the best thing in the world isn’t to be raised aboard; it is instead to be a second-generation liveaboard who is raising his child aboard. Ditto, our grandkids. 

Fatty Goodlander has lived aboard and ocean-sailed for 63 years, 53 of them with his wife, Carolyn. They still take turns hoisting each other in the dunking chair.

The post On Watch: Fatty Goodlander Tricks the Kids Into an Education appeared first on Cruising World.

The mid-May sun was surprisingly hot as we spun into the wind, idled the engines, and hoisted the big roachy main aboard San Fredelo II, the Sunsail 404 catamaran that would be home for the next five days. Next, we rolled out the genoa and bore away to a beam reach, leaving provisioning chores, briefings, crew introductions and the Marina Agana astern. 

Sailing, at last—in Croatia. A longtime entry on the proverbial bucket list was about to be scratched off as my sailing pal and trip organizer, Josie Tucci, vice president of marketing at Sunsail, steered us eastward and out of the narrow bay toward open water dotted with islands. Near the helm, her brother, Jason, and I trimmed in the sheets and tidied up as we began making way. To port, I could see cars on the coastal highway, headed north from the international airport in Split. To starboard, the rocky, brush-covered shoreline rose to meet a sky that was fairy-tale blue. Already, my colleague, photographer and drone junkie Jon Whittle was snapping away. How could he not? The sights were otherworldly in this centuries-old corner of the Adriatic Sea.

Around us that Sunday morning, the crews aboard nine Sunsail monohulls were going through similar drills, as one by one they raised sails and pointed their bows toward Milna, on the island of Brač, the flotilla’s first-night destination, where a gin-and-tonic reception awaited us.

I’d never sailed in a flotilla before, but already, less than a day into it, I was enjoying the concept of exploring a new destination with a helping hand, if you will. Earlier that morning, after a buffet breakfast of eggs, sausages, fruits, and doughnuts at the marina’s restaurant, skippers, and crew gathered in a shady spot to meet Sunsail’s flotilla captain, Samantha “Sam” Algero; hostess Ellie Riccini; and “Drago,” the team engineer. This trio would be on hand to assist and advise 24/7. When it was time to go, they’d be the ones handing us our dock lines. And when we arrived at a new location, their boat, Hvar 1, would already be tied up. They’d be waiting to take stern lines as skippers nervously (at first, anyway) backed in to moor stern-to at each new village.

“Slow is pro,” Sam reminded us frequently the first few landings.

Ellie too dispensed practical info. “Keep the boats tidy,” she urged. “A tidy boat is a safer boat.” And, “Beware the sea urchins.”

At that first briefing, Sam and Ellie outlined the week ahead: daily skipper meetings at 0900, lunch where you like, and each evening a different destination with a suggested time of arrival. At night, there were organized events to attend—or not. Wednesday, we were free to sail wherever we liked, so long as we all regrouped in time for dinner on Thursday.

They went over the fine points of Lateral Navigation System A (red and green buoys are opposite where they would be in the United States), safety issues, and local weather to watch. The bura is a gusty northeast wind that brings clear conditions. The jugo: southeast breezes with rain. The maestral northwesterlies tend to build in the afternoon. 

And these words of caution: “If you didn’t eat it, don’t flush it.” Holding tanks were to be emptied 2 miles offshore, and there was a 100-euro fee to fix a clogged head.

Alrighty, then. Duly warned.

But best of all, their review of the charts greatly ­simplified finding the Croatian place names that were difficult to ­pronounce, tough to understand, and even harder to spell.

Off to the Islands

Josie, Jason and I had spent Saturday afternoon provisioning at the nearby Tommy’s market. For a few coins, you could borrow a shopping cart to deliver groceries to the boat. We stocked up on lunch meat and breakfast fare, Croatian wine, and Ožujsko, a local beer. That evening, we had dinner at the marina and sat on San Fredelo’s tramp watching the moon rise over the opposite shore. The water was still, and the reflection of the square stone tower at the head of the harbor was crystal-clear.

Sunday turned out to be a perfect day to regain our sea legs, with a northerly breeze in the midteens sending us on our way. We stopped for a late lunch and anchored in the pretty little harbor at Stomorska, on Šolta, a point that was about halfway into our 18-nautical-mile sail. The anchorage allowed an imposing view of the towering mountains that rise above metropolitan Split. Ashore, a handful of fishing boats sat idle, and we saw but a few folks moving about amid the distinctive white villas with red-tile roofs.

From there, it was an easy run to Milna and the Marina Vlaška. As Josie backed the cat toward the quay, Jason and I stood on either transom with boat hooks in hand. We handed our stern lines ashore, and the Sunsail team held up bowlines for us to grab and take forward. The ropes are sunk when not in use, and are led from shore to anchors in deeper water. It was an amazingly drama-free operation.

Once we were settled, we grabbed swimsuits and found a nearby rock from which to jump. The seawater was cool but refreshing, making a hot shower at the marina afterward feel all that much better. Then we headed up the hill, past olive trees and stone terraces, to claim our gin-and-tonics, and to chat with other crews as they came and went.

At sunset, we walked a mile or so along the shore road into town. On the way, we passed a street vendor and stopped to buy four garishly colored Croatia ball caps that quickly became our team hats. In the town center, a large, weathered stone church was lit up, along with other ages-old buildings. Behind them, we spotted more steeples draped in light. We found an open table at a small pizzeria and washed down our slices with tasty local wine.

Of course, we posed for photos with the colorful, whimsical ice-cream-cone statue we passed on the way back to the boat.

Relic of War

A look at the charts reveals that along this part of the Croatian coast, long, thin, mountainous islands run roughly west to east from the open Adriatic, as though some ancient creature drew fingers though terra firma, allowing the sea to run in between.

On Monday, we didn’t have a lot of wind as we motored out of Milna and turned southwest to navigate the channel between Šolta and Brač, and turned again southeast to follow the coast. We passed numerous marine farms and inviting anchorages, but we’d already decided that our lunch-stop destination would be a small bay a few miles south, where a submarine base dating back to when the country was part of Yugoslavia is carved into the hillside. Once we’d found the cove and anchored, we launched our inflatable and took a ride inside the long, narrow tunnel once used by naval vessels to avoid detection. Rather than seeing warships, we found cool relief from the sun-splashed bay. Today, fishermen use the rock-lined safe haven to tie up their skiffs. During our visit, there wasn’t a soul around. Instead, small birds darted about, their shrill chirps echoing off the rock walls.

The cove was quite protected. As a few others in the flotilla fleet arrived and dropped anchors, we took turns exploring on the two paddleboards we’d brought along. 

That afternoon, a lazy breeze picked up from the northwest, and San Fredelo ran before it as we headed for the harbor at Jelsa, on the island of Hvar, across a body of water marked on the chart as the Hvarski Kanal. After a morning of motoring, all aboard welcomed the sail, but the dead-downwind heading proved both crash-jibe prone and slow. Eventually, we kicked on the motor again to make the harbor in time for a 1600 tie-up. After all, wine and hors d’oeuvres at a waterside restaurant, organized by Sam and Ellie, awaited us. 

Jelsa lies near the midpoint of Hvar’s north shore. Its harbor is a relatively square body of water, protected by stone jetties. Wide, flat stone walkways around the waterfront give the place an open plaza-like feel. When we arrived, several flotilla boats were already tied stern-to, but Capt. Sam directed us to an open spot, and her crew scrounged up a plank for us to use as a passerelle. 

The restaurant, the iconically spelled Me and mrs Jones, was on the far side of the harbor. Our stroll there took us past palm trees and weathered stone buildings—some white, others a faded pinkish color. Inside the restaurant, the front room had been cleared out to make space for a table covered with wineglasses, carafes of red and white wine, and trays piled with appetizers made with anchovies, shrimp, and assorted meats and cheeses. Soon, the stone-block-lined room was packed. 

After an hour, the crowd thinned and the staff began setting tables for dinner. Jason and I took a half-empty carafe of red and sat at a table outside with a couple from the flotilla who were sailing aboard a Jeanneau 34. Steve was from England, Josephine from Hong Kong. Prior to the pandemic, these longtime friends would meet at various locations around the world for sailing vacations. This was their first time together since the global shutdown. They planned to keep the boat at the end of the week, and sail up and down the coast a bit longer. Like sailors everywhere, we talked about weather, memorable voyages and, of course, our current adventure, which they were finding to be quite social compared with their usual visits to quiet, remote anchorages.

As we were about to leave, a pair of women rode up on bikes and sat at the table next to us. They pointed to the road winding up the towering mountains that form a spine atop Hvar and said that they’d just come over them from the other side of the island. No wonder they were ready to sit down and quench their thirst.

That evening, we strolled up into the hillside town from the waterfront. The stone streets were polished smooth by centuries of foot traffic, the narrow lanes between buildings too tight for cars. The sounds and smells from the open-air Konoba Nono restaurant were irresistible. Its barbecue was excellent, and we topped it off with glasses of rakija travarica for dessert. The strong-tasting liquor, often made of plums and herbs, is a Croatian delicacy and must at least be sampled, in my humble opinion.

I say “sampled” because in abundance, it can lead to unexpected consequences. After dinner, Jason returned to the boat while Jon, Josie and I continued to explore. Our ramblings took us past age-old churches and through tight, twisting alleyways, past homes with laundry left out to dry in rocky courtyards. Eventually, our footsteps led us to a tavern, which led to Croatian beer and then more rakija. We were left spellbound by the sweet folk melodies that a woman named Anna and her male vocalist partner sang as they leaned against the bar, drinks in hand. When the bar closed, we lingered outside, talking with the singers. He had to work in the morning and said goodbye. Anna? Well, we followed her to the small bar she owns and sat talking until dawn, then went with her to watch the sunrise from a beach.

That’s the thing about a sailing trip to Croatia. The people are as warm and friendly as the islands are lovely. It was easy to strike up a conversation with just about anyone. Most Croatians we met spoke English. Every storekeeper had a smile. The owner of an olive shop, recommended by a waiter and contacted by phone one evening, agreed to open early the next morning so that we could buy delicacies to take with us. Strangers couldn’t wait to tell us why we had to visit their favorite spot. Everyone had one. It’s easy to fall for such charms.

Off On Our Own

It’s perhaps not surprising that we were the last boat off the quay Tuesday morning. Not to worry—we had just a 12-nautical-mile hop to the west along Hvar’s north coast to reach the protected bay off Stari Grad, one of the oldest towns in Europe. The little wind we had as we left Jelsa was on the nose, so we chose to motor instead of sail. It was yet another lovely little adventure on the water, complete with dolphins. Across the channel, the mountains on Brač were a patchwork of earth tones and greens, the hues of olive trees and gluhi bor, a black pine that covers the arid landscape. Ferries crisscrossed the channel, and we passed numerous small fishing boats and saw flocks of birds working the water roiled by baitballs off in the distance.

By 1430, we were tied up to yet another stone quay in a snug ­harbor surrounded by a bustling town. We moored just in front of the town’s municipal showers, which were handy. From there, Jon and I walked a half-mile or so along the quay to restock at a Tommy’s market, and then met the rest of our crew for a late lunch.

Back at the boat, we sat under the cockpit Bimini top in a feeble attempt to evade the stifling afternoon sun, and chatted with the crew aboard the flotilla boat moored next to San Fredelo. 

We dined ashore that evening at Nook Stari Grad, a restaurant recommended by a passerby. The woman waiting on us had ­recently returned from living in Rochester, New York, and we met another member of the waitstaff who’d been lured back from California. Both were tickled to be home. The Nook’s chicken curry was spicy, the beer was cold, and the open-air seating under an arbor of trees was absolutely delightful. We walked the long way back to the boat, through more narrow stone streets. On the ­waterfront, there wasn’t a ripple on the harbor, and even in the town center, the quiet was interrupted only by the occasional dog bark.

Wednesday was our free day, and a bura was forecast for the afternoon. After looking at the chart and cruising guide, we decided to sail southeast along the coast of Hvar and across the Pakleni Kanal to the island of Sveti Klement. 

We set sail as we left Stari Grad and tacked upwind around the western tip of Hvar. From there, we were able to bear away and reach down the middle of the channel between the two islands. Early on, the 10- to 12-knot breeze was perfect. But as the morning progressed, the wind clocked and turned gusty so that before long, the sea was covered with whitecaps. At the eastern end of Klement, we turned south and sailed through a marked channel that runs close to the island, and then doused sails as we spun to the west to motor a short way up the island’s south coast to Vinogradišće, a small, protected cove that’s home to Laganini Lounge bar & Fish house and a small mooring field just off its dock. After a swim, we headed ashore for lunch at a table overlooking the water, and watched two self-described influencers shoot photos of one another over glasses of bubbly. As we finished our dishes, a motorboat arrived to whisk them away, shooting selfies all the while.

We spent a lazy afternoon swimming off the boat and, before sunset, walked a short distance across Palmižana, where we caught a water taxi to old-town Hvar. The wind was still gusty, and it was a wet ride back across Pakleni Kanal but well worth the trip.

Hvar is a vibrant city, the largest on the island, with a long history of being a trading and cultural center. The city was part of the Venetian empire from the 13th to the 18th century, and a naval base as well, with an imposing fort above the waterfront.

As in the other towns we’d visited so far, we walked. From the harbor, we hiked up a seemingly endless flight of stairs toward the fort. Shops, hotels, restaurants, and residences lined the steps and stone alleyways that led off to either side from occasional landings. We found a small, rock-walled cafe where we ordered a tableful of appetizers rather than a full dinner: sausages, meats and cheeses, octopus, sardines and the like, along with olives, anchovies and grappa. Afterward, we walked some more. A plaque on a monastery we passed dated the stately white-stone building to 1472. In one shop, we spotted a merchant armed with a knife, standing behind a huge slab of prosciutto held upright on an iron stand. You bet we had him carve off slices to take back to the boat, along with a couple of bottles of cherry grappa. 

At 2130, with minutes to go before the last water taxi ­departed for Palmižana, we hustled back down flights of stairs to the waterfront, arriving at the dock with little time to spare. Over the course of the evening, the winds had died, and we had a lovely ride back to Klement, with the night sky ablaze with stars.

Last-Night Raft-Up

After a swim and coffee Thursday morning—and, how could I forget, spinach-and-tomato omelets—we motorsailed east along Klement’s south coast, winding through Soline Bay and the outcrops of rocks at the end of the island. From there, we reached northwest to Šolta and anchored in the bay at Tatinja—called Uvala Tatinja Lonely Paradise on the chart.

Lonely it was. There were only two other boats anchored there and just a couple of houses onshore. In front of us were centuries-­old stone terraces built into the hillside and groves of trees; ­behind us, nothing but the deep-blue Adriatic Sea and a cloudless, deep-blue sky overhead.

That night, we anchored stern-to on a rocky shore in Šešula, with the entire flotilla rafted together in front of a small restaurant. The bay was quite large, and we went exploring by dinghy, motoring alongside new friends Lawrence and Cathy in theirs. In a distant corner, we found a fish farm before turning back. In the afternoon, Sam and Ellie organized inflatable races, with two-person crews paddling their hearts out for bragging rights. 

Dinner that night was a group affair, and afterward, the party moved back to the boats, where the monohull crews gladly came to visit our big, roomy cat, helping us clinch Best Party Boat honors at the farewell dinner Friday evening.

The next morning, Josie, Jason and I walked along a coastal trail lined with flowering bushes and the occasional modest house, and came to a small village, Maslinica, where we found a working marina, a couple of shops, a spot serving breakfast, and a 20-foot-long yellow-submarine statue with photos of John, Paul, George and Ringo staring out of porthole-like circles on its side. It was a sleepy tourist town, and a sign near its center said that it had received numerous national tourism awards, including one in 2017 for being the best Authentic Coastal Destination.

On our return that morning to Marina Agana, we had the wind on our nose again, so we took our time motoring toward the mainland. We made a detour to visit the long, deep bay at Vinišće; the shore was built up with houses on one side and an industrial-looking pier on the other. Instead of stopping for lunch, we raised the main and sailed across to the open bay off Trogir, anchoring for a spell to eat and swim.

And then, at last, it was time to return to the marina where we had started. On the dock, once the boat was squared away and ­before we took a taxi ride into the hills for one last group ­gathering, I chatted with Bill Truswell, an Irishman in his 70s, who, with his wife and two sons, had enjoyed this week of ­flotilla-style sailing.

“Stress is something I’m no longer needing in life,” he said.

I couldn’t agree more. 

The post Setting Sail: Adriatic Adventures on a Flotilla Charter appeared first on Cruising World.

To say that French shipyard Fountaine Pajot has a long and varied history is to traffic in understatement. Founded in 1976 by a quartet that included Olympic sailor Jean-François Fountaine and offshore racer Yves Pajot, the company initially specialized in racing dinghies and IOR-rule monohulls. It later delved into large, record-setting transoceanic catamarans and trimarans. It wasn’t until 1983 that the yard pivoted to cruising cats, beginning with the Louisiana 37. In the four decades since, Fountaine Pajot has produced more than three dozen models, many named after the destinations or islands that inspired them: the Tobago 35, the Saba 50, the Eleuthera 60 and so on. 

Which brings us to model year 2023, and the US introduction of Fountaine Pajot’s Tanna 47. Named for a South Pacific island in the Vanuatu chain, the 46-foot cat earned top honors as the Best Cruising Multihull in one of the stronger classes of the 2023 Boat of the Year contest. I served on the judging panel, and I have to say, the Tanna 47 is probably my favorite boat in the entire FP line. It’s structurally sound, fairly techy and good-looking, and it sails very well. 

Nowadays, the naval-architecture office of Jean Berret and Olivier Racoupeau—the team responsible for designing the Tanna—seems to be ­everywhere, but has a long connection with Fountaine Pajot, having designed the Marquises 53 way back in 1991. The Tanna replaces another Berret-Racoupeau collaboration, the Saona 47, which had a production run of 150 boats. On the Tanna, there are plumb bows that max out the waterline, a pair of windows in each hull, a nifty wraparound coachroof window, and a raised helm to starboard topped with its own Bimini. The aesthetics are clean and crisp. A big upgrade from the Saona is the expanded lounge area on the flybridge with a sundeck and a settee (a signature Fountaine Pajot feature). There’s also an inviting sun pad on the main deck just abaft the trampolines. 

Another positive aspect cited in our Boat of the Year deliberations was the versatility of the two available ­accommodations plans. The Quintet layout, with five ­double staterooms and five heads, is optimized for charter or a growing family. The other layout, called the Maestro, zeroes in on private ownership with a large owner’s stateroom that includes a vanity, desk and en suite head in the port hull. Two double-berth guest staterooms have their own heads in the starboard quarters. 

The central saloon is the same in both versions, with the highlight being the commercial-­grade U-shaped galley to port adjacent to the cockpit’s sliding doors. An efficient and dedicated navigation station is to port, within a few short steps to the raised wheel. The couch and lounging area in the main cabin is sumptuous and welcoming. So too is the dining and seating arrangement in the cockpit; covered by the flybridge, it’s an all-weather space for kicking back or entertaining. 

The resin-infused construction employs a balsa core for a relatively light but solid structure. The standard engine package is a pair of 50 hp Volvo Penta diesels with saildrives, but our test model had the upgraded 60 hp options. At 2,700 rpm opened up, the boat made a solid 9 knots, which was the second-fastest ride in the entire Boat of the Year fleet. 

Another notable feature is the array of flat, flexible Solibian solar panels that are essentially glued to the cabin top. On our test boat, they produced 1,700 watts of electricity—enough to run the primary systems (electronics, fridge, air conditioning) all day long. Fountaine Pajot is serious about addressing environmental concerns in the marine sector, and recently announced the formation of its ODSea Lab and initiative, a platform meant to accelerate technological progress with regard to materials, renewable energy, and electric ­propulsion. The goal is net-carbon-­neutral boatbuilding by 2030, with all-electric models as an auxiliary option across the brand.

Happily, we had just about ideal conditions to conduct a test sail, with 13 to 15 knots of solid breeze coursing across Chesapeake Bay. The Tanna’s primary power source under sail is a traditional, generous, roachy full-battened mainsail, augmented by a high-cut and slightly overlapping jib. Upwind, the boat achieved a tidy 6.5 knots, which ratcheted up to a solid 7 knots once cracked off to a reach. The steering was smooth and even, and driving the big cat was a lot of fun. 

Cat designers have given a lot of thought to sailhandling systems, with separation between the helm and the winches and clutches often being a high priority. I like the Tanna’s setup: a dedicated pod forward of the helm with all the controls, including a set of Lewmar electric winches, ready and at hand. The visibility, of both the seaway and the sail plan, is terrific. For shorthanded sailing, punch the autopilot and step into the pod to make adjustments. It’s simple and elegant at the same time. So, there you have it. The Tanna 47 isn’t just named for that slice of Pacific paradise; it actually has the chops to get you there.

Fountaine Pajot Tanna 47 Specifications

Herb McCormick is a ­yachting correspondent for The New York Times and former ­editor-in-chief of Cruising World. An author of five ­nautical books, he’s owned several sailboats, including his current Pearson 365 and Pearson Ensign.

The post Sailboat Review: Island Bound on the Fountaine Pajot Tanna 47 appeared first on Cruising World.

I will admit to being a ­low-tech sailor. On my own cruising boat, the water toys are typically limited to a paddleboard, snorkeling gear, and maybe a couple of pool noodles if we go all out. 

But I have seen the other boats with all the cool gadgets, and envied their fun in the sun. I asked for advice from Capt. RJ Portman and chef/mate Jenna Taylor of the 50-foot Lagoon Delana Mae. Their boat charters in the Caribbean, so they look for toys that amplify the guest experience while being simple to deploy, and easy to clean, stow, and maintain.

The top toy aboard Delana Mae is the Bote Dock Hangout, an inflatable, ­horseshoe-shaped lounge. “Guests absolutely love this thing,” RJ says. “We put it out at every anchorage and even anchor it near the beach occasionally. It has this paddleboard-style base with soft, inflatable back pillows for relaxing with a beverage. It’s rigid in use, then totally collapsible when you’re done.”

Next on their list is a pair of submersible scooters from Sublue: the WhiteShark Mix and WhiteShark Mix Pro. 

“They move you about the speed of decent flipper kicks while snorkeling,” Jenna says, adding that these toys run for 30 to 45 minutes. “For more-advanced users, it’s a lot of fun to get deep fast and cruise around without burning much oxygen. You can cover so much ground without a whole lot of effort.” 

RJ’s personal favorite toy is also the boat’s priciest: the Lift eFoil.

 “It comes with an $11,000 price tag, but, oh baby, is it cool,” he says. “I can teach a person how to foil in about two hours over two to three sessions.” 

Battery life varies for the eFoil, he says, but typically the battery outlasts the sessions, and takes only about two hours to fully recharge. 

Another guest favorite is the Subwing towable. Guests hold the board, as opposed to a rope, and can quickly learn to submerge, corkscrew, and otherwise indulge their inner dolphin. “It’s the most fun you can have at 1 mile per hour,” RJ says. “But Subwing requires a dinghy driver and me to be away from the boat and other guests, so we favor the ­underwater scooters instead.”

Another toy that they have is the Sea LiOn, a battery-­powered, tankless diving ­system that floats ­independently on the ­surface and allows for up to three divers to go as deep as 65 feet. It requires a more involved setup, evaluation and ­monitoring of the divers, and a more tedious breakdown and cleaning process after use. This system, however, does come in doubly handy for the crew when cleaning the bottom of the boat or doing repairs. 

The couple also recommends investing in good beach-party gear. They like the Sun Ninja tent with UPF 50 protection. “It’s easy to set up and packs down smaller than a GoodStuff sleeping bag,” Jenna says. “Get the one with four poles; it’s worth it.”

They’ve used the tent in up to 20 knots of wind. Another pro tip: Fill the bags at each corner with sand, and stretch the corners tight before installing the poles. If they still move, add water to the sand.

To complete the party, they bring ashore four Cliq chairs, which collapse to the size of a large water bottle, and a pair of Ultimate Ears Wonderboom portable, waterproof speakers. 

“A cozy spot with your favorite tunes on a beautiful beach,” RJ says. “It’s an ideal finish to a great day on the water.”

I must say, RJ and Jenna have inspired me to ramp up the game on my own cruising boat. And I look forward to the next time I can set sail with Delana Mae and play with the latest and greatest toys again. 

Paddling Gear

More and more cruising boats are carrying stand-up paddleboards, or SUPs. If inflatable, they are easy to roll and stow inside (we keep them in the head shower on our boat). On our Beneteau 36 Liberte, we carry the noninflatable versions using a Magma rack, which attaches easily to the stanchions. This setup keeps the decks clear and the boards easier to access, and therefore more likely to be used. 

Kayaks are also easy to ­deploy and fun to ­paddle. Sea Eagle makes an excellent line of SUPs and kayaks. My advice is to test-drive a few to see what kind of paddler you are. Do you want more stability or more speed? In general, on a cruising boat, I would opt for the stabler option. You will be more inclined to take it out in choppier conditions, and your guests will appreciate the training wheels.

An intriguing option is the Bixpy electric motor, which fits snugly into the fin box of Sea Eagle’s kayaks and SUPs, and works as a paddle assist or stand-alone propulsion option. While you’re at it, throw in a two-stage electric turbo pump to make life easier with inflatable toys. 

On Liberte, we began cruising with a kayak, but we found ourselves using the paddleboards more and more over time. There’s many a day when we don’t even launch the dinghy. We have amazed ourselves with what we can cart to and fro across reasonably calm water: laundry, groceries, propane tanks and certainly the boat dog, who loves the ride. —DK

The post Boat Toys: Submersible Scooters, eFoils and Tankless Dive Systems Amplify the Fun appeared first on Cruising World.

In our June/July issue, we looked at optional bonding systems, which are typically associated with corrosion prevention. Closely related to bonding systems are mandatory alternating current safety grounds. If your vessel has an AC power system—supplied by shore power, a genset or inverter—then the safety ground is critically important.  

The terms “ground,” “bond” and, to some extent, “DC negative” are often used interchangeably. While they are related, they each have a different mission.

In marine electrical systems, a ­grounded conductor is always common with ground. This would apply to the ­neutral or white wire in a 120-volt, alternating current (VAC) system. The conductor must always be common with the ground at its source, which includes a dockside utility transformer, onboard ­generator or inverter, or onboard transformer. The conductor can also include objects that are permanently connected to the grounding system, thereby making them grounded at all times.

A grounding conductor provides a path to a power source only in the event of a fault. It does not carry current or amperage under normal conditions. Grounding conductors are typically green, and they are, or should be, part of every onboard alternating current electrical system. All ungrounded, or “hot,” AC conductors must be run with a grounding conductor alongside them in the same sheath or bundle.

Contrary to popular belief, electricity does not seek ground. In fact, it seeks to return to its source, which often is grounded. In the case of an onboard AC system, this means that a fault will attempt to return to a dockside utility transformer, where the ground and neutral are bonded. If the boat is away from the dock, the electricity will seek to return to one of the other aforementioned sources: the generator or inverter.  

The most common type of AC ­electrical fault involves an energized, hot or ungrounded conductor coming into contact with a metallic object. This object could include an electrical enclosure such as an inverter chassis; the outer portion of a galley appliance, such as a refrigerator, toaster or coffee maker; or engine blocks and tanks. If these objects are not grounded, then they will become energized by the fault.

In a scenario I experienced personally, an energized conductor chafed against a fastener securing a sail track. The vessel was hauled. I leaned an aluminum ladder against the rail on a rainy day. When the ladder made contact with the rail, a return path was completed via the utility company’s grounded transformer, and via my hands and feet. I received an electric shock.

Probably thanks to my heavy-soled boots, this shock was uncomfortable but not life-threatening. If I’d been barefoot, you likely would not be reading this column now.

The reason this near-catastrophic scenario occurred was because the sail track was not grounded. Here’s where bonding and AC safety grounds intersect. These two systems should be common for this very reason. Had the sail track been bonded when the wire chafed through to it, the fault current would have been able to return to its source, thereby tripping a circuit breaker.  

Some builders, in an attempt to mitigate corrosion, opt to isolate bonding and AC safety ground systems. The scenario I experienced is precisely why that approach is undesirable. Ultimately, for the greatest degree of safety, all grounding, bonding, DC negative and lightning-protection systems should be common; electrocution protection should trump real or perceived corrosion mitigation.

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

The post Monthly Maintenance: Proper AC Safety Grounds Can Prevent Electric Shock appeared first on Cruising World.

Set amid the azure waters of the Caribbean, the British Virgin Islands has long been a coveted destination for sun-seeking adventurers. With its vibrant coral reefs, quiet coves, and lively beach bars, the BVI is synonymous with relaxation and indulgence. 

The BVI is also renowned for its tourist attractions and well-­trodden paths, which is why, on a recent charter, our group of experienced charterers intentionally strayed from the familiar hotspots. In doing so, we found a side of the BVI that produced memories and stories anew. These newfound (to us) destinations offered a fresh glimpse into the singular charm of the BVI, which are just waiting to be discovered by intrepid souls who dare to look a little farther.

Sandy Spit

As the waves gently caressed the sides of our dinghy, I took a deep breath and gazed ahead at Sandy Spit, a tiny gem nestled in the heart of the British Virgin Islands. The sun painted a golden path on the water, as if guiding my wife and me toward a paradise we’d long dreamed of.

As the dinghy kissed the ­beachline, I leaped onto the ­pristine sands with anticipation and wonder, feeling the warmth radiating through my toes. Our friends had dropped us off for a few hours, promising to return later to whisk us away to the next destination on the itinerary. But for now, Sandy Spit was ours alone.

The island, barely more than a sandbar, stretched out in all directions, adorned with only a few swaying palm trees and a blanket of powdery white sand. The sand was cool and velvety, a luxurious carpet leading toward our own private sanctuary. We knew in a moment that this tiny island ­epitomized paradise in its purest form. It was a rare gift, a slice of heaven carved out just for us.

A simple isle merits simple pleasures, which, for us, included a charming picnic of tropical fruits, and the discovery of seashells and treasures that had washed up on the shore. Surrounded on all sides by majestic blue water and the beautifully jagged landscape of the BVI beyond it, it felt like we were all alone in the world’s most storied charter playground. Even today, when stress starts to get the better of me, I close my eyes and return to that perfect day on that tiny isle where time stood still.

Salt Island

A tiny droplet of moisture traced a path down my forehead while I leaned over the front of the RIB, maneuvering the painter to secure the dinghy to the mooring line near Black Rock Point on Salt Island. Submerged in the clear, shimmering water below were the remnants of the Rhone, a majestic steamship once belonging to the Royal Mail service. Its demise occurred during a hurricane back in 1867. 

With the dinghy secured and dive flag deployed, I glanced behind me for lurking jellyfish and then rolled backward off the dink, plunging into the bathlike water. An extraordinary world revealed itself: the vibrant dance of skittish reef fish, the kaleidoscope of corals in full bloom, and the whimsical sea turtle that was blissfully unaware of the concept of ­personal space. I swear that I almost heard the whispers of the 123 lost souls, as if they were keenly observing my every movement. It was ­haunting as each kick drove me deeper into the unknown, extending the boundaries of my comfort zone. 

While the Rhone is one of the most-sought-after diving destinations in the BVI, few charterers take the time to explore adjacent Salt Island, a place steeped in history and shrouded in mystery. Walking along the deserted shores, I felt a sense of awe as I discovered the remnants of salt pans that once served as the island’s lifeblood. I imagined the toil and perseverance of the salt miners of old. The weight of their stories added a layer of depth to the experience. 

History enthusiasts can learn a lot here about cultural heritage and the significance of salt production in shaping the region’s economy—not to mention escape from the crowds while reveling in the island’s seldom-touched beauty.

Fallen Jerusalem

As tourists flocked to the iconic giant boulders of the Baths on Virgin Gorda, I sought a quieter and more intimate experience. I’d heard whispers of a secluded cove nearby named Fallen Jerusalem, so we sailed across the channel toward it, accompanied by playful dolphins that danced in our wake. 

Approaching the shore, we were greeted not by other charterers, but instead by towering cliffs draped with vibrant greenery, framing a pristine beach. A leisurely stroll along the shoreline revealed hidden tide pools teeming with vibrant marine life. These natural pools, like tiny windows into an underwater world, offered a unique opportunity to observe colorful fish and delicate coral formations up close. 

Fallen Jerusalem has captivating underwater caves and grottoes that ­snorkelers and divers can explore under a cloak of solitude. The surrounding waters are protected as a marine sanctuary, ensuring the preservation of the island’s underwater ecosystem and contributing to ­sustainable tourism practices. 

Spring Bay

Spring Bay is a frequently overlooked beachcomber’s paradise. Sprinkled (although less liberally) with the same awe-inspiring granite boulders as its famous neighbor, the Baths, Spring Bay’s sprawling beachline offers a sense of peaceful grandeur. The soft white sands, calm waters, and swaying palm trees make it an idyllic spot to unwind with a Painkiller cocktail in hand and without the distractions of crowds.  

We had heard rumors of the great beaches surrounding the Baths, but nothing could have prepared us for the expanse of powdery white sand that ­greeted us like a welcoming carpet, nestled perfectly in the island’s lee. Turquoise waters lapped gently against the shore, inviting us to dip our toes and settle into a lovely, lazy beach day. We set up camp beneath the shade of a towering palm tree and spread out our beach towels to enjoy a picnic lunch and some tasty libations from our own galley, which was on the hook about a hundred feet off the shoreline. We reveled in the warm embrace of the ocean, our laughter echoing off the rocks as we played in the cove like carefree children. Donning snorkeling gear, we were instantly transported to a world teeming with schools of fish darting around us, and delicate coral formations posing as intricate sculptures. 

After a few carefree hours, Spring Bay became more than a beach to us; it was a cherished memory. Later, basking in the warm afterglow of a day well spent, we recalled how boat after boat had cruised right on by this picture-perfect setting on final approach to the Baths, without so much as a glance. Ah, their loss. 

Anegada’s North Shore

To go or not to go? That is always the question about Anegada, especially if it involves motorsailing for several hours head-to-wind. Weather permitting, I say go, but not just for the food. It’s easy to become captivated by the island’s succulent lobster and breathtaking beaches, however, the hidden gems along the north shore truly make this stopover a must-do. 

First off, because the lengthy offshore trek to get there isn’t for everyone, Anegada allows you to escape the crowds. The beaches are the epitome of ­untouched beauty, with fine white sands that stretch for miles and gin-clear waters that seem to merge with the sky. But the crown jewels of the north shore are its thriving coral reefs. Snorkeling or diving in these waters offers a glimpse into an underwater wonderland where colorful fish dance amid massive, shallow coral formations. The ­abundance and ­diversity of marine life will leave you in awe, making for an ­unforgettable adventure.

Anegada is a relatively small island, so getting around is straightforward. To reach the north shore, rent a moped or an RV. Driving along the quiet roads allows you to soak it all in at your own pace, and you’ll have the freedom to explore the hidden coves and secluded beaches that dot the coastline. Make sure to visit Cow Wreck Beach and Loblolly Bay, two secluded stretches of pristine shoreline with world-class reefs for snorkeling. As the sun begins to set, make your way to Flamingo Pond Lookout to witness majestic flamingos in their natural habitat. 

After a day on Anegada, you’ll probably have worked up a healthy appetite for the legendary lobster. To the victors belong the spoils. 

The post Make Memories in the British Virgin Islands’ Channels Less Traveled appeared first on Cruising World.