There is an old saying in the Abacos: “Some people, most mules and all dinghies are nothin’ but trouble.” I learned to believe in this saying during one of my early charters in the British Virgin Islands. We were towing a hard-bottom dinghy from Tortola to Norman Island. Everything was fine until someone asked, “Hey, where’s the dinghy?”

The tender had been at the end of a long painter made of yellow braided polypropylene, which the charter company used because it supposedly floats, making it harder for bareboaters to wrap it around their props. The fact is that this material is also one of nature’s slipperiest substances. As we slapped and splashed along, it was slipping off the cleat until it was gone.

Luckily, we were able to sail back and find the tender before it became an embarrassingly expensive addition to our charter bill. But here’s the thing I particularly remember: Once we had the retrieved tender in tow, it tried to get away again. We put that yellow poly line on the stern cleat, but, as I watched it, it would slip out an inch at a time. I ended up throwing a bowline in the extra line around a stanchion, just to make sure it didn’t get away.  

The most dangerous moments on your bareboat charter are not going to be tiptoeing through a shallow harbor entrance or dealing with a passing squall. They’re going to be with your tender: getting in or out, beaching it, hoisting it out of the water. 

Here’s a look at some ­hard-won wisdom about dealing with tenders.

At Your Charter Checkout

If you have a choice, always ask for a RIB. This type of boat combines the best of ­inflatables and hard-bottom tenders: a solid bottom for beaching and a soft side to protect your hull. 

Always—always—start the outboard before leaving the charter base, and make sure the motor is spitting out water. Ask the checkout person if there are any idiosyncrasies with the engine: Employees know this stuff and can save you grief later. Ask about the proper fuel mix too. Some outboards need an oil/fuel mixture. And make sure the fuel tank is full.

Other gear you should have in your tender includes a painter long enough for towing, an anchor (probably a folding grapnel style), oars or paddles, a bailer, a safety kill switch for the outboard that you hook to your wrist or jacket, and a dive flag to alert other boats that you are snorkeling.

Launching the Tender

Modern charter boats often have sophisticated systems that let you launch and retrieve a tender with the touch of a button. Still, always hang on to the painter when launching, or have it secured to the boat. Once you remove the hoisting clips, the tender can skitter away very quickly. And, once you’ve removed the lines from the hoisting system, clip them someplace secure. Otherwise (and I guarantee this), they’ll bang you hard on the forehead when you aren’t watching.

Boarding the ­Tender

The first order of business is to secure the tender solidly, which means using bow and stern lines to keep it at the mothership’s stern. Trying to step into a tender, even from a water-level platform, is asking for trouble. Leave your ego for somewhere else: squat, scoot, kneel, crawl or find a way to slither aboard safely. Graceful? No. Dry and safe? Yes.

Using the Tender

Too many people get aboard, cast off, and start the outboard—in that order. They are the ones often paddling upwind to get back to the boat when the outboard doesn’t start. Start the outboard first, then cast off.

One absolute rule for using your tender: Don’t drink and dink. Tenders are squirrelly enough without you adding to the silliness. 

Before you leave your bareboat, always make sure the engine clamps are tight, because an afternoon of being towed can cause them to loosen. Make sure you have the oars or paddles aboard, check the fuel level, and, if you’re going to a beach, have the outboard ready to tilt up. Some outboards have complicated (and finger-pinching) tilt locks that you don’t want to leave until the last moment.

Tender Sense

Before you leave your bareboat, even if you think it’s only for a quick trip, turn on some lights. This will make finding your mothership easier on a dark night. I know one crew who ended up sleeping on the beach because they couldn’t find their boat. I always take a handheld VHF radio on my bareboat charters, just for use in the tender. If the outboard dies, you can call for help. And, if you’re letting the kids take the tender, they can check in with you on a regular basis.

Nonswimmers, or anyone nervous, should always wear a life jacket. Even if you’re not wearing them, they still have to be aboard. You don’t want to receive an expensive citation for failing to have PFDs. 

Never start the outboard unless you have the safety kill switch firmly around your wrist or snapped to your jacket. Don’t even think about what a turning prop can do to someone in the water. Wear the lanyard.

Beaching

Getting your tender onto a beach safely is a test of your seamanship. If there are ­breakers, find another way. You may be Surfer Joe, but a tender is a lot more unwieldy than any surfboard. Find a quiet cove, or anchor offshore and swim ashore.  

Forget about staying dry. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve arrived on shore bone-dry. There are two popular ways to get the tender ashore. One is to make a run at the shore and, as you get close, tilt the outboard up to protect the prop. With the bow high (passengers leaning aft), you’ll slide onto the beach, and someone at the bow can jump out to hold the boat. The other way is to get close, shut off the engine, step into knee-deep water, and slide the tender onto the beach.  

Either way, don’t let ­anyone get between tender and beach. A sudden swell can send the tender into their legs, knocking them down and even breaking bones. Until you get the tender solidly on dry sand, treat it like a wild animal that might turn on you.

And once you’re at the beach? Tie your tender to something solid. If there isn’t a big rock or a tree nearby, use your anchor and set it solidly. There is this thing called “tide.” When it comes in, it loves to take tenders away.  

Towing

Aside from the warning about slippery yellow lines, towing should be straightforward. First, remove all the gear (snorkels, masks, etc.) from the tender. Then, let out the tender to a point where it is riding comfortably behind the mothership.  

When you are starting to maneuver, such as dropping anchor or picking up a mooring buoy, assign one person to do nothing but be the Tender Tender. Take in the painter so that you won’t suck it into the props. The Tender Tender can move it from side to side if you’re docking.  

Putting the Tender to Bed

Tenders can be like friendly pets in the middle of the night: They like to nuzzle their master, usually on the hull right next to where you’re sleeping. 

One solution is to tie a ­bucket off the stern of the tender, to encourage it to keep its distance. Another option, if there is room, is to tie the ­tender to your mooring buoy and then drop back for separation.

Tenders: We can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em. Common sense and some precautions make them a lot easier to have around. 

Award-winning journalist Chris Caswell is editor and publisher of chartersavvy.com. He has been bareboat chartering for more than five decades. 

The post Managing the Dinghy While on Charter appeared first on Cruising World.

If you’d like to buy a ­cruising vessel, I ­recommend the classic five-step approach.

Step One: Decide what type of cruising you’re interested in.
Step Two: Research the market for suitable vessels.
Step Three: Talk to owners of those specific vessels for a reality check and, with the help of…
Step Four: a broker, and Step Five: a surveyor, sign on the dotted line. 

That’s my advice. 

However, I’d be disingenuous if I said that’s how I do it. I look for a worthless boat with a major problem and a ticking clock, and then assist the owner in getting on with his life by taking the vessel off his hands for a token, face-saving payment. 

How to find a worthless boat is easy. It is one that hasn’t sold for a year or three. Just look at two-year-old ads for boats that you’d like to own, and see if the boats are still for sale. If so, they’re worthless. 

Worthless boats are worthless for a reason. Most have a major problem. My double-ender Corina lacked an engine and rig, and had been used as a hangout for illiterates. How do I know? They spray-painted the word “fock” inside the vessel. And they burned parts of the interior to stay warm. As a parting gesture, they defecated in the bilges. Best of all, the vessel was illegally tied up behind a factory on the north fork of the Chicago River and had to be moved ASAP. 

Perfect. I paid $200 for the boat, lived aboard for four years, and extensively cruised the Great Lakes, Mississippi River and Gulf of Mexico. I eventually sold that boat for eight times what I paid for it.

Wild Card, a Hurricane Hugo wreck, was awash on the beach at Leinster Bay, St. John, in the US Virgin Islands, with tropical fish swimming through the cracked hull. The National Park Service was demanding that the boat be immediately removed or they’d do it and bill the owner, an alcoholic ex-stockbroker who’d already fled to Vietnam.

Perfect. I paid him $3,000, smeared the hole in the port side with dried snot (aka fiberglass), and sailed the boat twice around the world over the course of 23 years (at an initial cost of 3 cents a mile). I then sold the boat for 10 times what I’d paid. The buyer was a male stripper who paid with sticky cash straight from his jockstrap.

My current vessel, a 43-foot Wauquiez named Ganesh, was originally listed for $140,000—which, once upon a time, it had been worth. However, over the course of four years, a hurricane had heeled this boat over in a storm trench, a tree had grown between the mast and forestay, the engine had frozen, and no one had bid a single penny toward a purchase for two solid years. And, within 30 days, the boat’s $6,000 annual yard bill and almost-as-expensive annual insurance were due. 

Not perfect, but almost. I offered $40,000, saying, “Only one digit off, right?” We settled for $56,000 and left within the year for our third circumnavigation. 

Amazing? Not really. I just found a worthless boat with a major problem and a ticking clock—and offered the desperate owner a last chance to get out from under its ­maintenance costs.  

Why didn’t I mention my beloved 36-foot ketch Carlotta? Because I built that boat from scratch. The bare hull cost me only $600 in materials, back in 1971. 

Anyone can do this if they’re handy, crazy, tenacious, and married to a masochist who finds fiberglass dust oddly pleasing.

Did I know how to rebuild a marine engine or design a rig or patch a hole with dried snot? Or shape a plank or caulk a garboard seam? Or replace a section of deadwood? Or calculate the crown of a deck beam? Or loft a life-size yacht?

No, of course not. But I searched out people who did know of such things, and I hugged them until they opened their hearts and told me their innermost ­construction secrets.

I simply refused to take no for an answer. When I couldn’t afford to rent a small garage to build my Ibold-designed Endurance 36, Carlotta, I formed a commune. We built six boats in a giant warehouse in Boston. Unable to afford to transport my 20,000-pound vessel, I (and a fella named Momo) built a flatbed ­trailer from scrounged scrap iron—which still might be ­transporting yachts around New England, for all I know. 

At the time, the largest steam crane north of New York City was operated by a cigar-chomping guy who hated hippies—a fellow I had to set straight almost immediately upon meeting him. He said: “Don’t be silly. It costs over $20,000 for me to push the start button. Just the insurance rider alone costs…” 

“You misunderstand me,” I shot back. “I have no money. I’m not here to hire you. I need you to launch me for free.”

You should have seen the look of disbelief and revulsion on his grizzled face. I went back every day for a week, every week for a month, and every month for a year—­always with six-pack of beer, an herbally enhanced smile, and enough Zen to endure endless tirades against hippies, longhairs, and various other social parasites. 

Finally, one day, he called me and barked: “Listen, you little turd. I’ve got a contract in Maine. After I go through the Fort Point Channel Bridge, I’m gonna have a problem with one of the engine gauges. Just to be on the safe side, I’m gonna put down my spuds to check it out. I’m only gonna be there for five or six minutes—so you’d best have your goofy Titanic all set to go along the seawall. Damn, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

It’s amazing what you can do if you’re tenacious and stupid enough to ignore being told no a few thousand times. 

A friend of mine named Eric lost the roof of his house and his Cape Dory Typhoon during Hurricane Hugo in 1989. His wife was hospitalized with stress. I felt bad for him. He was a good guy. 

So, my wife Carolyn and I went around to all the restaurants on St. John and collected empty milk and water jugs—or, as I thought of them, micro lift bags. Next, I collected all the PFD devices on the island, plus all the yacht fenders for good measure. St. John has a lot of yachts, and the logistics of all this gear was pretty daunting. 

I then purchased a can of fruit juice and a bottle of rum, and I announced a swim day in Cruz Bay. Dozens of folks showed up and swam with the empty jugs, as well as all the PFDs, down into the Cape Dory’s cabin. I encouraged them while lashing fenders from a loop of line encircling the keel. A dozen dinghies towed the awash vessel to the beach—where, at high tide, we hooked it to a Jeep and towed it into shallow water. When the tide dropped, we gravity-­siphoned that boat, and then we hand-bailed the rest. 

By nightfall, the boat was back on its mooring. Half the boats on St. John ended up with the wrong fenders afterward, but hey, that’s what happens when you mix good deeds and rum in the Caribbean. 

Why relate this story? Because you can’t make sizable withdrawals without making massive deposits in the karma bank.

I learned this, and more, from my father. He was the type of sailor who, if you gave him a Popsicle stick and a Swiss Army knife, could whittle you up a handy little vessel in no time. His first boat cost $10. He paid $5 for the boat and $5 for the team of horses to haul it to his yard. 

After coming back from World War II, he lusted after a lovely gold-plater that had just returned from a podium finish in the Newport Bermuda Race. It was a graceful, ­well-found John G. Alden (design No. 213, launched in 1924, ­sistership to Yvonne) schooner named Elizabeth. One day, the boat had a small fire in the gasoline-­powered engine room and sank. Instead of shedding a tear at the demise of another classic American racing yacht, my father tossed a $100 bill in the air and dived into the muddy water of Illinois’ Calumet River. 

Do you know what he said when he surfaced and called for the lift bags in the trunk of his car?

“Perfect.” 

Fatty and Carolyn Goodlander are holed up at the Changi Sailing Club in Singapore, slowly replacing all their running rigging from their favorite international chandlery, Dumpster Marine. Their book How to Inexpensively and Safely Buy, Outfit & Sail a Small Vessel Around the World continues to make readers giggle. 

The post On Watch: Fatty Goodlander’s Adventures in Boat Buying appeared first on Cruising World.

When Behan and Jamie Gifford warn cruisers to be realistic about budgets, they know of what they speak.

In 2010 in Tahiti, not even halfway through a planned three- to five-year sailing sabbatical with their three children, they had $100 left in the bank. Their house in Bainbridge, Washington, was underwater financially.

“We figured that we could either pull the plug and go back, or we could figure out how to make a living out of this,” Jamie says.

They proceeded to Australia, got shore jobs for a year and a half, and reinvented their sabbatical into a lifestyle: living aboard while selling stories, instructions, guidance and a fair amount of handholding to a growing clientele who dream of cruising. After circumnavigating and accumulating an encyclopedic body of practical knowledge, they established a cruiser-counseling business that ­manages to be both inspirational and practical. In six years, under their brand Sailing Totem, they have coached more than 400 clients.

You may have read some of their 2,500 pieces, many of them written for Cruising World, or spent hours on their website and social media sites. Maybe you drooled a bit during one of their motivational talks. Their goal, they say, is to make dreams real and realistic. 

The couple met in 1991 while sailing on Long Island Sound, where Jamie had established a reputation as sail designer for racing boats in Old Mystic, Connecticut. Both recall being inspired by the book Dove, which Jamie gave Behan on an early date. After settling in the Pacific Northwest, having three ­children, losing Jamie’s mother, and getting caught up in suburban mayhem, they realized that they needed to shove off. At the time, their kids—Niall, Mairen and Siobhán (names from Behan’s Irish-Celtic roots)—were 9, 6 and 4.

In 2007, they paid $190,000 for a 1982 Stevens 47 that provided room for five, and enough stowage and heft to cruise anywhere. They chose Totem as a name to reflect the spirit of native traditions, to “look out for us, take us where we wanted to go, a vessel of our hopes and dreams,” Behan recalls. 

They then spent more than $60,000 refitting what they had been led to believe was a turnkey boat. That experience underpins their first, best lesson for wannabe cruisers: “The economics of cruising is one people get wrong often,” Jamie says. Simply put, the negotiated cost of the boat is just the beginning. “No boat is ever turnkey.”

The list of bills can seem endless: haulouts, a survey, delivery—and that’s before any upgrades that a survey might reveal. For the past 10 years, the Giffords have spent approximately $3,500 a month to live aboard. That does not include the $30,000 needed to replace their engine.

The Giffords ask clients to fill out a form outlining where they want to go, their budget and their timeline. Almost immediately, problems show through. 

“People often come to cruising with the idea that they need a bluewater boat: ‘I want to be able to sail around Cape Horn in a storm fighting pirates, so it’s got to be tough,’” Jamie says. “And the reality is that boats have a lot more capacity than people give them credit for. Most people want to cruise the Caribbean, the Bahamas, the US East Coast.”

Behan adds: “There is a lot of dogma around good, old boats as kind of the right, proper boat for bluewater cruising. These boats have problems that the newer sailor doesn’t even know how to ask the right questions about, and the owner ends up in a pickle where either the boat has issues that they can’t manage or they get into a money pit trying to fix issues and never get to go. We want people to go. Our whole mission is helping folks get out there safely, comfortably, happily.”

One irony is that social media videos can make ­cruising look like a Disney movie. But if you hire the Giffords (on a retainer of $300 for three months or $1,000 per year), you start to get the real dope. You can sample a half-hour of their advice for $50.

“[Cruisers] come into this because it looks awesome on YouTube, and there’s umbrella drinks on the beach and all of that,” Jamie says. “Yes, we have sundowners and fun, because we love this. But the downside is that it’s hard work. The downside is passages that are lumpier than you thought and a toilet’s backed up.” 

Their job, they feel, is not to kill the dream but to recalibrate it. And they are talking about more than mechanical stuff.

“I had a crying-out session with a client this week,” Behan says. “They thought they knew what they were getting into, and then they realized they’re in way over their heads. So, we’re brought in to help them salvage the dream.”

According to Behan, one family with coastal experience took off into the Pacific only to learn, too late, that they didn’t like it. Another couple dismasted in a Pacific gale 1,000 miles west of Baja with three kids on board, including a 5-month-old born prematurely. A freighter rescued the mother and kids, while the husband worked on bringing the boat back.

The Giffords have found that a successful cruise rests on a three-legged stool: being financially sound, physically healthy and, Behan says, “everybody on the boat has to want to be there.”

Jamie has no problem telling people he doesn’t think they’re ready, but often, he’ll advise tiptoeing into cruising. “Go and have fun for a while,” he says. “Don’t run off into the deep end of the pool. We want people to have fun and be safe, and not risk the family’s safety and comfort.”

With their own children now in college and working, Behan, 53, and Jamie, 57, hope to wend their way through the north Pacific to Japan, Taiwan, Micronesia and Southeast Asia. “We’ve visited only 39 islands in Indonesia, and there are 16,000,” she says.

You can access the Giffords’ blog and other resources at sailingtotem.com.

The post This Ol’ Boat: Circumnavigators Behan and Jamie Gifford Offer Lessons for the Long Haul appeared first on Cruising World.

When we first left Rhode Island for extended cruising aboard Simple Life, our Island Packet 37, landlubber friends assumed we’d be docking and dining nightly. When we told them we rarely stayed at marinas and mostly anchored out, the wide-eyed response was: But how do you eat? 

This question always made my husband, Joe, and me chuckle. We love good food. We especially love seafood, and I’ve always loved to cook. Cruising and living aboard have only expanded my repertoire. 

When the weather changes in late August, we prepare for our seasonal departure from Narragansett Bay and a monthslong cruise down the Eastern Seaboard to the Bahamas. The goal always is to arrive in northern Florida by November 1, then cross to the Bahamas from South Florida or the Keys. 

As we cruise, we adjust our diet, enjoying crab cakes in Maryland, shrimp in the Carolinas, and the local catch in Florida or the Bahamas. In our Rhode Island home waters, we’ve snagged flounder from the dinghy, foraged for clams ashore, and raked for quahogs (the local name for large, hard-shell clams) in waist-deep water. 

Luckily, our appetite for ­seafood is constantly satisfied. Joe has become a seasoned cruiser and a skilled fisherman. In Abaco, the Bahamas, he taught himself to spear lobsters using a mask, snorkel and Hawaiian sling. On passages under sail, he often snags mahimahi or tuna from a trolling line. Unfailingly, seas are lumpy whenever we catch a fish; why do they never seem to bite when conditions are benign? And whenever a fish is on the line, a brief kerfuffle ensues: Joe wrestles the fish to bring it aboard while I stand at the helm, holding a steady course through the waves and not knocking him overboard. Joe also morphs into a sailing Howard Cosell, excitedly shouting the play-by-play: “It faked left! Now it’s trying to tangle itself between the rudderpost and keel!”

One year, we had a most unexpected catch before even leaving Rhode Island. We were loading the dinghy after a provisioning run when something odd on the dock caught my eye. A closer look revealed masses of large blue crabs attached to every piling. This was a rare sight because blue crabs don’t usually gather in such abundance in Narragansett Bay. 

Quickly, we headed out to Simple Life, offloaded the provisions, grabbed some frozen chicken necks and string I’d saved just for this purpose, and zoomed back to the dock. The tide was still favorable and low. We caught at least 11 of the blue crabs, stopping only when our bucket was filled. We were well under the legal limit, but there was no reason to harvest more than we needed.

We headed back to the boat, spent the next few hours stowing provisions and getting the boat ready to go, and started to think about dinner. Fresh crab was definitely on the menu. 

While living ashore, I’d faithfully followed a crab-cake recipe that was too complex for boat life, with ingredients that could be found only in gourmet markets. Once we moved aboard, I came up with my own boat-friendly version. It has multiple ingredients, but all of them can be found in local supermarkets, including those we use for provisioning. 

The night of our blue crab harvest, I got to work in the galley so we could savor our reward. The crab cakes, made with crabmeat just a few hours out of the sea, were crispy on the outside, and delightfully moist and flavorful inside. 

As we ate and drank in the beauty of our waterfront view, I thought of those landlubber friends who imagined us ­miserably spooning beans from a can, and I burst out laughing. This was living the simple life. If they only knew.

What’s Cooking?

Crisp and Tasty Crab Cakes (makes 6 crab cakes)

• 1 lb. fresh lump crabmeat (or good-quality canned)
• ½ jalapeño or serrano pepper (optional)
• ¼ cup mayonnaise (Duke’s, if possible)
• 1 tsp. dry mustard
• 2 scallions, thinly sliced
• 1 large egg, lightly beaten
• 1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
• 2 tsp. fresh lemon juice (plus lemons for garnish)
• 1½ tsp. Old Bay seasoning*  
• 1¼ cup panko or plain breadcrumbs
• 1 Tbsp. chives, thinly sliced
• ¼ tsp. kosher salt
• 1⁄8  tsp. freshly ground black pepper
• 4 Tbsp. vegetable oil (not olive oil)
• Bibb lettuce, parsley for garnish (optional)

* Or substitute ¾ tsp. each celery salt and paprika, and a pinch of cayenne

Pick over the lump crabmeat to remove bits of shell or cartilage. Set aside. 

Seed jalapeño or serrano pepper, and chop finely. Set aside. 

Combine the next seven ingredients in a medium bowl and add chopped peppers. Whisk well. Add crabmeat and fold to blend. Stir in ¾ cup panko or breadcrumbs, and chives, salt and pepper. 

Carefully divide mixture into 6 equal portions (it might be slightly wet). Form each portion into a 1-inch-thick patty. Plate and refrigerate for at least 10 minutes, preferably up to 1 hour. 

Heat oil in a large skillet (I always use cast-iron) over medium heat. Spread remaining ½ cup panko or breadcrumbs on a plate and lightly coat crab cakes. 

Fry until golden brown and crisp, 3 to 4 minutes per side. 

To serve, arrange crab cakes atop bibb lettuce, or garnish with parsley. Serve with plenty of lemon wedges, and bottled or homemade remoulade or tartar sauce.

Prep time: 1 HOUR, 45 MINUTES, INCLUDING CHILLING
Difficulty: MEDIUM
Can be made: AT ANCHOR

Cook’s Note: For a quickie remoulade, combine ½ cup mayonnaise, 1 Tbsp. lemon juice, 1½ tsp. sweet pickle relish (or chopped sweet or dill pickle), 1 tsp. minced capers and ½ tsp. Dijon or dry mustard. Whisk all ingredients in a small bowl, and set aside for serving. 

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: Crab Cakes and the Simple Life appeared first on Cruising World.

In 2011, I began searching for a specific type of ketch. I flew from Florida to Mexico, to Seattle and the British Virgin Islands, all to inspect boats. My budget was around $180,000, but I was unable to find a vessel to my liking—unless it was a project boat that would require a lot of repair and TLC.

I’m far from alone. No matter what the ideal boat is in any sailor’s mind, it’s always a quick descent from the dream back to reality, which usually includes asking yourself whether you should buy a less-expensive ­fixer-upper or a more-expensive (and allegedly) turnkey edition. Experienced boat owners tell first-time buyers to take a hard look at their own skill levels and personal circumstances when trying to decide. Many first-time buyers fail to listen, at which point the descent continues from reality into nightmare. 

Part of the problem, I think, is that a laundry list of factors comes into play when deciding which type of boat to buy. Precious few buyers ever think about them all. You need to consider your aptitude for and attitude toward do-it-yourself projects, your available tools, your age and health, and the age and condition of the vessel—not to mention your expectations and personal circumstances. 

With all of that in mind, here are smart ways to think about the possibilities and ­pitfalls that might confront you, whether you go the fixer-upper or turnkey route.

Major Considerations

If your budget is limited, then a project boat—a neglected vessel that needs a lot of work—might be the best way to acquire a particular model. For a person who is capable of doing the work, the project boat can become a nice boat that is more valuable. 

Be aware that newcomers often look at project boats through rose-colored glasses. They inaccurately assess the costs of a restoration. A good rule is to estimate at least double for costs and time. Those who ignore that rule often end up selling the boat before finishing the repairs. The vessel then transfers to another enthusiastic buyer. (By comparison, a skilled project-boat restorer can flip a boat and even make a profit.) 

Project boats come in all shapes and sizes, and they’re not necessarily older boats. Some models hold their value; some older designs were built stronger than some newer vessels. Sometimes, their owners had financial problems, or became ill or elderly. And, once that owner decided to sell the boat, maintenance probably declined, leading to deterioration. Boats like these can be found in marinas everywhere. They’re like abandoned puppies, begging for a new owner to take care of them. 

The age of a boat, along with the age of the buyer, can also matter. A younger buyer might have plenty of time to restore a project boat, while an older person might opt for a ready-to-go boat that can be enjoyed immediately. In some cases, older buyers who are retired have more time to work on boat projects. The project-boat option can be particularly appealing if the boat can be used during the restoration so that some pleasure can be had as work progresses.

A warning: A project boat can become a white elephant if the cost of restoration ends up exceeding the cost of a ­ready-to-go boat. 

On the other side of the coin, a ready-to-go boat might be ideal for a buyer with the right budget and a desire to get out on the water immediately. A ready-to-go boat is also smart for a buyer who lacks the skills and/or time for repairs. It’s true that a ready-to-go boat will likely have faults, but it’s usually to a lesser degree than with a project boat. 

And then, there are your personal circumstances. Spouses want input. They notice big expenditures. A single person might not have any constraints, but a married buyer with children could have many—and should ­probably consider a ­ready-to-go boat that the family can enjoy straightaway, even if it ­stretches the initial budget.

An inspection by a ­professional marine surveyor is a sound investment for any buyer of a used boat, and is normally required for insurance purposes anyway. A good surveyor can estimate the cost of restoration—either DIY or at a boatyard—and can help a buyer learn more about the boat’s true condition. After receiving the survey, you can honestly assess your abilities and limitations in terms of time and finances. And remember: Surveyors are far from infallible. There will probably be things they miss too.

Elbow Grease

First-time boat buyers ­often overestimate their DIY abilities. For a project boat, the necessary skills might include ­repairing or replacing complicated electrical equipment, plumbing, carpentry, hydraulics, sails and lines, and the ­many branches of these ­top-level skills. Sure, you can learn from books and the ­internet, but even with the knowledge of how to do something, you need skill to actually do it.

Especially taxing on an old project boat can be electrical repairs because there might not be any wiring diagrams, and the wires will likely be brittle, with insulation cracked or chafed. The complete wiring system might need replacing, a task that is tedious and expensive. Even an experienced person sometimes has to call in a specialist, especially if certain instruments or gauges are needed, such as in air-conditioning-systems diagnosis. And it can be hard to know where to buy materials at the right price for some projects.

Repairs also typically require lots of tools, especially for carpentry work. I recently repaired a damaged toe rail on my schooner. The job required shaping and splicing in a 6-foot-long teak plank that was 7 inches wide and an inch thick. I needed a bench circular saw, an electric hand sander, a bench sander, a jig saw, an oscillating sander, a bench, a hand router, a power planer, a power drill, four clamps and four chisels, not to mention numerous screws, glues, caulk and varnish. If you must buy or rent some or all of these tools, your costs will go up. Fast.  

Forging Ahead

In my own boat search, I got a professional survey and bought a project boat for less than a quarter of my budget. As I began working on the boat, I discovered things that even the surveyor had overlooked. For the first two years, most of my time was spent repairing or replacing broken items.

I’ve messed about with boats for more than 50 years, and I have above-average restoration skills, along with lots of tools. I was also newly retired at the time, so I could work on the boat using leftover funds from my budget. And I have a wife who enjoys sailing and varnishing. I was an ideal ­candidate to buy a project boat.

Some of the alterations I made could stymie many a boat buyer. I changed the rig to a schooner by moving the masts and standing rigging. I installed a square sail on the foremast, then converted all the sails to roller furling, operated from the safety of the cockpit. All three staterooms were remodeled, and a full-size bath was installed in the owner’s head. The galley was modernized to include a deep freezer, a washer/dryer and a microwave. I installed two electric toilets with waste-treatment systems. I ­fitted two air-conditioning units, and upgraded all the plumbing and instrumentation. These alterations, along with many more innovations, are detailed on Britannia’s website, schooner-britannia.com.

The cost over the years has been nearly $100,000, but even after adding that to the initial purchase price, I’ve still paid less than my original budget. And I have a boat exactly to my liking.

Of course, my labor has been free, but I’ve mainly enjoyed the project, along with ­extensively sailing the boat along the way. I suppose you could say that a buyer like me can also factor in the cost of the enjoyment. 

Hailing from New Bern, North Carolina, Roger Hughes has been a professional captain, charterer, restorer, sailing instructor and imbiber. He recently completed a full restoration and extensive modification of a well-aged 50-foot ketch. Read more at schooner-britannia.com.

The post Is a Project Boat Worth the Investment? appeared first on Cruising World.

Not long ago, I saw a boater write online: “My vessel has no bonding system, and everything seems to be fine. Do I need one?”  

It’s a great question. Like so many things electrical, you can’t actually see what’s happening—or not happening—with a bonding system, making it tempting to draw conclusions that are often incorrect.

Let’s begin with terminology. The words “bonding” and “grounding” are often used interchangeably. For the purposes of this column, we’ll look at bonding systems specifically.  

Cathodic protection refers to the utilization of a system that relies on a sacrificial metal, the anode, to protect underwater metals, or cathodes.

Anode refers to a sacrificial metal, often zinc, although it can be aluminum or ­magnesium. Zinc is suited for ­seawater applications; aluminum is appropriate for ­seawater, brackish water or fresh water; and magnesium can be used only in fresh water.  

The primary goal of a bonding system is to electrically connect disparate, submerged metals, usually via wire (American Boat and Yacht Council standards call for a minimum of 8-gauge tinned cable). An anode is then connected to the bonding system, providing cathodic protection to those same interconnected metals. As long as the anode is maintained, and the resistance between the anode and any connected metal is kept below 1 ohm, then galvanic (­dissimilar metal) corrosion can be avoided. 

While galvanic corrosion is a slow process, occurring over months or years, stray-current corrosion can lay waste to underwater metals in a matter of days. In severe cases, it can lead to flooding and sinking.  

Stray-current corrosion occurs when DC battery current leaks into bilge water or the water around the vessel, usually via a damaged wire or other exposed connection in the bilge. While it’s not guaranteed, a bonding system can help stem the effects of stray-current corrosion. It provides a more direct, ­lower-­resistance path back to the source—the vessel’s battery
—rather than through the water. With that low-resistance return path, the likelihood increases of a fuse blowing or circuit breaker tripping. That’s good because it stops the harmful current flow.  

When current flows through water, some metal will almost surely come to grief. In their benevolent form, sacrificial anodes are consumed via the cathodic-protection process. These anodes should be replaced when they are no more than 50 percent depleted. Through-hulls, struts and other underwater metals may fall victim to stray-current corrosion. (Anodes, by the way, can stave off only galvanic corrosion; they are no match for stray-current corrosion, which will consume them in short order.)

Bonding systems protect submerged metals, seacocks, shaft logs, rudders and the like. Other metal objects inside the vessel, including the engine and generator, even if bonded, will be afforded no protection from corrosion because they are not immersed in the same body of water as the hull anode. (Engines should be bonded only if they utilize isolated ground starters and alternators.) In order for cathodic protection to work, the protected metal and the anode must reside in the same water, and the interconnection between them must be of very low resistance. Engines and generators must rely on either their own anodes or, in some cases, alloys that manufacturers believe do not require cathodic protection.  

Shafts and props—because they are often only tenuously connected to the bonding system via the marine gear, which is oil-filled—cannot rely on hull-mounted anodes for cathodic protection. They must utilize their own anodes. The average, inexpensive shaft brush is incapable of meeting the 1-ohm resistance standard. 

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

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For most of the ­decade starting around 2010, Dufour Yachts approached the business of making and marketing its performance cruising boats in a uniform manner. Nowhere was this more obvious than at gatherings such as the annual sailboat show in Annapolis, Maryland, where the company’s Grand Large line of boats was displayed, all clearly from the same lineage. They had nearly identical hull shapes and profiles, and matching beige canvas dodgers and Bimini tops. The only major thing that set them apart was the length of their waterlines. I quite liked those boats, which sailed well and offered extremely good value; in fact, I often had Dufour at the top of my list of favorite French production boatyards. 

Then, in 2018, Dufour was acquired by another iconic French yard—catamaran builder Fountaine Pajot—which slowly but surely is stamping its own imprint on the brand. The latest example of this evolution is the Dufour 37 that was introduced in Annapolis this past fall, replacing the 360 in the lineup (and measuring closer to 35 feet than 37 feet). 

Fountaine Pajot made no secret about its intention to modernize the Dufour line, which was clearly a priority in the aesthetics of the 37. The freeboard is ample, the angular windows in the hull and coachroof are flashy and accent one another, and the integrated bowsprit forward gives the whole shooting match a sense of purpose and performance. Throw in a forward sun deck with an inflatable lounging pad that can be stashed away when not in use (the catamaran guys in the building surely had a say here), and you have a contemporary package in looks and feel. 

But dive in a little closer, and the recent Dufour DNA is also evident. Which isn’t surprising, considering that the naval architect is perennial Dufour designer Umberto Felci, the creative force behind the previous Grand Large assemblage. This boat has all the hallmarks we’ve come to expect in a Dufour offering in recent years: a traditional full-battened mainsail (not a furling main), a plumb bow, twin wheels and a single rudder, a roomy cockpit, a “plancha” grill aft, and a ­drop-down transom. 

I’m thinking about features like these because nowadays, I’m spending about half the year living aboard a “classic plastic” 36-foot production cruiser from the mid-1970s (see “Off Watch,” page 82), an experience that has convinced me that this size range is pretty ideal for a cruising couple. But the Dufour 37 has also driven home how much more voluminous and comfortable—thanks to major advancements in design and execution—a modern yacht in the 35-foot size range can be. Almost all that extra volume is attributable to the boat’s considerable beam (a generous 12 feet, 6 inches or a 3-to-1 length-beam ratio) that makes for fuller forward sections and that is carried well aft. Compared with my old Pearson, it’s absolutely astounding how much more square footage has been added to the interior of boats of similar lengths.

The 37 is available in two layouts: a three-­stateroom version with a pair of ­double staterooms aft, and a two-stateroom plan that was on our test boat (each has a single head, which is significantly larger in the latter version). Settees and tables in the salon and cockpit convert to bunks, which means the three-stateroom model can sleep eight people. I believe this reflects the communal French approach to cruising, where it’s not uncommon to see a small platoon of friends and family take to sea. For the ways I use a boat—with a significant other and occasional guests—the two-stateroom layout is ideal, and all the better for the massive stowage compartment you get in lieu of one of those aft staterooms.

Construction is straightforward, with an infused hull that incorporates a foam core above the waterline and a deck injected with closed-cell foam. The keel is fitted with a substantial ballast bulb for stiffness and stability. The standard engine is an 18.8 hp Volvo Penta, but our test boat had the optional 30 hp diesel (both are saildrive configurations) that caught the eye of Boat of the Year judge Ed Sherman. “There are a lot of nice, small touches here that make a difference,” he said. “For example, while motoring, the boat was among the quietest in our group this year, rivaling some of its competitors costing significantly more money.” 

At the end of the day, ­however, no matter what building methods have been employed or how many beds you’ve got, for me, on any sailboat, what matters most is simply the quality of the sailing experience. Otherwise, why buy a new sailboat? And I have to say, on that count, the Dufour 37 delivers big time. 

There are three performance packages available—Easy (with self-tacking jib), Ocean and Performance—with upgraded winch and hardware features as you ascend the performance scale. Our test boat was tricked out with an overlapping headsail, a whopper of an asymmetric spinnaker, and the related gear necessary for optimal trimming, which felt right; this isn’t a boat where you want to put a governor on the sailing experience. 

Chesapeake Bay was in a cooperative mood, with a solid 12 to 14 knots of southwesterly breeze pumping across the waters. Upwind, the boat was quick and easy to steer, but the highlight was setting the kite and attaining liftoff. Powered up, the boat was fast, reaching at more than 8 knots, and it tracked like a racehorse, but with a helm still under fingertip control. Our Boat of the Year panel enjoyed many a rocking great sail, and the Dufour 37 provided one of the more memorable.

In short, with its new landlords in place, Dufour still has changes coming. Yet, as the company approaches its 60th year of operation, it remains on a straight, smooth course.

Dufour 34 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: Dufour 37 appeared first on Cruising World.

When I tell friends that I’m going off sailing, really, I should add, “and motoring,” because that’s what I’ll be doing with our dinghy to reach our sailboat out on its mooring. And often, the first thing we do after sailing to a new anchorage is launch the inflatable with its 4 hp gas-powered engine to putt around and explore. Don’t get me wrong: I’m all in on sailing, but I live for those little joyrides to nowhere too. 

But even on a good day, our Suzuki outboard requires multiple pulls to start, especially when it’s cold, or if I put it away after running the carburetor’s bowl dry (I always do) to avoid it turning into a bowl of E10 jelly. And then there’s the racket our “quiet four-stroke” makes, and the smell of exhaust fumes when the beast roars to life.

Weight’s a factor too. At 60 or so pounds all gassed up, it feels a lot like work to lift the outboard in and out of the back of a pickup, schlep it up and down a slippery, algae-covered boat ramp, or swing it on and off the dinghy’s transom and onto a dock. Don’t ask how much fun it is to stand in a bouncing inflatable while lifting an outboard or lowering it from the aft pushpit or deck of an also-bouncing sailboat.

So, I was intrigued this past fall when I got an opportunity to see what’s up with the current line of small electric outboards that are readily available through online outlets and marine stores. I reached out to distributors for Torqeedo, ­ePropulsion and relative newcomer Temo, all of which had models on display during the United States Sailboat Show in Annapolis, Maryland. My idea: Borrow dinghy-size models from all three manufacturers and take them for a spin to get a feel for how each model works.

Before diving into the details, consider these benefits of going electric. The first is obvious: These motors eliminate the need to carry gas or oil on board. Sure, they need to be recharged, but at home, you can plug them into a 110-volt charger overnight and they’ll be ready to go. And all three have optional 12-volt DC power cords if access to shore power is a problem.

And they are quiet. That’s the benefit I marveled at most: how relaxing it was to cruise along in the inflatable, hearing only the gurgle of water and the wind. At one point while riding with the Torqeedo in open water, I was fiddling with the throttle and watching the motor’s control screen instead of paying attention to my whereabouts. All of a sudden, I was surrounded by a gaggle of geese that must not have heard me coming. With a whoosh, the water all around us churned as dozens of them took flight at once. What a sight to see!

Two of the motors, the Torqeedo Travel 1103 S and the ePropulsion Spirit 1.0 Evo, are at first glance fairly similar, and loosely resemble traditional outboards. Each has three components: a lithium battery, a control tiller, and a shaft containing a motor and propeller at the lower end. The battery and shaft each weigh about 20 pounds, which makes them easy to handle separately; assembled, which takes a matter of minutes, each weighs about 40 pounds. 

The third motor, the Temo 450, is radically different. It resembles, oh, I don’t know, a sculling oar with a propeller rather than a blade on its in-water end, or maybe it’s reminiscent of a long-tail engine on a workboat in Southeast Asia. The lighter-weight Temo didn’t match the power or range of the other two—and to be fair, it wasn’t supposed to—but it did its intended job to perfection, was simple to use and, stored in its carrying case, was light enough to sling over my shoulder for a walk or bike to the dock or beach.

With the three motors unpacked, charged and ready, one day in early November I set off for the Boston Sailing Center with a photographer and sailing buddy in tow to borrow a late-model West Marine 8-foot inflatable and a workboat to document my informal sea trials. Here’s what I found.

ePropulsion Spirit 1.0 Evo

The Evo, manufactured in China, is intended for use on dinghies, small runabouts and sailboats. For sailboats, it’s available with a long shaft, and it is unique in that it has hydrogeneration capability. I didn’t get to see the Evo’s regeneration while sailing, but according to the company, if the engine is left tilted down under sail, the spinning propeller will generate power once the boat is sailing at just over 3 knots. As long as the boat holds that speed or goes faster, the Evo’s battery will continue to recharge until it reaches 90 percent. 

When used as a sailboat’s auxiliary engine, the motor can be locked and prevented from turning by using a simple plastic pin. In close quarters, or when mounted on a tender, the pin can be removed easily to steer using the motor. The Evo is also available with a remote-control throttle, another nice touch when the motor’s mounted on a sailboat (or on an inflatable with a console) because it saves reaching back to adjust the throttle and shift between forward and reverse.

The Evo I used had a tiller. Twist its handle to the right, you go forward; center it for neutral; twist left, you go backward. Immediately. With all the electric motors, there is not the hesitation that you experience when you shift a gas engine into gear. The torque of all three motors was instantly apparent, a reality that took some getting used to in close quarters around the dock.

Evo says that its engine has a peak speed of 5.4 knots at wide open throttle, which means drawing 1,000 watts of power. At that speed and power setting, the lithium battery’s range would be right around 6.8 nautical miles with a run time of one hour and 15 minutes.

In practice, in about 5 knots of wind and small waves, the top speed I saw was 4.2 knots. At that speed and power setting, the motor’s digital screen told me that I had a run time of just over an hour.

At half throttle, or about 500 watts, my SOG was 3.3 knots, with the engine showing a run time of about two hours and 20 minutes. In putt-along mode, making 2.3 knots and using about 100 watts, estimated battery life jumped to nine hours. 

Battery life, run time or time ­remaining, and power consumption are all viewed on the tiller’s digital display screen. 

Of the three, the Evo was the most difficult to set up right out of the box. That was primarily because a threaded pin used to lock the tiller in place, called the handle shaft, has reverse threads, which wasn’t intuitive, nor was it mentioned in the user manuals. Once we figured that out, though, I was able to assemble and disassemble the engine without a hitch. A note on the user manuals: The one that came with the engine was English only; online, I found a digital version in English and German.

To get going, I used the screw clamps to attach the Evo’s shaft to the transom, then installed the tiller and locked it into place with the handle shaft. Trial and error quickly taught me that it was better to connect the tiller’s control cable to the shaft before locking in the tiller or else it was difficult to see the connection point. Installing the battery was as simple as lining up two tabs and slots, and then dropping it into place, where it’s held by a push-button lock. All that was left was to attach the power cable to the battery and place the magnetic kill switch on the tiller, and we were ready to go. (All three engines had magnetic kill switches on lanyards that could be worn around the wrist to prevent crew-overboard injuries.)

If assembled off the dinghy, the Evo’s tiller will fold down to make the motor easier to carry. Or, underway, it can be tilted up if the driver desires.

Mounted on the Sailing Center’s 8-foot inflatable, it had a good deal of prop walk at full throttle, and I had to compensate by turning the motor, so it was quite a bit off-center. At lower speeds, this effect went away, and it wasn’t nearly as noticeable when I used the motor later on my own larger inflatable that has an inflatable V built into the bow to make it track better. Slowing to about two-thirds power solved this problem.

I ran the motor hard for an hour; with 10 minutes of battery life left, a beep alerted me to the low charge. Even after the display screen showed zero battery life, the motor continued to run for several more minutes before shutting down. In normal use, I’d have heeded the warning, of course, and headed to shore or back to the big boat with plenty of time left on the clock. Instead, I ended up rowing ashore.

Price (online): starting at $3,100
Spare battery: $1,150

Temo 450

The French-made Temo was the simplest of the motors to set up and run. It came with two oarlock-style mounting brackets—one that could be permanently bolted onto a transom and the other with a single screw clamp that allows it to be moved from boat to boat. 

The Temo weighs just under 11 pounds, so it’s easy to lift off the dock and install on the hinged pin on the mounting bracket. It gets secured there with a plastic nut. And just for insurance, a flotation collar can be put on the motor so that it won’t sink if it should slide overboard. The company also offers a locking mechanism that resembles a pair of handcuffs, should you frequent busy dinghy docks.

The motor’s shaft length is adjustable, from 4 feet, 3 inches to 5 feet, 6 inches, so you have options on where to sit. To get going, simply pop the magnetic kill switch into its receptacle by the handle, lower the prop into the water, and squeeze the trigger to go forward. For reverse, push the button on the end of the handle grip at the same time you pull the trigger, and back you go. It’s all pretty simple.

Underway, it took a little playing around to find the optimal depth for the propeller, which is housed in a cage at the end of the shaft. The ideal inclination, according to the company, is 30 degrees. To turn, you sweep the shaft from side to side. But for sharp turns, I found that it worked better to push the prop deeper so that the shaft could twist below the end of the inflatable’s tube.

With this engine mounted on the Sailing Center’s inflatable, I noted a top speed of 3 knots. Later, on my own inflatable, SOG topped out at right around 2.7 knots. At that speed, the battery life is about an hour. That might not be enough if you have long distances to cover, but it should be fine for getting from shore to the boat and back, or for a cocktail cruise in a snug harbor. Recharging with shore power takes about five hours, and there is a 12-volt charging option as well.

Unlike the two other engines with digital display screens showing battery charge, time/distance and other information, the Temo displays only approximate battery life, using four lighted boxes. When the last one goes dark, a red border around them lights up to warn you that you have 10 minutes left. Again, pretty simple. As the juice ran out with only a couple of minutes left, speed was reduced to about 2 knots, something to remember when gauging when to head for home.

Temo makes manuals available online in English and most European languages.  

Price (online): starting at $1,700
Spare battery: N/A

Torqeedo Travel 1103 S

German manufacturer Torqeedo has been in the electric-marine-engine business since 2005. The company offers electric inboard and outboard motors that can power vessels ranging from fishing kayaks to larger powerboats. The Travel 1103 is the larger of its two portable small-boat models, and weighs 38 pounds when assembled. It’s intended for use on boats up to 1.5 tons.

Out of the box, the Travel was the­ easiest to assemble, and underway, its digital display provided the most information. I found it the most intuitive to operate.

The three-piece motor is roughly the same size and offers the same top power
—1,000 watts—as the ePropulsion Evo. Assembly is also similar. Once the shaft has been clamped to the transom, the tiller is inserted into one bracket atop the shaft, and then the lithium battery is attached and locked in place with a plastic pin. A power cord and control cable are then attached and secured by threaded plastic covers. 

A word about the cables: Both the Torqeedo and ePropulsion motors use multiwire cables that have fittings with pins that need to be inserted correctly into receptacles. An owner will want to take care connecting and disconnecting them to make sure the pins are not damaged because this would take the engine out of service until repairs could be made or a replacement delivered. Care also needs to be taken to make sure the caps go on straight so that threads aren’t damaged.

Underway, I found it easy to toggle through the options offered on the Torqeedo’s display screen, and I appreciated that the tiller houses an internal GPS that enables it to provide readouts of range of mileage at present current draw and ­battery life remaining, as well as speed. Range can also be read in terms of time remaining at current speed. Knowing both time and distance has obvious benefits. One can estimate the length of a dinghy trip, say, to another cove or harbor, and know ahead of time if there will be enough power to make it that far at a given speed (the faster you go, the shorter the range).

As battery life wanes, the Torqeedo emits warning beeps and the display flashes a message of “drive slowly” when the battery charge falls to 30 percent; beeps also sound at 20 percent and 10 percent.

With the engine mounted on the Sailing Center’s inflatable, I got a top speed of 4.3 knots, with a range of 3.1 nautical miles. Later, with the Travel mounted on my own inflatable, I saw similar speed and range figures running wide open. By contrast, at a miserly 20 watts, boat speed was 1.1 knots, but battery life jumped to 37 hours. Running with the throttle wide open, I noticed a good deal of vibration in the tiller and also felt it in the inflatable tubes. Cutting to half throttle, 500 watts, eliminated this, and improved battery life immensely to an hour and a half (battery was no longer at full charge), though we still cruised along at 3.6 knots.

For use with a sailboat, like the Evo, the Travel includes a plastic plug to prevent the motor from turning, and there is a remote throttle that’s available too. Engine trim on both motors can be adjusted by moving a pin on their mounting brackets, similar to a traditional gas outboard.

Last, I found Torqeedo’s print manual and online documentation to be quite thorough, with text available in a number of languages.

Price (online): starting at about $2,950
Spare battery: $1,000

Parting Thoughts

One afternoon, at my local boat ramp, I got to talking with a lobsterman as I assembled the Torqeedo Travel on our inflatable. Most of the lobstermen in town use heavy wooden skiffs and modest-size outboards to go from shore to boat and back daily. The relatively lightweight Evo and the ability to come and go without bringing along a gas tank intrigued him.

Indeed, many of the sailors I know have similar habits. They motor out to their sailboat, leave the dinghy tied to the mooring, and then motor back in to go home when the day’s over. The distance traveled by outboard is short, a few hundred yards, and the time spent running the motor is brief, well less than a half-hour.

If that’s the type of sailing you plan to do, then even the Temo would meet your needs. Heck, keep the speed down, and you could even do a little harbor tour on your way back in. An hour, after all, is a long time to sit in a small inflatable. 

The two larger motors—the Travel and Evo­—would more than cover your needs, even if you were to tow the dinghy to an overnight destination and use it to putt to the beach and back or into town for dinner.

As part of my informal sea trials, after I ran all the electric motors on the Sailing Center’s inflatable, I mounted one of the Center’s 2.5 hp Mercury gas outboards on the boat and took it for a spin. As I choked the engine and pulled the cord a few times to get the engine started, I was ­immediately reminded that with the electric motors, I could step aboard, put the kill switch in place, turn the tiller (or pull the trigger on the Temo), and I was off. For the record, you can find a Mercury 2.5 hp engine online for about $900; a 3.5 hp Tohatsu runs about $1,120. 

With the Mercury wide open (and ­whining), I read 4.6 knots on my nav app—not a whole lot better than I saw with the Evo or Travel, and the ride sure was a whole lot noisier.

Even for long-distance cruisers, the time may be here to ditch the gas motor. Many boats have battery banks (and gensets or solar arrays) designed for power-hungry devices. All of the electrical motors have 12-volt cords available for recharging with DC power, along with their own solar chargers as well. 

CW Gear and Electronics Editor Mark Pillsbury is a die-hard sailor who has owned a number of sailboats, including a Sabre 34, on which he lived for 15 years. He also served as a judge for CW’s 2023 Boat of the Year contest.  

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When France’s Groupe Beneteau purchased the Slovenian shipyard Seascape in 2018, it acquired designs, tooling and production facilities, along with a team of sailors who know how to build no-frills boats that are slippery and fast. And, yes, very fun to sail.

So much fun, in fact, that once Cruising World’s Boat of the Year judges named winners for the formal 2023 categories, we chose to conjure up a judges’ special recognition award for the First 36 as Best Sportboat. Our dilemma, you see, was that in the fleet of 17 sailboats we considered, there wasn’t really anything quite like the First 36 in terms of size or performance. But, oh, what a ride we had.

With about 12 knots of breeze blowing up a moderate chop, right out of the chute we hoisted a full main, set the big kite and were off, pegging 10 knots SOG on a broad reach. Later, in a bit more breeze and with the reacher safely stowed, we pounded upwind at close to 8 knots under the jib and single-reefed main. Big sail, little jib—it didn’t matter. The Jefa steering and twin rudders were buttery-smooth and totally in control.

Boat of the Year judge Herb McCormick noted: “This is a boat that was conceived ­working backward from the goal of a pure, unfettered sailing experience, and it fully delivers on that score. No surprise, our colleagues at the performance mag Sailing World honored it with their top Boat of the Year prize.”

Beneteau now has two First production lines, the First SE (SE stands for Seascape Edition and includes the former Seascape 14, 24 and 27) and the ­Beneteau-conceived First 44 and First 53 ­models. Like the First and First SEs up to 40 feet, the naval architect behind the 36 is Samuel Manuard. Design is by Lorenzo Argento (designer of the 44 and 53); structural details are by Pure Design & Engineering; and interior styling is by the Slovenian industrial design studio SITO. 

The idea was to build a boat equally adept at cruising as it is at doublehanded and club handicap racing. The trade-offs involved are immediately apparent when you step aboard through the First’s open transom and twin wheels. Removable cockpit boxes (with cushions) provide seating and storage in cruise mode, or can be left on the dock to make room for a racing crew. Hardware is all top notch, from suppliers such as Ronstan, Harken, Spinlock and Antal. The First even has fittings in the cockpit sole for a drop-leaf table that can come and go, depending on the type of sailing to be done.

On deck, jib sheets are routed through adjustable downhauls and inhauls that provide endless ways to shape the head sail. Forward, a 3-foot-3-inch composite sprit does double duty as an anchor roller and place to tack down off-wind sails.

The boat we sailed in Annapolis, Maryland, was fitted with the standard aluminum rig; a carbon-fiber mast is an option, as are several North Sails packages The First’s base price, posted online, is $260,000. But well fitted out, like the boat we sailed, a more realistic number is $350,000.

The First 36 is built using construction techniques in which all components are tied together to contribute to structural stiffness. Hull, deck, and interior bulkheads are vacuum-infused and cored to add stiffness and save weight. Furniture modules are also vacuum-infused and bonded to be part of the boat’s structure. Below, there is just enough wood used for fiddles and trim to give the interior, with LED lighting, a sense of warmth.

Beneteau initially offered just one keel configuration for the First, a 7-foot-5-inch ­cast-iron fin with a T-bulb down low. An option for a shoal-draft foil of 6 feet, 3 inches is in the works.

The builder also offers just one interior layout, with twin staterooms aft and a V-berth forward. There is a single head, also forward, that includes a shower, as well as a clever fold-up sink over the toilet to ­maximize usable space.

In the salon, an L-shaped galley with a sink, a two-burner stove and an oven is to port at the foot of the companionway; opposite is a sit-down nav station. In between, on centerline, there’s a stand-alone island icebox (a fridge is an option) whose top is at counter height, making it a handy place to set things down. Forward, two outboard settees flank a drop-leaf table. Both seats would make handy sea berths ­underway. As McCormick said, accommodations are more than ­adequate for spending ­extended time aboard, ­whether en route to a regatta or off coastal cruising on weekends or vacation. 

Here’s my take on the First 36: It might not be the boat for an owner looking for all the creature comforts of home in a dockside setting, but if the idea is to get out there and go sailing, well, it might be the ideal boat. 

Beneteau First 36 Specifications

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor-at-large and served as a 2023 Boat of the Year judge.

The post Sailboat Review: Beneteau First 36 appeared first on Cruising World.

We were cruising down the Tennessee-Tombigbee Waterway, the canal that links Pickwick Lake in Mississippi with Mobile Bay in Alabama. It was November. The sky was gray, and some of the raindrops were starting to resemble snow flurries. The captain was dressed head to heel in gray wool. I was in pink, equally bundled. We stood in the open cockpit of our Nor’Sea 27, insulated mugs of coffee in hand, and sang sea shanties while the captain steered by tiller.

We’d taught our kids these songs on a weekend trip through the desert when they were little. We had sung “Farewell Nova Scotia” as we pulled away from Hovenweep National Monument, chanted “Cape Cod Girls” as we passed through Monument Valley, and learned every line to “All for Me Grog” as we gazed at the red rocks of Moab, Utah. At that time, my husband was a newly obsessed sailor, and we kept our first sailboat on the Great Salt Lake.

Thirteen boats passed us that day on the Tenn-Tom, but we were the only sailboat. The rest were trawlers and motoryachts, all of their captains steering from enclosed and heated flybridges. We were all flying the swallow-tailed burgee of the America’s Great Loop Cruisers’ Association, and we were all going to spend the next year or so on the Great Loop, a 6,000-mile route around the eastern United States. 

That is where the similarities ended. Ours was not the kind of boat—an open-cockpit sailboat with its mast up—that most people expected to see on the route. Most Loopers didn’t know what to think of us, and most other sailors were headed to the Bahamas, not to Chicago the long way around via the Intracoastal Waterway and the Erie Canal.

But Sonny got it. He waved and honked from the enclosed flybridge of his Mainship 40 trawler as he passed. Later, when we met on the docks in Columbus, Mississippi, he told us how happy he had been to see us. 

“My wife was worried about you two,” he said. “She told me, ‘Sonny, don’t you think they’re cold?’ I said, ‘Phyllis, they don’t even know they’re cold. They’re having the time of their lives.’”

Everyone who travels the Great Loop has the time of their lives, but most Loopers choose trawlers and motoryachts in the 40- to 50-foot range. These boats make sense for the route. They provide all the comforts of home for those who cruise on mostly flat water. They’re air-conditioned and heated, with multiple staterooms, large galleys, washers and dryers, multiple heads with showers, and sprawling decks full of furniture. As one Looper said, “It’s like boating in a luxury condominium.” 

Our decision to cruise the Loop on a sailboat was a compromise of sorts; not just a compromise between captain and first mate, but also a compromise with life itself.

Guy, the captain, wanted to do a big sailing trip, but he has a small business. He needed a route that would offer predictable Wi-Fi and cell service, and allow him to be in US time zones, give him quick access to airports, and make no requirement for a work visa. I was plenty willing to live aboard and sail, but I needed to ease into the idea of big water and passages. I had sailed only on inland lakes.

Also, we wanted to travel cheap. A small diesel engine would beat any motorboat’s 1-nautical-mile-per-gallon rate, and we’d travel for free under sail. That was a real necessity for people saving for retirement. 

Our boat would need a draft less than 4 feet to anchor out along the shores of the Florida Keys, get through the shallows of the Southern tidal flats, and make countless skinny marina entrances along the route. And we’d have to be able to step the mast for low bridges on the Erie Canal.

All these factors led us to purchase the Nor’Sea 27 we found parked in a gravel driveway in southern Utah, another place where you might be surprised to find yourself humming sea shanties. The boat was designed by Lyle Hess, who created Seraffyn and Taleisin for Lin and Larry Pardey, a little bit of pocket-cruiser royalty. And the boat is trailerable, which was a necessity considering where we found it. The Nor’Sea 27 is also bluewater-capable, a quality that would let us choose big water anytime we had the chance. The 8 hp Yanmar diesel would push us along at 4 knots on motoring days, and would get us 33 miles to the gallon. The sailboat has an on-deck tabernacle that would let us step the 40-foot mast ourselves. 

The sailboat had not been modernized, and we weren’t going to spend our time trying to change that fact. We stowed our cold food in the ice chest, spent our nights in sleeping bags in the V-berth, and scrounged onshore for luxuries such as showers and cold drinks. Cruising on a Nor’Sea 27 would be camping, plain and simple. And we didn’t mind. We christened the boat Jackalope and hired a truck to drive her to a marina on the Tennessee River to start our trip. 

In late fall, we emerged from the ­Tenn-Tom ready to cross Mobile Bay and skirt along the Florida Panhandle to Carrabelle. From there, we would make our first open-water passage. 

The conversation on the Looper chat groups was all about the weather. When would it be calm (preferably glassy) with wind under 5 knots? Tall boats don’t do well in the waves, and most Loopers wanted to make the smoothest and shortest possible crossing across Apalachee Bay from Carrabelle to Steinhatchee.

In contrast, the crew of Jackalope was well-practiced and ready for some wind and a long Gulf passage. We left Carrabelle at sunset and crossed 150 miles to Clearwater—and it was perfect. Nothing but dolphins leaping in the moonlight. We stayed a few weeks in Clearwater Beach so that our kids could meet us for Christmas, then motored down the Intracoastal Waterway to our next jumping-off point.

Rather than follow the ICW from Fort Myers Beach to Marco Island, and then motor the yacht channel along the Everglades to Key Largo, we cut out on the Gulf again. This time, we sailed 90 miles from Fort Myers Beach to Key West. After waiting out a storm on anchor in the “bowling alley” between Fleming Key and Wisteria Island, we sailed out of the Gulf and into the Straits of Florida to take a swim at Alligator Reef Lighthouse.

The captain always felt like sailing, so we sailed—on the outside of the Keys, on the inside, in Florida Bay. Sometimes, when the wind was right, we sailed a mile or so on the Florida ICW. Even when we got to Georgia’s Lowcountry, down in the muddy water between parallel banks of salt-grass marsh, we sailed. A lot of times, that narrow and skinny sailing was done just with the jib, to give the one-lung Yanmar a little oomph, but sometimes the wind was steady and the course was straight enough to put up the main and take a bit of a ride.

After the mud of the Deep South ICW, it was a pleasure to see the blue shores of North Carolina. In Albemarle Sound, we put up the main and jib, and sailed in the wake of the pirate Blackbeard all the way from Oriental to Elizabeth City. 

From Elizabeth City, we motored through the Great Dismal Swamp to Norfolk, Virginia, gateway to the Chesapeake Bay. We’d been looking forward to this since the Tenn-Tom. Back then, in that chilly fall air, we had encouraged each other by talking about it: “We’ll get through this, go all around Florida, through the Carolinas, and then we’re going to sail on the Chesapeake Bay!”

Our first day out of foggy Norfolk cleared into the sunniest skies and the glassiest water imaginable. It was ideal weather for the motor Loopers, but our sails went limp, so we pulled them down, bundled them and sighed. That sigh was not enough breeze to propel us forward, and we had to motor all day. But the wind always comes back, and we ended up with seven days’ worth of sailing on the bay. We zigged and zagged, south to north, past Victorian lighthouses and alongside local crabbing boats. We even nosed into the bakery dock at Smith Island for some of its famous 10-layer cake. 

And then, there was Annapolis, Maryland. It was a thrill, and a little bit intimidating, to arrive in American sailing’s home port. But once we docked, Jackalope got her due. One sailor told us that ours was the prettiest boat on the docks. Another leaned close and said, “That’s a cult boat.” Jackalope blushed at the rare but deserved compliments.

Beyond the Lens

If we were excited to sail on the Chesapeake Bay, the thought of sailing ­into New York Harbor was surreal. And yet, we did it, slightly loopy after an overnight Atlantic passage from Cape May, New Jersey. We were planning to anchor out at Sandy Hook and sleep the afternoon away, but the wind was just right, so I made cups of strong coffee, and we headed toward the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and up the Hudson River.

We tacked east toward Coney Island, west toward Staten Island, east again toward Red Hook, west toward the old Bayonne marsh. Dodging a Norwegian cruise ship, we tacked east toward Brooklyn, and then, in the culminating moment, the captain brought us right up next to the Statue of Liberty—our sails up, her torch held high. He had to manage tour boats, personal watercraft and more, but he did it without the engine or bow thrusters. Just the magic of being hove-to.

We snapped a few pictures of ourselves looking relaxed while we were ­actually keeping an intense watch in every direction, and then sailed off toward Manhattan so we could tack into the marina on the Jersey City side of the Hudson. 

After spending two days in New York City, we aimed ourselves north. By the time we got to Yonkers, New York, the cityscape had mellowed into ­countryside. We anchored out under the Bear Mountain Bridge and, the next day, gave West Point a salute as we floated past. Then it was time to unstep our mast at the town dock in Athens, New York, in preparation for cruising the Erie Canal. When the work was done, we went ashore for beers at the brewery.

The narrow, ­skinny sailing was done with just the jib, but ­sometimes the wind was steady enough to put up the main and take a bit of a ride. 

We put our mast back up after the Erie Canal so we could sail the Great Lakes. Our long journey had prepared us for the challenge. We crossed Lake Erie, skirted up Lake Huron, and rounded the top of the mitten state under Mackinac Bridge. At that point, we were concerned about the changing seasons. Weather windows on Lake Michigan are short, and a lock on the Illinois River was scheduled to close for maintenance soon. We made our way, businesslike, down Michigan’s west coast. From Frankfort, we made an overnight passage to Milwaukee, cutting many miles off the route, then sailed south to Chicago. 

Cruising through downtown Chicago, every building gleaming gold in the sunrise, was the highlight of the trip. We kept saying it: “This is incredible. This is the best part.” Then we headed down the grimy Illinois River, squeezing through the Brandon Road lock just in time. We made our way down the Mississippi with the current, up the Ohio, and finished where we started, on the Tennessee.

The Loop was 10 trips in one. We cruised canals, mastering locks and tying up to town walls. We had access to bars, restaurants and beaches along the ICW. We cruised past a big bunch of American cities and right through the center of Miami and Chicago. And in just one incredible 6,000-mile, 12-month cruising season, we sailed on the Gulf of Mexico, the sound side of the Outer Banks, up the Chesapeake Bay, on the Atlantic, and in three of the Great Lakes—all of it without worry of hurricanes, encroaching winter weather and customs officials. 

A jackalope is an improbable little creature: a mythical combination of jackrabbit and antelope. Sailing the Great Loop was an improbable adventure for an improbable boat. And we had the time of our lives. 

Bianca Dumas and her family spent eight years traveling the US by sailboat, canoe, kayak, bicycle and on foot. She plans to settle down and write about all of it.

The post Sailing America’s Great Loop on a Small Boat appeared first on Cruising World.