What is it with boats that sail with their fenders out? I’ve observed this apathetic habit nearly everywhere I’ve been on water, but never so much as I see it in Southern California. I have called Los Angeles home for the past eight years. Maybe it’s the old New Englander in me, or perhaps I’m just getting older, but it seems that every year, I see more and more boats underway with their fenders out. They bob from the lifelines like a pair of dirty running shoes dangling from knotted laces on a railing the day after track season ended.  

I’m not whining about boats motoring to the fuel dock or headed back to their slip after an afternoon cruise. I’m talking about the boats I see when I am halfway to Catalina, a 30-mile sail from Marina del Rey. Out there, I’ve seen more boats than I can recall sailing hard over with their sails full, rail in the water, and fenders out as if the owner were anticipating a collision with one of the many container ships crossing their bow in the commercial shipping lane. 

It’s not like fenders enhance a boat’s aesthetic. And don’t get me started on how many fenders I have seen out during the cruising-class starting line on the Wednesday-night sunset-racing series.

Matty, a dedicated ­crewmember on my boat for our cruising-class races, calls those dangling fenders “California racing stripes.” He is an Angelino native and, until this past summer, enjoyed the liveaboard life in Marina del Rey for eight years on his 1974 Coronado 35 sailboat. Matty’s coined phrase set the stage for an engaging debate while the rest of our crew laughed, like a sitcom audience, at our passionate opinions about fender etiquette. Matty claimed that stowing fenders was not worth the effort. I’m obsessed with a clean and tidy deck, always. 

Unlike Matty, who is a recreational sailor through and through, I used to earn a living crewing and skippering a variety of yachts in places such as New England, the Mediterranean and the Caribbean. I spent much of my career working under sailors of a different generation. The result: I believe anything on a boat that is not in use should be securely stowed. 

I argued that leaving fenders out and tied to the lifelines could be a hazard. A jib sheet could unexpectedly snag during a tack or jibe and wrap around a fender. A crewmember could lose his or her footing when rushing up to the foredeck, and maybe trip or even fall overboard. 

Stowing the fenders does not require much effort. My 7-year-old daughter, Samantha, is the person on my boat who stows and sets the fenders, and she does a marvelous job. To help make the task easy for her or anyone else pitching in, I fitted each fender with a brass fixed-eye boat snap (an inexpensive stock piece of hardware that is like a carabiner but has an eye cast to the end of it) to the short run of line that is tied to the top of the fender. On a calm day, with my boat secured to the dock, I clipped the brass fixed-eye boat snaps to the lifelines and ran the fender lines through the eyes on the snaps. I lifted the fenders to the desired height, just high enough above the water to keep them dry and prevent marine growth from building up on the bottom of the fender and cover. I knotted each fender line to the corresponding snap with two half hitches so that the fender would always hang from the same height every time. 

My lifelines are close to level on my boat, so I set all my fenders to the same height. This way, nobody has to think about which fender goes where, tying knots, or adjusting heights when setting the fenders. Also, the brass fixed-eye boat snap makes for an easy clip-on, clip-off process. 

When we depart for a sail, Samantha pulls up each fender and lays it on the deck after we are clear from our dock. Then, she unclips the fenders from the lifelines and carries them back to the cockpit one by one. We have a space in our lazarette reserved for the fenders when we go on our daysails. When we’re out cruising, I lash the fenders to the mast and stow them under our dinghy, which is tied down to our foredeck. When we are moored or anchored, I sit the fenders on our deck up at the bow and lash them to the bow pulpit.

After our sails have been furled and we are heading back to the dock, Samantha works in reverse order. She pulls the fenders out of the lazarette one by one and walks them forward to clip them to the lifelines. To ensure that the fenders are always set in the right location, I wrapped a strip of black electrical tape on the lifelines where each fender should be set.

I also have fender covers, which are well worth the money. I buy dark ones that don’t show much dirt. Without them, the rubber surface of the fenders becomes sticky and collects grime. That grime then rubs off onto my topsides, making for an ­unpleasant-­looking boat. 

But sailing with dirty topsides is a whole other topic. Don’t get me started on that one either. 

Will Sofrin is an author and wooden-boat builder who has sailed professionally throughout Europe, New England and the Caribbean.

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No question about it: Bareboat charters and hamburgers go together. Most bareboats have a barbecue grill in the cockpit (they’re scarce in Europe, so check first), and grilling is perfect for no-fuss dinners that keep galley time to a minimum and let you to enjoy the sunset outdoors.

But the grill is a system like any others on a boat. It needs to be used and maintained safely.  

For starters, spend as much time having the check-out crew show you how to operate the grill as they do showing you the engine. Nearly every charter company has done away with charcoal (oh, the horror of live coals!) in favor of propane. Before you leave the check-out dock, have them light the grill to make sure it heats properly, and be sure you have enough propane for the duration of your adventure. Make sure the grill is bolted solidly to the rail so that you don’t feed dinner to the fishies. Also ask if any marinas in your planned cruising area prohibit grill usage; some have safety rules at the dock.

Barbecuing aboard is far different from grilling at home. Your backyard isn’t rolling with passing wakes, and you likely have no stray lines near the home grill, let alone a Bimini top. Safety for the crew and boat is your first concern, followed by perfect burgers, steaks or fish. Never—ever—try to grill while the boat is underway. That’s just asking for trouble. And if you have a flare-up (did you remember to trim all the excess fat from the meat?), a spray bottle with water can knock down the flame. On many grills, simply closing the lid will put out any flares.

Every grill has its own personality, with hot spots, cold spots, being fast or slow to heat, or just plain being cantankerous. Unless you bring a mitt, potholders, a meat thermometer and tongs, you should not expect to find them on board. 

While many propane grills have temperature gauges, trust me on this: You can’t trust them. Better to use the “Mississippi test.” Hold your hand 3 to 4 inches above the hot grill and count one Mississippi… two Mississippi…. Two to three Mississippis before you have to remove your hand is high temp for burgers. Medium is three to four Mississippis, and low heat is six to 10. Propane barbecues should be heated long enough so that the meat sears when it’s placed on the grill.

Want to start a fight? Ask people whether meat should be flipped during cooking. Some chefs say you should flip meat at least twice so that the sear will keep the juices inside and the food won’t end up welded to the grill. But flipping continually is also the easiest way to create a dry burger or steak. If you think something is cooking too fast, just move it to the outside of the grill, where the heat is lower. 

Burgers have a tendency to grow upward as they cook, and some chefs try to smash them flat with a spatula. No! Goodbye, juices. Instead, pat them gently. Don’t make them too thin. Make a little dent in the center of each patty before you start grilling, and the problem is solved. That dent also gives you a spot to add some zip with a splash of Worcestershire sauce, which soaks in quickly and gives a distinctive flavor.  

After placing food on the grill, close the lid to circulate the heat evenly—but never leave the grill unattended. Don’t get sucked into watching another boat trying to anchor, or go to fix yourself something rummy and cold.  

And with burgers, don’t forget the bun. It’s hard to beat fresh-from-a-Bahamas-bakery buns. Lightly coat them with butter on the grill side, and watch them like a hawk so that they don’t turn to charcoal. French brioche buns with high egg/butter content are delish, as are toasted onion rolls.

Want to start another fight? Ask someone about seasonings. For burgers, we’ve been successful with a little Kosher or sea salt, ground black pepper, perhaps a dash of garlic powder, all rubbed gently into the meat before grilling. My wife swears by Cavender’s Greek seasoning, which is a good substitute for salt and pepper. Bring it with you because it’s not available everywhere.  

Don’t stop at grilling burgers or steaks. Throw some veggies on the barbie too. Grilled fruit is the new dessert. Grilled watermelon or pineapple is a delight. Brush slices lightly with olive oil, grill for five to six minutes, and turn once. Yum. The same goes for grilled onions or peppers (seasoned with herbs). Or brush peach slices with amaretto, grill two minutes a side, and serve with whipped cream. Mmm. 

As for how long to keep all these things on the grill, the correct answer is: not too long. Grill heat, burger thickness, a breeze blowing—these all affect the cooking time. Instead of using a stopwatch, look for the burger to get juicy or “sweat” on top. At that point, flip the patty, check the time, and cook one or two minutes less than the first side. Cheeseburgers? Add the cheese with about two minutes to go, and close the lid to melt the cheese. 

One last warning: A barbecue takes surprisingly long to cool off, so keep fingers, kids and canvas items far away until it is truly cold. Pay attention to your barbecue and grill safety, and you’ll find yourself humming Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”

The post Tips For Barbecue Cooking While on Charter appeared first on Cruising World.

Last month, I discussed “the big three” critical tasks every vessel owner needs to be able to perform: belt replacement, raw-water pump service, and fuel-filter service/fuel-system ­bleeding. This month, we’ll take a deep dive into fuel filters.

Internal combustion engines—and diesels in particular—rely on a handful of factors to run properly. They need compression, which is created by the pistons moving upward in the combustion chamber (in diesels, compression is what initiates combustion). 

These engines also need air to facilitate the combustion process. Finally, they need clean fuel because the fuel system has a high-pressure injection pump whose tolerances are often measured in ten-thousandths of an inch. Dirt and debris wreak havoc on pumps and injectors, which is why virtually all diesel-engine manufacturers specify the use of a primary fuel filter in addition to the on-engine secondary filter.

Servicing these filters, in most cases, is relatively easy. Along with changing the filters, the next-most-important goal is preventing air from being ingested into the fuel system.  

Most sail auxiliaries use pump-line-nozzle fuel-injection systems, which have been around since the advent of the diesel engine. It’s a system that is simple, robust, reliable, and requires no electricity, with the exception, in some cases, of a fuel solenoid. The system is not self-bleeding, which means if air makes its way into the fuel, the engine will stop. It won’t start until that air is manually removed, usually via fuel-system disassembly. If you have such a system, knowing how to purge air is mandatory. In this case, the proverbial ounce of prevention is worth the pound of cure: If you keep out the air when changing filters, bleeding won’t be necessary.  

When replacing the primary off-engine filter, if the fuel is heavily contaminated, you might need to wash or clean out the sediment or sight bowl, which in turn might require some disassembly. Depending on your primary filter model, this may be accomplished with no tools, or it might require removing some fasteners to drop the bowl. Either way, be prepared to get at and clean the parts that are exposed to fuel, other than the filter element, which you will replace. If “washing” is required, you can use clean diesel fuel or aerosol brake cleaner, a lint-free rag, and a soft bristle brush. 

Ideally, this task should be done outside or, if inside, in a well-ventilated area. If you have access to compressed air, that’s even better for blowing dirt off, or out of, parts. Be sure to wear safety glasses for this entire service.

For primary filters with drop-in elements, you may pre-fill the filter housing with clean fuel, from a separate container or by gravity from your tank, provided that the filter element is in place. This technique prevents any unfiltered fuel from bypassing the filter element. Fill the housing to the brim, avoiding as much air entrapment as possible. Otherwise, you can draw fuel into this filter using the engine’s lift-pump priming lever; that must be done with the filter fully assembled.

For secondary filters of the spin-on or sandwich variety, most engine manufacturers direct you to install the filter empty, then prime it once again using the lever on the engine’s lift pump. This is the safest approach because it reduces the possibility of dirt entering the outlet side of the filter, where it can then be transported by the fuel into the injection pump.  

Once both filters are fully reassembled and purged, start the engine and advance the throttle, in neutral, to a high idle of at least 1,200 rpm for two to three minutes. Doing so will allow the engine to pass small amounts of air without stalling. Then bring the rpm back to low idle and let it run for another 10 minutes to be certain that it won’t stall later—likely, just as you are backing out of a slip or ­weighing anchor on a windless day. 

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

The post How To Change a Fuel Filter appeared first on Cruising World.

The short answer: Always bring your sense of humor, and always leave your societal cares and woes. 

The longer, more complex answer starts with a question: How do you use your boat? 

Many folks daysail on the weekends. Fine. They need only the basic tools and supplies to get them back to the dock they just left. However, my wife and I are occasionally at sea for 48 days—and once, in the Indian Ocean, we went four and half months without provisioning because, happily, there is nowhere to provision in uninhabited, blissful Chagos.

Back in the 1950s, when I started out, all offshore vessels were heavy-displacement  craft. They had cramped living space but much cargo capacity, which was good because once America faded over the transom, chandleries were almost nonexistent. International payments were nearly impossible. There was no overnight shipping. We attempted to bring everything with us—weight and space be damned.

On my Endurance 35 ketch, Carlotta, in the early 1970s, besides the usual impeller, zincs and filters for our Four-107 engine, I carried a spare head gasket, prop, raw-­water pump, starter motor, alternator and four injectors—drawing the line only at a spare diesel fuel pump. This was ­perfectly normal. Hell, I’ve known boats that carried a complete set of spare sails while shoving off across the Pacific.

However, there were four problems with this approach. One, the weight of all these heavy spares added up. Two, ditto the cost. Three, they took up space. And four, often when you went to use the spare starter motor that you’d so carefully brought aboard seven years and two continents ago, it wouldn’t work. It would have been damaged by salt corrosion. I’ve probably purchased a dozen expensive head-gasket kits that never actually made it into the engine. One drop of salt water beat me to the punch. 

Today, boats are lighter and have far less stowage. Even if they could afford the weight, modern boat interiors are optimized to sell at boat shows, not necessarily to function well at sea. There’s barely room to stow a few cans of soup; forget such bulky items as starter motors or delicate items such as head gaskets. 

Worst, there’s more and more dependence on electronics and electrical stuff. I’ve happily cruised on vessels with hand-cranking diesels that had no wires going to them whatsoever. My current diesel, however, probably has 20 to 50 electro parts. And, of course, the rusty metal box that houses all these integrated circuits just happens to have ended up directly below our amidships cockpit steering pedestal that gushes water in a full gale like a lawn sprinkler. (I’ve installed an extensive water shed just above the engine to compensate.)

Progress? In terms of fuel economy, perhaps. In other ways, certainly not. And the future is plain: Soon, all injectors will be electronic as well.

I realize that I’m an old fart. Carlotta, along with my 52-foot John Alden schooner, Elizabeth, and my 22-foot double-ender, Corina, all had kerosene running lights. Those Fresnel-lensed Perko units worked pretty well for the 32 years we lived aboard these craft.

Was I unusual in the amount of spares I used to carry? Perhaps. Once, in the Mediterranean, while running late for a wild party on the Italian island of Sardinia, we received a forecast for light airs. We anchored in a Greek cove for a couple of hours to swap out our slipping Hurst transmission. It’s easy if you’ve got the proper tools, and oh, what a party it was! Then again, a DIYer like myself can get carried away. I don’t have a welding machine or a metal lathe aboard, but I envy circumnavigator Tom Lemm of the pinky schooner Le Papillon, who does. 

So, what should a prudent modern mariner carry aboard today? If well-heeled, not too much. There are well-stocked chandleries in the Bahamas, Caribbean, Panama Canal, Tahiti, New Zealand, Australia, Singapore, Thailand, South Africa and Brazil. Marine service outlets are everywhere, for a pretty penny. 

And, of course, luck plays a part. My buddy Woody was nearing the end of his circumnavigation when lightning struck his boat in the mid-Pacific. After putting out the numerous fires (including paperback books that ignited where they touched chainplates), he happily announced to the crew that he carried a spare electro everything—GPS, VHF radio, depth sounder, alternator and more. Alas, despite each of these units being bone-dry, unconnected and stowed in sealed plastic-foam containers, none of them worked. The force of the lightning strike had been that strong.

Poorly funded or work-as-you-go circumnavigations have to carry far more spares and tools. My stand-up, vise-equipped tool room bristles with mechanical, electrical, plumbing and woodworking tools. I don’t have just an adjustable wrench or two; I have sockets from tiny to inch-and-a-quarter in both imperial and metric sizes for quarter-, three-eighths- and half-inch drives. Plus, a long breaker bar. Open-end and box-end wrenches. Short and long extenders. Torque wrench? Of course. Three sizes of crowbars? Why not?

Do I use these often? Yeah, I do—especially on the boats of friends who don’t know their Loctite adhesive from their Never-Seez lubricant. 

But back to the practical advice: You need to carry the stuff that will break. The top of this list is electrical autopilots. If I’m in Auckland, New Zealand, and a friend sails in from the Lesser Antilles, I always say, “I heard you had autopilot problems.” Chances are, it’s true (unless they have a Monitor or other dependable mechanical-steer device like we do). 

Next is watermakers. One popular brand eats so much money that owners joke that they should switch to Dom Pérignon because it would be cheaper. Freshwater-pump systems also regularly fail unless you follow their strict maintenance schedule to the letter. Doing so would leave you little time for anything else. 

Heads, of course, are crappy to work on. It is everything I can do to not deep-six my two; the only reason I don’t is because I have such a sizable investment in their spares. I carry two complete pumps and a half-dozen joker valves, as well as every moving part, gasket and O-ring in the whole stinkin’ mess. 

My engine requires the most spare parts. I now carry a single spare injector and a spare raw-water pump, plus the usual impellers. I carry six each of the primary and secondary fuel filters in case I get a batch of bad fuel. Luckily, neither rusts. However, I carry only two spare lube oil filters because they do rust. (How counterproductive can you get?) 

Fluids are another problem. I carry enough oil and five-year coolant to replace what’s inside my engine, plus a few quarts so that I don’t have to deal with gallons in a seaway to top off. Yes, I carry 2 gallons of distilled water for our batteries as well. 

We carry a spare prop and carburetor for our wonderfully dependable, ultralight Tohatsu 10-horse. Ditto, a spare meter of Hypalon and extra glue for our Caribe dinghy. (We keep our inflatables carefully covered from the sun at all times, and we get 12 to 14 years of hard, daily use out of them. An amazing value.) 

My wife, Carolyn, has a 1950s Pfaff sewing machine that has circumnavigated numerous times aboard various boats. We stock all the threads, grommets, snaps and DOT fasteners to do almost anything fabric-related aboard. Our dinghy cover, sail covers and dodger are all in good nick. Do we make our own sails? No, but when our staysail blew apart in a Pacific gale south of the Cooks, we managed to stick it together long enough to get to New Zealand. Ditto when the entire head of a (used) jib pulled out off the Cocos Islands.  

Thanks to our humidity-controlled dry boxes, we don’t have moisture problems with our 12 hard drives, six lenses and two DSLR cameras. 

Our Para-Tech sea anchor and Jordan Series Drogue don’t require any spares, and we’re careful about chafe on the 1,200 feet of cordage and spare anchor rode that relates to them. Yes, I carry a spare windlass motor; no, I’ve never used it. 

Sadly, the tools I use most often these days are contained in my two small electrical toolboxes. These contain my ohmmeter, test lamps and terminal crimpers. I’d say that I work on my rig about one minute for every hour I work on my too-needy electrical system; those modern conveniences don’t come cheap in terms of weight, space, money or time. Example: I just installed double USBs in the aft and main cabins, as well as at the nav table and fo’c’sle. 

The hardest part of preparing for an ocean crossing or circumnavigation is to keep in mind that my life as an offshore sailor is not about the boat; it’s about the voyage. The boat is just a tool. It’s the experience a wise sailor seeks. One reason that I and my lovely bride of 52 years are still on our honeymoon together is because we understand that ease is a false god. 

To each his own, of course. Our idea is to sail to Chagos and enjoy Chagos—not to work on our vessel in Chagos. Not to update the autopilot’s firmware. Not to drunkenly shop online from paradise. Do you really think air conditioning improves the cruising experience? I don’t. Electric hatches and davits? Sheet and halyard winches? Vacuum-packed freshwater toilets? 

Really?

If you take it all with you, then you’ll never be able to get away from it.

Once, I received a gift of a state-of-the-art satphone from an editor. I politely attempted to refuse, but the publication firmly insisted. One perfect day in midocean, that same publication called me and hollered because of a misplaced comma or something equally trivial. My perfect day wasn’t perfect anymore. I brooded for an hour or two, then told to Carolyn to get our video camera. 

“Are you ready?” I asked. 

“Yes,” she said. “I’m recording.” 

“Excellent,” I muttered as I Frisbee’d the satphone into the 20,000-foot-deep blue sea. At the next port, I sent off a letter. I enclosed the SD card with my resignation letter. 

Ah, much better.

The post What Should You Bring With You When Packing for a Circumnavigation? appeared first on Cruising World.

Barry and Sue Parkin had already lost one sail. They were really, really hoping that they wouldn’t lose another as they screamed toward the finish line.

Their No. 3 jib tore straight across and blew apart the second time they took the helm of their recently purchased Oyster 625, Papillon. It was a 2013 build, and the sails that came with it were probably a decade old, with levels of wear and tear that they were still sussing out during September’s Oyster Palma Regatta off Spain’s Balearic Isles. 

“Every time we did a sail maneuver, it was the first time we’d done it on that boat,” Barry says. “We were working on how to get these sails up.”

Now, it was the last of three days of racing, and Papillon was in a battle for first place with the Oyster 625 Peregrine Falcon. With their résumés as Olympic sailors, the Parkins certainly had their competition worried, but what had started out as a 5-knot breeze had whipped up to a 20-knot blow. As they pushed the boat on the last leg of the course, they didn’t know if the old genoa would hold.

“These were laminate racing sails,” Barry says, adding that they had deteriorated just by being stored. Still, the Parkins kept the pressure on. “They have some good crew on Oysters. Some of the other boats had professional sailors on board.”

If you had asked the couple a few decades ago whether they would likely find themselves in that kind of a race, aboard that kind of a sailboat, they both likely would have said no. But now that they’re both 58 years old, with three of their four children out of school, they’re starting to think about sailing a lot differently. 

Back in the 1980s and ’90s—when you didn’t have to be a full-time sailor to compete in the Olympic Games—Barry and Sue were both good amateurs. He’d grown up in southwest England, in Falmouth, while she was raised in Brightlingsea on Britain’s east coast. They both learned to sail and race as kids and continued racing through college, until they graduated and got jobs. Sue became a math and physical education teacher, while Barry became a graduate trainee as an engineer with Mars Inc., building and designing production lines.

“We both then carried on racing at the highest level we could, using all of our vacations and weekends,” Barry says. “Sue went to the Olympics very young. She went to the 1988 Olympics in the 470, then again in ’92 and ’96. She did that while continuing to do women’s match racing in keel boats between each of the Olympics while still working full and part time.”

It took him a bit longer to get to the Games, but while working his way through different jobs with Mars and ­racing all over the world, he kept at it. “I really had a serious attempt at the Olympics at the end of ’94, when I was 30,” he says. “I got together with a team, and we went to the Olympics in ’96 and 2000.”

It was during the run up to the 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta that Barry and Sue became really good friends as teammates. They married soon after. 

Meanwhile, Barry’s career at Mars kept advancing, all the way to global head of procurement and sustainability, the job he holds today. “I’ve worked for them for 37 years now,” he says. “During the period when I was training for the Olympics, I was at director level, and they supported me by giving me a lot of time off to train. But the week after the Olympics finished, I went back to work and carried on with my career.”

Still, both he and Sue have continued to race—now for Uncle Sam, as US nationals who split their time between Connecticut and Florida. Ahead of the Oyster regatta in September, Barry competed in the International Etchells Worlds in Cowes, England, and he’s planning to compete in the Etchells World Championship in April on Miami’s Biscayne Bay. Some of their kids too have caught the bug; 24-year-old Jack was a world youth champion who’s now an investment banker at JPMorgan in New York, sailing in his spare time, while 16-year-old Freddie—still in high school—became world youth champion on the 420 in July 2022 on the North Sea.

Sometimes, just for fun, they all head out on Long Island Sound to race against one another.

“Riverside Yacht Club in Connecticut, where we live in the summer, has the biggest frostbiting fleet in the country,” Barry says. “These are singlehanded, and on any given Sunday in the winter, you’ll have about 50 boats on the start line. It’s all weight-equalized, so we can all race each other. We’re very competitive. [My sons] generally beat me now—not always, but generally. I say, ‘Sure, you can beat me in a 10-foot boat, but maybe not in a 30-foot boat.’”

The couple did have boats of their own before buying the Oyster 625, with their biggest previously being a 36-foot Sessa powerboat for cruising in the Northeast (because, Barry says, “there’s not a lot of wind in the summer up there”). But with Freddie now looking at colleges and the other three kids well into adulthood, they have a vision of setting a course much farther into the distance. 

“Susie’s always had this dream that once the kids are gone, we’ll head off and do some cruising, see parts of the world we’ve never seen,” Barry says. “We have this idea of sailing around the world.”

Hence, the shopping began for a boat that would let them do it. Oysters are built near where Sue grew up in Britain, and the couple knows people who work for the yard. They always liked Oyster yachts—a premium brand made for shorthanded, comfortable, bluewater cruising—but what really sold them was the Oyster owners’ association and the company’s Oyster World Rally, a fully supported, global circumnavigation that starts and ends at the Caribbean island of Antigua.

“You’re cruising in company with the technical support and the peer support,” Barry says. “They train you, and you have great social events. So it lowers the bar on doing that trip considerably, versus heading off on your own. It makes it accessible to people who don’t have a lot of experience, which is us.”

The biggest challenge, he says, will be learning to make sense of such a complex boat. He’s learning all the Oyster 625’s systems—generators, watermakers, ice makers, air conditioning, navigation equipment—that never factored into the Parkins’ racing lives. 

“Then there’s the challenge of being on a boat day after day after day,” he says. “All of that is completely different from the challenges of racing on a small boat, where you’re on the water for maybe six or eight hours, maybe an overnight race, but it’s a sprint. You’re concerned about what might break on the boat, but you have very different safety considerations.”

So far, they’re happy with their choice of Papillon. Buying Hull No. 5 (previously Lady Mariposa) substantially reduced their required upfront investment, and they’ve put the boat into the Oyster Yachts charter fleet at a weekly base rate of $22,000 to help offset their expenses. This winter, Papillon will be in the Caribbean, where they plan to cruise in between charter use. For summer 2023, the boat will be in New England, and they hope to do the Newport Bermuda Race in 2024. 

Somewhere along the way, they’re ­eagerly anticipating spending their first-ever night aboard while sailing offshore.

“I’ve spent many days and nights on boats in the past, but an Oyster is ­pretty luxurious,” Barry says. “You’re not ­slumming it. The owner’s cabin in the back is full width. It’s really, really nice.”

And, of course, they’ll be racing Papillon when the opportunity arises, as it did in the Balearic Isles shortly after they took delivery in fall 2022—when they were in a battle for first place aboard their boat that they barely knew, and weren’t sure if the genoa would hold.

Despite their best efforts that day, the old sail gave out on them after about five hours of racing, just before Papillon got to the finish. Peregrine Falcon took the top spot. 

“We had to put up a different one. It was just another older sail, but that cost us the win,” Barry says. “But we were there to have fun, so we weren’t that upset. We learned a lot about the boat, which sails great. It will do 9½ knots upwind and 12 knots off the wind with an asymmetric up.”

Barry, Sue and all their friends who were on board that day are eager for another shot at a win. Their next opportunity against the Oyster fleet will be the Oyster Antigua Regatta in April, based at Nelson’s Dockyard in English Harbour.

There’s likely to be a sizable roster of skilled competitors there too, given that the regatta will include a celebration of Oyster’s 50th year in business, as well as a welcome home for boats completing the 2022-23 Oyster World Rally. 

Fair notice to all: By then, the Parkins will have Papillon’s new sails. 

The post Learning to Fly: Longtime Sailboat Racers Discover Cruising On Their New Oyster 625 <em>Papillon</em> appeared first on Cruising World.

Fog is a fact of life along the Maine coast, where my husband, Bud, and I cruise Opus, our 28-foot wood sloop. One day, we were anchored in the Barred Islands, a small archipelago in Penobscot Bay. It was isolated, beautiful and peaceful. We’d awakened early to a world of cottony gray, with fog so thick that visibility was reduced to near zero. A fine mist seemed to permeate everything, including our bones. 

Sailing in fog isn’t especially dangerous if you’re paying close attention to your navigation, but it can be nerve-wracking and tedious. At the time, we didn’t have a reliable radar aboard—and we were, after all, on vacation. We decided to stay put until the pea soup lifted, likely in a few hours.

For extended vacation cruising, we usually opt for Penobscot Bay because (to quote A Cruising Guide to the Maine Coast) if you “dream of perfect cruising grounds, of islands large and small…of intriguing harbors and ­alluring towns, of lonely ­outposts lost in time…that place is Penobscot Bay.”  

We’d departed our home port of Kittery Point, Maine, on an extended summer cruise in search of all of the above, plus a few reunions with old friends in ports along our route. Fog was a familiar foe; our record for fogbound days one previous summer was nine out of 14 days. We knew that with the dampness permeating everything aboard, life would be a bit uncomfortable till the sun came out again.

Opus is a true coastal-­Maine sloop, designed by Ralph Winslow and built in Camden in 1953. When we discovered her for sale from a boatbuilding school in Rockport in 1984, her hull was sound, but she needed ­significant refurbishing and repair. Fortunately, Bud is a boatbuilder by trade, so tackling all this was well within his wheelhouse. We bought her and lovingly brought her back to life. 

Among her classic charms is a tiny coal stove complete with Charlie Noble pipe on the cabin top, which we use for both cooking and heat (even in summer, Maine can be chilly). Because we were growing damper by the minute, we decided to fire it up. It was a good time to get busy in the galley and bake something quick and easy that would lift our spirits and help kill the chill.

It was a good time to get busy in the galley and bake something quick and easy that would lift our spirits and kill the chill.

We always carry plenty of staple dry stores aboard when cruising; I had some canned cherry pie filling, as well as sugar and flour. I had butter in the fridge. Making pie crust has never been my favorite galley activity, so I decided on an easy and relatively quick alternative: cherry crumble. It’s perfect for boat cooks with a sweet tooth who don’t want to spend a lot of time creating elaborate desserts. 

Crumbles (also called crisps or cobblers) are also ideal for cruisers because any fruit—canned pie filling, frozen fruit or fresh fruit—will work. Apples, peaches, cherries or berries are always a good bet. 

As the crumble baked, we were warmed in more ways than one. The baking crumble filled the salon with a delicious, buttery aroma, transforming our dank, chilly quarters into a warm, cozy refuge. 

A bit later, as often ­happens in New England, the fog vanished as fast as it had descended. The sun burned it off, revealing a bright day. We weighed anchor and sailed west for a prearranged reunion with friends in Camden. Later that evening, they came aboard for a grilled-steak dinner followed by my fogbound crumble. The verdict was unanimous: utterly delicious.

Fogbound Cherry Crumble (serves 6)

• 1 can (21 oz.) cherry pie filling
• 1 cup flour
• ¾ cup white sugar
• ¼ cup brown sugar, packed*
• ½ tsp. ground cinnamon (optional)
• ½ tsp. salt (optional)8 Tbsp. butter

*Use white sugar if you don’t have brown sugar.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Grease an 8-by-8-inch baking dish, and spread fruit evenly over the bottom. 

In a medium bowl, combine flour, sugar(s), cinnamon and salt. Mix well. 

Melt butter (alternatively, use cold butter, diced). Add butter to dry ­ingredients. Stir and blend with a fork or your hands. This should result in a slightly dry, crumbly mixture. With your hands, sprinkle the topping evenly over the pie filling. 

Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until the fruit is bubbly at the edges and the crumble turns golden (check after 15 minutes). Allow to cool slightly. Serve warm or at room temperature, plain or topped with a dollop of whipped cream, yogurt, or ice cream. Garnish with fresh mint leaves if available.

Cook’s Notes: If using fresh fruit, use firm pieces. Slice if needed. Mix with 1 teaspoon lemon juice and 2 teaspoons cornstarch. Depending on the fruit’s natural sweetness, you can add up to ½ cup sugar along with the cornstarch. If using frozen fruit, don’t thaw. Increase cornstarch to 2 or 3 tablespoons.

Prep time: 40 minutes
Difficulty: Easy
Can be made: At anchor or underway

Jean Kerr is the author of The Mystic Cookbook: Recipes, History and Seafaring Lore (Globe Pequot, 2018).

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We were approaching the trickiest, most hazardous stretch of the Northwest Passage, high in the Canadian Arctic, when we happened upon a sight more wondrous in its own way than all the ice, polar bears and other assorted wildlife that preceded it. Tucked up against a barren shoreline, its anchor embedded in a handy ice floe, was a nifty little trailer-sailer, what we soon discovered was a NorseBoat 17.5 Classic. 

Hopping in the dinghy from our rather cushy 64-foot steel cutter, we pulled alongside and were greeted by a pair of strapping Royal Marines named Kevin Oliver and Tony Lancaster. They were on military leave for a busman’s holiday of sorts: sailing, rowing and occasionally dragging their open boat, with a simple cuddy for accommodations, through the notoriously challenging high northern latitudes. One thing was clear: If these dudes were running the British Empire, there’d still be one.

Those chaps, and that boat, captured my imagination. I thought about them again late last fall on a road trip from New England to Florida with my daughter as we passed one compact camper after another. We both love camping, and we were debating the merits of one mini Gulf Stream to another tiny Winnebago when she said something profound: “Why not have a trailerable sailboat as your RV? You could sleep in it while traveling, then when you reached your destination, you could go sailing.” Why not indeed?

I’ve owned many fully found, systems-rich cruising boats but have always been enamored with the simplicity and versatility of something small and trailerable that you could tow and launch from just about anywhere: the Florida Keys, the coast of Maine, the Sea of Cortez, the Pacific Northwest. (The closest I’ve personally come is a J/24, which can be trailered anywhere, but which is more of a dedicated racer than a pocket cruiser.) There’s something seriously appealing about the idea. Which is why, over the years, I’ve kept a short list of the boats I think could fill the bill, having sailed them to test their potential. What follows are a few of my favorites. 

For the Hearty at Heart 

I’ll always relate to those ­hardened Brit lads in the Arctic when I think of the NorseBoat 17.5 Classic. (Perhaps to underscore their no-nonsense attitude, they co-authored a book about their adventure entitled—what else?—Blokes Up North.) The boat’s Canadian builder has an appropriate nickname for its vessels, which include 12.5 and 21.5 models: the “Swiss Army knife of boats.” The 17.5 Classic is one salty-looking craft, with a pronounced bow, sweeping sheerline, lapstrake fiberglass hull, pivoting carbon-fiber gaff-rigged spar, fully battened mainsail, kick-up rudder, and a pair of rowing stations with a set of 9-foot oars. Options include a full-size tent that encapsulates the entire open boat, though the cuddy works well for most outings, and motor mounts for a 2 or 4 hp outboard. Talk about distinctive. NorseBoat says that the boat can be towed by a midsize car, fits in a standard garage, and is ideal for “cruising sailors who want to downsize, sea kayakers who are moving up, and daysailors who want a high-performance boat with lovely traditional lines.” I agree with that assessment. It will also work, ahem, for grizzled soldiers looking for a “relaxing” break from the front lines. norseboat.com

The Trailerable “Legend”

My lasting memory of the Catalina 22 is a visit I paid to the Southern California plant where they were built some four decades ago. From a balcony overlooking the factory floor, I saw four production lines knocking out the classic little 22-footer, each line producing a boat per day (another facility on the East Coast also churned out one daily). It was the Golden Age of American boatbuilding, and I’ve always considered this compact craft to be the gold standard of trailerables (longtime Catalina designer Gerry Douglas prefers to call it “the Miller Genuine Draft of sailboats: cheap and cheerful”). Seeing that almost 16,000 have been launched over the years, “ubiquitous” also works. The early models were bare bones: no winches, lifelines, nothing. But over the years, Douglas says, “the options grew, and it morphed into a cruiser,” with galleys, heads, holding tanks and other accoutrements. The trouble with all the stuff was that many sailors liked racing their 22s, and the extra gear made the boats heavier and noncompetitive. Douglas eventually went back to the drawing board and designed a lighter version, the Catalina 22 Sport. It was competitive with the older, original boats—and is still produced today. “If you opened up a dictionary with a picture of a sailboat, it would be the Catalina 22,” Douglas says. “I think it has a place in the history of our sport. It was simple, with no bad habits. It introduced a lot of people to sailing and provided a lot of pleasure over the years.” And continues to do so. I’ll take one anytime. catalinayachts.com

Fast and Fun

My first exposure to the Seascape line of quick and trim racers/cruisers—a brand built and launched from Slovenia, which is a rather sailing-crazed nation—came from my colleagues at our sister publication Sailing World, a dedicated racing magazine. They raved about the quality of construction and sailing experience. Then, in 2018, Seascape was acquired by Groupe Beneteau, and all previous Seascape models were integrated into the Beneteau First product range. It provided the line with the sort of widespread, mainstream marketing punch that it deserved. I’ve since sailed a pair of larger models produced by their collaborative effort, but if I were inclined to go the trailer-sailer route, my choice would definitely be the Beneteau First 24 SE (the SE standing for Seascape Edition). It’s a high-tech version of the previous First 24 with a serious boost in performance. The SE line’s sweet spot, in the company’s own assessment, is as a dual-threat boat aimed at competitive one-design racing and adventure sailing. I reckon that 24 feet is an ideal size for both, and the 24SE delivers on the promise with a carbon rig; swing keel with lead bulb; laminate sails; and light, high-tech, infused-­vinylester construction. With ­removable crew bags and modular components that can also be stored ashore when racing, the 24 SE can be set up quickly and easily for cruising or competition. beneteau.com 

One Sharp Sharpie

The late Rodger Martin was a South Africa-born naval architect who is probably best known for the robust ­round-the-world racers he conceived for solo legend Mike Plant, which is when I first met him. Tellingly, ­however, when it came to ­designing his own personal boat, he produced the very cool Presto 30. The 30-­footer was an offshoot of the Outward Bound Hurricane Island 30 that he designed for the wilderness program based in Maine, but that was a hybrid sailing/rowing boat. To upgrade it for cruising, Martin basically designed a sharpie, based on the straight-sided 18th-­century fishing boats with a hard chine, flat bottom and centerboard for access to shallow water. With a beam of 8 feet, 6 inches, the boat is eminently trailerable, and Martin regularly towed it south from New England in the wintertime for cruising forays across the Gulf Stream and into the Bahamas. Due to that shallow draft and minimal freeboard, the rig required a low center of effort, which Martin addressed with a simple cat-ketch rig. With the addition of a slightly raised cabin top, he was able to insert basic interior accommodations (which were also somewhat compromised by the centerboard trunk). For a couple who can embrace camper-style cruising, ­however, it fit the bill. In recent years, a couple of Presto fans have tried to put the boat back into production, which has yet to happen. But if you can find a used one, you’ll have a boat with a fine and unusual pedigree. ­rodgermartindesign.com

An Upgraded Ensign

A couple of years ago, I got myself a 1963 Pearson Ensign, a venerable daysailer designed by the great Carl Alberg that measures in at a smidgen under 23 feet with a full keel and a spacious cockpit. I quite enjoy my Ensign, but designer Tim Jackett has taken some of the ancient classic’s best features and incorporated them into a thoroughly modern upgrade: the Tartan 245. Conceived as an ideal tool for teaching sailing, the 245 replaces that massive keel with a lifting one that has 900 pounds of ballast, which makes it just as stiff as the old-timer. With the board down, it draws 4 feet, 6 inches, but once raised, the draft is just 1 foot, 8 inches—and with its kick-up rudder, you can nudge into the shallows that the Ensign could only dream about. Like the full-size members of the Tartan clan, the 245 has a carbon-fiber spar that’s stepped on deck and is easily raised and lowered. A retractable bowsprit is ideal for flying off-wind reachers; for working sail, there’s a choice of an overlapping headsail or a self-tacking jib. The little cuddy space forward is another feature reminiscent of the Ensign; it can be employed, along with the handy tiller, for camper-style cruising. You may be able to have more kicks on a little sailboat, but I’m not sure how. tartanyachts.com

Happy Little Girl

And now for something completely different: the Pacific Seacraft Flicka (Swedish for “happy little girl”). It’s a 20-foot, heavy-displacement, full-keel pocket cruiser that, yes, you can pop on a trailer and wheel to destinations of your heart’s content. Designed by Bruce Bingham—an illustrator and sailor who, for many years, penned this magazine’s Workbench column—the boat was originally offered in kit form, and then bounced around to a couple of builders before finding a permanent home at Pacific Seacraft, which produced the grand majority of them (reportedly, roughly 400 Flickas were ultimately produced). Bingham loved his, sailing his pretty Sabrina all over creation, which is when I became enamored with the boat. The Flicka certainly fits the definition of a cult boat, and these days, if you look hard enough, you can find one in almost any configuration: sloop, cutter, yawl, schooner, even gaff-rigged. With a startlingly roomy interior, the Flicka is cozy but certainly not the fastest 20-footer you can find. You might not get where you’re going quickly, but you will get there. flicka20.com

To the Third Power

Talk about a boat that was ahead of its time. Any list of good trailerable boats has to include a multihull, and few have reached the overall popularity of the Corsair F-27, the prototype for which was originally launched way back in 1985. It’s designed by Kiwi Ian Farrier, based on another little trimaran he’d created a decade earlier. The signature feature of the three-hulled 27-footer is the folding outrigger system—better known as the Farrier Folding System—which reduces the beam from a significant 19 feet to a mere 8 feet, 2 inches, which makes it eminently trailerable. You can still see (and find) F-27s just about everywhere. They have active one-design racing fleets all over the place, and they make for tidy pocket cruisers when they’re not zipping around the racecourse. From a pure sailing point of view, there’s nothing more enjoyable than finding yourself perched out on an ama of an F-27, coursing along at double-digit boatspeeds, with a light touch on a long tiller extension. We’re talking joy, cubed. corsairmarine.com 

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Smells like dinosaur poop,” Lyra said, wrinkling her 4-year-old nose as we stepped out of our dinghy onto the delta of the Yellowstone River. “Mom, look! A dino footprint!” 

She wasn’t far off the mark. Great blue heron tracks traversed the mile-long mudflat, the pterodactyl-like claw prints bigger than Lyra’s hand. She skipped ahead to join her brother, who was collecting a bouquet of windblown osprey feathers to bring back to our boat. My husband, Rob, set out to stalk the shoreline with his fly rod, hoping to pull in yet another hefty Yellowstone cutthroat trout.

I surveyed the wild scenery: The 11,000-foot-tall Table Mountain rose just behind a dense swath of green willows, with nary a trace of human life in sight. Behind me, our 1974 Catalina 22, Tranquilidad, gleamed atop a vast navy lake, the only boat for miles. We were anchored where the Yellowstone River empties into its namesake lake in one of the most remote parts of Yellowstone National Park. Nicknamed “the Thorofare” because it’s a major migratory corridor for animals such as elk, deer, bison, wolves and grizzlies, this area includes the farthest point from a road in the Lower 48—which was about a dozen miles upriver from where we were anchored. Fewer than 100 people visit the Thorofare each year; all of them have to move through it by foot, paddle or wind power.

Arriving at this rewarding destination was definitely not simple. Our journey began three years prior, when we found an affordable swing-keel boat and trailer that looked perfect for fulfilling our dream of sailing across Yellowstone Lake. 

The only trouble was that the keel was inside the cockpit instead of attached to the hull. After renting a mini excavator to lift the 600-pound cast-iron fin, building a wooden contraption to slide it under the boat, and then replacing the cable and winch, we were in business. We took Tranquilidad out on a small lake near our home in Missoula, Montana, to test whether it leaked, what needed replacing, and how to stow gear, food and four bodies in a space barely bigger than our couch. 

Our first overnight lake voyage proved that we’d need to wait on Yellowstone until our kids were older. At barely 1 year old, Lyra was a definite liability on deck. And while 5-year-old Talon was slightly more capable, he was way more interested in endlessly casting bobbers off the bow than sitting still in the cockpit.

Two years later, after a dozen more weekend trips and plenty of patching, painting, and reconfiguring the boat, we deemed the family and Tranquilidad ready to traverse the largest high-elevation lake in North America. 

First, though, we had to ­navigate the National Park Service permitting system. Our plan was to launch at Grant Marina, one of two marinas on the lake, then head toward the delta of the Yellowstone River 30 miles southeast. We hoped to camp at least one night each way to break up the sailing time for the kids and to explore other parts of the lake.

The backcountry rules for camping or boating on Yellowstone Lake cover an entire 20-page booklet, which we pored over (literally with a magnifying glass) in March. Some sites are off-limits certain dates for waterfowl nesting. Some require boats to be completely removed from the water, an obvious no-go for us. We researched wind patterns and calculated mileages, then mailed in a list of desired anchorages, dates and backup choices, only to find out that the National Park Service had just changed to an online system for backcountry permits. 

A couple of months later, we received an email that we were approved for the early lottery and had earned a chance to reserve our sites. Next up, we turned our attention to the trailer. 

Hauling a sailboat 320 miles over mountain passes and along winding two-lane roads would arguably be the most nerve-wracking part of the whole trip. Rob greased bearings, replaced the aging tires, and made sure a spare was accessible. 

Then we created meal plans and shopping lists to outfit our family for seven days of camping. We also ­double-checked our safety gear, some of which was required: a handheld VHF radio (since Tranquilidad has no electrical wiring), life jackets, throw ropes, battery-powered navigation lights, a foghorn, flares and bear spray.

On a hot July morning, we departed for Yellowstone, our truck packed with bedding and clothes, food and water, books and games, and gear for fishing, snorkeling and hiking. We made sure to arrive at the park entrance in the evening, in hopes of avoiding long lines of summer tourists who drive at a snail’s speed. 

Our plan worked: Hundreds of cars streamed past us, exiting Yellowstone as we cruised in. The kids pointed at bison lumbering along the road and elk grazing in green ­meadows. We even got lucky as we arrived at Old Faithful, pulling into the parking lot just as the geyser began erupting. “A water volcano! Run, Mom, run!” Lyra yelled, pulling me toward the geothermal wonder as soon as she hopped down from the truck.

That night, we set up a tent at Grant Village Campground because we couldn’t launch Tranquilidad without park ­officials first inspecting the vessel for aquatic invasive species. The next morning, we arrived at the park’s ­backcountry office promptly at 8 for our inspection, and to gather our permits and watch the mandatory video on ­wilderness safety. 

As Rob and I raised the mast and readied the sailboat in the marina’s parking lot, the kids practiced the video’s top recommendation for avoiding bear encounters: Make lots of noise. 

We were underway by 10, a light breeze behind us. The southeast arm where we were headed was nonmotorized, but we’d mounted a 3 hp outboard in case we needed propulsion on other parts of the lake. Our cherry-red Alpacka Forager bounced on its painter in our wake. We used this versatile, 13-pound inflatable raft as a dinghy. 

Four hours and 17 miles later, we made it to our first anchorage. Nesting loons called from a sandy spit, and lodgepole pines sent shadows into the shallows. Rob and Talon fished from shore for cutthroat that were rising amid a thick hatch of mayflies while Lyra and I made a sandcastle crowned with an enormous rack of elk antlers we found in the woods. We even swam a bit, surprised that the water wasn’t as frigid as expected. All 132 square miles of Yellowstone Lake freeze each winter—some parts had thawed mere weeks before we arrived. At 7,733 feet above sea level, the average year-round water temperature is 41 ­degrees Fahrenheit.

I’ve sailed across the Pacific and lived under Montana’s big skies for 20 years, but I’ve never seen stars as dense and as crisp as from atop Yellowstone Lake.

In fact, even though it was midsummer, I’d packed our wool socks, down coats and winter hats. Yellowstone is infamous not only for its cold water, but also for its unpredictable mountain weather. A friend who had sailed across Yellowstone a decade ago warned us: “Watch out for squalls. Waves whip up fast out there.”

But our trip was plagued by the opposite problem: no wind. We’d launched during a heat wave, which left us bobbing slowly beneath scorching sun. Fortunately, Tranquilidad was able to ghost along at 2 knots even when the surface was glassy—a boon because the outboard (which had served us well the past two years) had lost power. We’d forgotten to account for the fact that its tiny carburetor was getting less oxygen at the lake’s high elevation. In between maximizing sail trim in the scanty breeze, we fiddled with a system of tarps and umbrellas to create patches of shade. Although we’ve weathered plenty of harrowing gales at sea and backpacked dozens of miles through the wilderness together, Rob declared Day Three “one of our hardest adventure days yet.” He’d take 30-knot winds and stormy waters almost any day over inching along beneath 90-degree sun. 

The plus side of going slowly was that we had plenty of time to fish from the boat and to watch the jaw-dropping scenery. Yellowstone’s forests are immense. The water is cold and clear. The flower-filled meadows are magical. And all of it we had nearly to ourselves. Over the course of seven days, we saw fewer than a dozen motorboats and only a handful of canoes and kayaks.

When the sun finally set after 9 each evening, we all breathed a sigh of relief—until the mosquitoes and biting flies found us. They seemed to particularly like the cabin, congregating in every corner below to nip at ankles and elbows. We rigged a mosquito net over the kids’ berth while Rob and I each bunked on one of the narrow cockpit ­benches, pulling our hats low and sleeping bags high. 

Sleeping outside was well worth a few bug bites to gape at the stars though. I’ve sailed across the Pacific, camped in Alaska, and lived under Montana’s big skies for 20 years, but I’ve never seen stars as dense or as crisp as from atop Yellowstone Lake. It gave “milky” a new meaning as our galaxy glittered above.

We spent a lovely few days hiking around the Thorofare. Talon chased frogs and caught butterflies. Lyra plundered patches of fingernail-size strawberries. Rob and I took turns snorkeling from the boat, stalking thickets of logs stacked underwater in search of the lake’s namesake cutthroat trout. All of us competed in stone-skipping competitions from the gravel beaches, counting the pings each rock made across the clear green water. While we spotted a few deer grazing on the shore and all sorts of shorebirds, waterfowl and raptors, we never ran across any of Yellowstone’s famed megafauna. The intense heat surely relegated most animals to nocturnal ambles. We did, however, witness a few extraordinary hatches of mayflies—aquatic insects that feed fish and birds. One morning, they coated every lee surface of the boat and our bodies for an hour, thousands of tiny U-shaped creatures with fluttering, gossamer wings.

On Day Five, when we were slated to move to a new campsite a few miles ­northwest, we waited until the wind picked up in the evening. As we tacked back and forth on a close reach, thunderheads built over the mountains and spread purple across the western horizon. Mounting waves were ­beginning to rock Tranquilidad. I glanced at the wide-open shoreline along our designated anchorage and realized that we would be exposed to the full fetch of the lake. 

As we sailed closer to our ­intended anchorage, Rob pointed out a small stream, about 8 feet across, that connected to an interior pond just off the main lake. It looked invitingly calm, protected by a ring of pine trees. I set the anchor and lashed the sails, our rigging rattling in the building storm, while Rob quickly paddled the dinghy over to gauge the stream’s depth. “Two feet, maybe!” he yelled over the wind. With our keel and rudder raised, Tranquilidad drafted just under 2 feet. I motioned him back, calling, “Let’s try it!”

We paddled the sailboat through the small cut, wind at our back, holding our breath. Our bottom didn’t scrape a whit, and we breathed a sigh of relief: We had found a freshwater hurricane hole. Nestled happily in our placid little pond, we dined on ­ramen ­noodles while ­whitecaps frothed in fury across the mighty lake beyond.

As we tacked back and forth on a close reach, thunderheads built over the mountains and spread purple across the western horizon. 

The gale dissipated by bedtime, and morning once again dawned hot and breathless. We settled in for a long, slow meander back to the marina. The kids read books and played cards in the tiny cabin. I did yoga on the bow while Rob listened to a podcast under an umbrella at the helm. Even though the breeze was only a faint glimmer, Tranquilidad moved at a respectable 3 knots.

The marina came into sight around 2 p.m. But as soon as we rounded the aptly named Breeze Point, the wind whipped up quickly and aggressively—just like we’d been warned. It circled 180 degrees and blasted across our nose in 35-knot gusts, sending us heeling hard to starboard. We frantically secured our scattered gear and swapped out the genoa for the storm jib. An hour later, after two dozen tacks and a lot of nail biting from our kids, we tied up safely to the dock.

I handed out pepperoni slices and water bottles while we got our land legs under us again. Rob backed the trailer down, and we pulled Tranquilidad out of the water. 

As the boat dried beneath the pines in the parking lot, I asked, “Who wants to jump in the lake one last time?” Both kids grabbed their nets and raced to the beach, just in case there were any critters worth catching along the way. 

Know Before You Go

Make sure you’re familiar with the extensive regulations and permits required to boat in Yellowstone National Park. These can be found on the national park’s website, along with park-entrance requirements and fees. Here are the highlights.

Season and boat length: The season runs Memorial Day through the end of October. Nonmotorized boats (including sailboats) are allowed on several lakes in the park, including Yellowstone, Lewis and Shoshone lakes. Vessels must be under 40 feet to launch in the park.

Marinas: Grant Marina has a boat ramp, trailer parking and pit toilets, but no slips or overnight moorage. Bridge Bay Marina has overnight slip rentals, but a low bridge to enter might limit sailboats. Both marinas are best accessed from the West Yellowstone entrance in Montana. Expect a one- or two-hour drive through the park (and delays from bison gawkers).

Backcountry reservations: All vessels must have a backcountry permit for a designated campsite each night, even if you sleep aboard your boat at anchor. First, study the map and boating regulations booklet for descriptions of each site (a few even have docks) and the mileage between them to plan your preferred itinerary. Next, apply for a reservation through the early access lottery at recreation.gov in March. If chosen for early access, you will be allotted a two-hour window in April to reserve your itinerary online. Remaining advance permits are available on recreation.gov in late April—and they go fast. A hard copy of the permit must be picked up in person at any backcountry office in the park the day before or the day of your launch date.

Aquatic invasive species: All watercraft must be inspected for aquatic invasive species prior to launch, and are required to have an AIS sticker on the hull after inspection. This can be done at a backcountry office after you pick up your permit. 

Fishing license: If you plan to fish, you’ll also need to get a license from the state of Wyoming and a permit from Yellowstone National Park. Be familiar with fishing regulations for each lake.

Wilderness preparation: Don’t expect to see a gas station, restaurant or rescue vehicle once you’re on the lake. Bring ­plenty of water, fuel, food and tools. It’s also a good idea to bring an extensive first-aid kit, a satellite tracker like Spot or Garmin inReach, and protection from sun, rain, and bugs. Each campsite has a pit toilet, or you can use your boat’s holding tank. You’ll be required to watch a short video on wilderness safety when you pick up your permit before launch. 

Required equipment: The park requires all boats to have PFDs, a sound-producing device (like an air horn or whistle), running and navigation lights, fire extinguishers, ventilation, and flame arrestors for inboard engines. Though not required, the park recommends bringing the following safety gear: an oar or paddle, bailing device, anchor and line, VHF radio, compass, GPS unit, dry bags, a floating throw rope or ring, and a visual distress signal such as flares.

Non-motorized or no-go zones: Certain areas have ­restrictions on speed, motors, anchoring, and/or landing vessels to protect natural resources and nesting waterfowl. Print out the map and boating regulations guide to have these rules on board and to ensure that you follow any special instructions laid out in your permit. Bring along a few field guides and a good set of binoculars to help identify the flora and fauna you’ll see in the park.

Triple-Check Your Trailer

While it might be more fun to focus on rigging your boat for the upcoming adventure, it’s just as important to get your trailer shipshape to ensure that you actually make it to the water. Trailers require constant, careful maintenance to keep you, your boat, and other vehicles safe while on the road.

Avoid flats by inflating trailer tires to their maximum rating, which may be as high as 50 or 60 psi. Check the tread carefully, noting if it’s wearing more on one side, which might mean that the axle is bent. 

Flats are fairly common for trailers. Always bring along a good-quality spare tire, either mounted on the trailer or stowed in the back of the truck, along with tools and a jack to change a flat.

Inspect the wheel bearings and repack them with fresh grease (marine grade) every few years or before a long trip.

Check the brake fluid and brake pads on your truck and trailer (some lightweight boat trailers don’t have their own brakes). 

Make sure the trailer lights work, including signals, brakes and rear running lights. Clean any rust or mud off the ­ground-wire connection with sandpaper. 

Check that the trailer ball hitch is seated properly before you go. Make sure your safety chains are properly connected, and take it slow. Like sailing, you’ll get there eventually.

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Amid the fleet of 17 new sailboats being introduced to North American sailors at the United States Sailboat Show in Annapolis, Maryland, the Ukrainian-built L30—a dual-purpose racer/pocket cruiser—stood out for a ­variety of reasons. 

First of all, at 31 feet, 5 inches length overall, it was the smallest boat that Cruising World’s Boat of the Year team inspected. It was the least expensive too, with a base price of $160,000, well below the cost of other vessels in its size range. 

And then there was the fact that it was the only boat that the judges were unable to assess with our usual in-water, dockside inspection. Instead, we trudged past tents and across asphalt, and climbed a short flight of stairs to board the boat, which was sitting high and dry on its trailer, parked alongside the show’s perimeter fence. That’s where we met the L30’s importer and chief cheerleader, Alexander Ivanov, an energized Ukrainian sailor, who now hails from the Pacific Northwest but travels the country, regatta by regatta and boat show by boat show, to help build the L30 Class one-design racing fleet and promote the boat’s attributes as a sail-training vessel and family cruiser.

Several days later, we met Ivanov again, this time aboard the L30 out on the water, where we had a southwest breeze in the 10-to-15-knot range. As soon as we’d finished our motoring drills, we hoisted sails. Ivanov moved quickly from winch to winch and line clutch to line clutch, ­demonstrating the many micro adjustments that could be made by tweaking a multicolor array of sail-control lines.

Hard on the breeze, the L30 stood up to its canvas well and bounded through the chop. With a displacement-length ratio of just 76 (the lowest of the new-boat fleet) and a sail-area-displacement ratio of 32.2 (the largest), there was plenty of horsepower to play with. And, thanks to relatively high sides, the ride was for the most part dry as we cruised along at 7 knots or better.

Later, with the retractable bowsprit extended and the code zero filled—nearly doubling the sail area—well, let’s just say the experience was downright sporty.

The concept behind the L30 was developed by a fellow Ukrainian, Olympic silver medalist and 49er Class World Champion Rodion Luka, who worked with designer Andrej Justin to come up with a relatively affordable keelboat with a design brief that includes offshore performance, ­trailerability, and ease of use. First launched several years ago in Europe, the L30 is relatively new to North America. Last year, Luka and Ivanov ­promoted both the boat and the L30 Class at several of the Helly Hansen-Sailing World Regattas organized by CW’s sister publication. Boats were towed from venue to venue and were available for charter, letting US sailors trade tacks and jibes with a handful of L30 Class European teams. Plans are to be at regattas again this year as the class expands. Incredibly, boats continue to be built in Ukraine and exported, despite the ongoing war with Russia. The design is also licensed to the Code Yachts shipyard in Hungary.

The L30 is a relatively ­narrow boat by today’s standards. Its beam of 8 feet, 4 inches allows it to be towed over the highway on a trailer or shipped via a container. 

As you might expect with a sporty daysailer, the cockpit is large and open, providing room for a crew of four or five to work, though the boat is also intended for singlehanded and doublehanded events. Twin wheels are located well aft, near the open transom. The boat sports dual rudders, each mounted in a cassette on the stern. The cockpit has no seats, so underway, one sits on the sole or side deck using  removable soft seats.

In race mode, the L30 is rigged with a square-top main and armed with running backstays for when the breeze is on. It carries a quiver of jibs to match upwind conditions, plus the aforementioned large, powerful code zero for reaching and running. In cruising mode, running backstays can be fixed along the mast. As I said, sail-control lines are abundant. But for cruising or sail-training purposes, sheets and sheet leads can be simplified, the main can be reefed, and the working jib is flown on a roller furler, so it can be easily set and doused.

The boat we saw in Annapolis had a carbon-fiber mast and boom. The mast is stepped on the cabin top using a tabernacle. We did not see it being set up, but we were told that the boat can be rigged and ready to launch in a couple of hours. Once in the water, the 6-foot-2-inch lifting keel is raised and lowered with a winch on the cabin top. With the foil up, the boat draws just under 2 feet, and it can be launched by crane or on a ramp.

Below, the L30 sports a ­minimalist and workable interior. Looking through the companionway, one peers directly into a head compartment, offset to starboard. A pair of bunks stretches aft under the cockpit, with a sink and counter amidships to port. There was no stove on the boat we sailed, but it would be easy to add a small cooktop. Forward of the head and sink, space opens up to a pleasant V-berth and sitting area. 

The base price of $160,000 doesn’t include sails or a trailer. The boat in Annapolis, fitted out with rod rigging, nke electronics, Antal winches and a full suite of UK sails, had a sticker price of $210,000, still less than any of the competitors.

The L30’s hull and deck are infused using vinylester resin and cored with foam. The boat we saw in Annapolis was powered by a 15 hp Yanmar diesel. A 6 kW Oceanvolt electric motor and saildrive are an option.

Given its size and accommodations, the L30 won’t be for everyone. But for sailors who have a yen to race, the L30 should prove competitive. When the racing’s over (or for a daysail), the crew can kick back and sleep aboard, if they choose. There’s also something to be said for a boat that can extend its range via a trailer, be hauled out quickly if a storm’s pending, and be stored in the yard in the offseason. But those reasons aside, what got me was this fact: The L30 was fun to sail. 

L30 Specifications

The post Sailboat Review: The Ukrainian-built, Versatile L30 appeared first on Cruising World.

When Joan Conover arrives at Fiddler’s Green, the promised land for departed mariners, she’ll look back on an Earth better for having sailed it.

Long before she took the helm of the Seven Seas Cruising Association, Conover was practicing one of SSCA’s founding principles: Leave a clean wake. On board, on land and on the airwaves, few have done as much as Conover to marshal the better angels of our privileged fleet.

On her first trans-Atlantic in 2005, she and her daughter, Christina, took daily dips of marine life—160 samples—all the way to Portugal. They froze and shipped them to Old Dominion University to establish an oceanwide baseline to gauge signs of degradation. Christina, a high school graduate at the time, became an oceanographer.

In the years since, amid 35,000 cruising miles, Joan and her husband, Greg, have helped organize sailors to improve lives, harbors, and communities in Haiti, Guatemala, Honduras, and Dominica, all tropical destinations that suffer from storms, flooding, bad sanitation, poverty, poor health, and the social and environmental impacts of yachts.

In 2007, some 11 years after joining SSCA, Joan took over administering Clean Wake, a program that SSCA’s founding sailors created to promote environmental and social stewardship. Joan has made the program a core focus of her presidency. “I liked their philosophy, written before many of the green or climate-change issues were raised,” she says. “It was obvious you need to protect the Earth because we have a tendency to mess things up.” 

Joan first went to sea as a 12-year-old girl, crewing on her Norwegian grandfather’s salmon fishing boat in Puget Sound. “I’m not afraid of big seas—not if you’ve been in an old leaky wooden trawler,” she says. After marrying Greg, a US Army tank officer, they adopted Josh, a ­special-­needs child who found water comforting. When Greg was assigned to Fort Hood, she told him, “I’d like to get a sailboat because it would be a family activity we could all do—in the middle of Texas,” she recalls. “Greg, who had not sailed before, called it ‘the craziest thing.’ Two weeks later, we had a sailboat. Josh loved it.” Stillhouse Hollow Lake, a reservoir that borders the base, was ideal for their 22-foot daysailer. 

When Greg was reassigned to the East Coast, they bought a used Morgan 41 and got their sea legs on Chesapeake Bay. In 1989, they used $50,000 in cash to trade up for a 1976 Morgan Out Island 51 that Hurricane Hugo had tossed around in the Isle of Palms Marina in Charleston, South Carolina.

“Let me tell you: A 1970s shag carpet is not good on a boat,” she says. “It was orange and green. You’d get seasick when you came in.” They renamed that boat after a colorful, disheveled character in the musical Cats. 

But it was built like a tank, and so roomy that it had a tub. Growltiger underwent a major refit: a 700-gallon-a-day watermaker, a washer-dryer, an autopilot, a generator, big house batteries, an electrical system and running rigging. Then, in 2005, they set out on a trans-Atlantic with their two college-age children and a mate. Over the years, they’ve rebuilt the engine, replaced ports with stainless steel, and replaced the hatches, sails, standing rigging and, more recently, the entire deck. The tub, Joan hastens to add, is used to stow stuff.

With a home port in Hampton, Virginia, and healthy retirement and savings accounts, the Conovers have been sailing back and forth seasonally to the Caribbean for 15 years. Josh and their Havanese show dogs go with them. But unlike most cruising conversations that focus on Caribbean delights, a talk with Joan is peppered with good deeds they’ve had a hand in.

There are the moorings in Dominica’s Prince Rupert Bay to reduce coral destruction. And the water filters, paint, shovels, stoves and a braille keyboard for a blind boy in Rio Dulce, Guatemala. The boat acted as a “pickup truck” to ferry supplies from Antigua to Dominica after Hurricane Maria. When a 2010 earthquake devastated Haiti, Joan used the internet, cellphones and her ham radio to coordinate sailors who traveled there to help. 

Joan is a plain-spoken ­woman with a broad smile who describes poor children as kindred souls. “They should be in advanced-degree programs,” she says, “and you know that’s not going to happen.”

Back home, her tall SSB ­radio antenna behind the house beams communications with SSCA’s port hosts worldwide. And every fall, as cruisers gather around Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, before heading south, she becomes a mother hen/drill instructor/tech expert to keep them safe. As a patent-holding systems engineer who is facile with radios, weather and terrain, she briefs rallies and then stands by to respond to inevitable calls for help. 

Every year, boats set sail with new-to-them ­equipment—what she calls “wonderful little toys from a boat show”—that she helps troubleshoot from her radio room. “I decided my give-back was to help people stay connected, if that meant the best satellite or tracking system, be it Iridium, ­inReach, Zoleo, Starlink, SSB, PredictWind—whatever they had—to make sure they could stay in touch. I don’t think people realize how important it is from Hatteras down to the Virgin Islands to at least be in touch, or be tracked.”

At 74, Joan says she’s ­getting to the end of her ­sailing years, and she’s ­working to pass the Clean Wake philosophy to a new generation of cruisers.

“I guess it’s the human drive,” she says. “A lot of us have it. Some don’t. If we didn’t have a focus of going in and finding what we might do when we arrived in port, I don’t know that I would be interested in going. I don’t go just for the passage. I go for the experience after you get there.”

For a list of sanctioned SSCA Clean Wake projects, visit ssca.org. 

The post This Ol’ Boat: Sailing With a Mission appeared first on Cruising World.