Dreaming of the wind in your hair, the sun on your face, and pure sailing exhilaration in the environs of an exotic destination? Perhaps it’s an annual quest. Or a lifelong dream. But where to begin? Once you’ve identified the destination, finding a reputable charter company, well-maintained boats and staff with intimate, local knowledge can be a daunting task.

What if you love the water, have spent many hours on your favorite lake or river but are not comfortable heading out on the ocean with your family all by yourself? With a bareboat charter out of the question and luxury-sailing-yacht charter options often out of reach, for many, the dream of sailing the big blue has remained just that—a dream.

But fear not, ye wistful ocean lover, whether you are a neophyte or an expert mariner, Dream Yacht Worldwide is uniquely positioned to facilitate those sailing dreams.

Founded in 2000 in the Seychelles, Dream Yacht was the vision of founder Loïc Bonnet, who set out to revolutionize the charter industry by making sailing an accessible activity for sailors and nonsailors alike. What began with six sailing charter vessels cruising the idyllic waters of the Indian Ocean has expanded dramatically over the past two decades.

Today Dream Yacht offers nearly 1,000 sailing yachts from 34 feet to 58 feet and power and sailing catamarans in 50 of the world’s most exquisite cruising destinations. What’s even better? Dream Yacht is purposefully designed to provide sailors of any skill level the sailing experience of their dreams.

On Location

With Dream Yacht Worldwide, you can think beyond the BVI and Caribbean milk runs, although there are plenty of Dream Yacht charter vessels in these areas too. Dream Yacht Worldwide offers more choices of destinations around the world than any other yacht charter company. This gives exceptional peace of mind that lets you know that no matter what destination you choose next, the charter vessels will be well-maintained and offered at the same high standard of service you’ve come to expect of Dream Yacht based on the sailing grounds you’ve already come to know. 

In fact Dream Yacht has so many destinations to choose from that if you decided to go sailing for a whole year, you could explore new cruising grounds every week without visiting the same islands twice, unless you wanted to. Imagine gunkholing in Thailand’s remote coves and anchorages, diving off the bow in Tahiti, or sailing under a fjord’s waterfall in Norway. 

Picture yourself savoring the cuisine and soaking up the Mediterranean culture while meandering along the coastlines of Italy, France, Greece or Spain. Step back in time in Croatia or Turkey, or battle the elements in the rugged seas of the Atlantic off Brittany or La Rochelle. With many European countries not just sporting one, but three or four Dream Yacht bases you will get the opportunity to constantly sail where the wind and weather is best for sailing at that time of the year.

Perhaps you envision catching the elusive green flash from the aft cockpit in a beautiful Caribbean or Bahamian destination, watching the sunrise, with your morning coffee, along the US eastern seaboard, or charting a new course in the Sea of Cortez or the Whitsunday Islands. From St. Martin to Sweden, the destinations offered by Dream Yacht will inspire you to expand your sailing horizons.

Dream Yacht’s unique premise is simple. Once you’ve selected a destination, it’s time to identify your preferred vacation style. Dream Yacht offers sailing experiences to suit every cruising preference, from bareboat and skippered to by-the-cabin and fully crewed charters or long-term rentals.

The Bare Essentials

When all you need is a reliable, well-maintained vessel that you can handle yourself, a Dream Yacht bareboat charter is for you. With a bareboat charter, you take care of your own provisioning, plan your own itinerary, and spend your days exploring at your own pace. The caveat? You must be experienced with the type of vessel you plan to charter and in some countries need official documentation regarding your skills. If you plan to explore the Mediterranean, for example, you will need your ICC certification. 

Aye Aye, Captain

Leave the anchoring and the chart plotting to the captain on this vacation with a Dream Yacht skippered charter. Perfect for those with little to no sailing experience—or for those who simply want to sit back and enjoy the world go by—a skippered charter brings a professional and experienced captain on board to man your vessel. Dream Yacht’s captains all have professional sailing experience and vast local knowledge of their respective destinations.

All the Bells and Whistles

For the complete all-the-frills experience, consider a fully crewed yacht charter. With this option, you and up to 11 guests can set sail on a large private monohull or catamaran yacht, and be catered to from the moment you step foot on board until your departure. Dream Yacht Worldwide hand-picks your professional crew to handle the itinerary, provisioning and daily cabin service, and you will enjoy water toys, a fully stocked bar, and scrumptious meals prepared to your culinary preferences by your own personal hostess.

Dream Yacht’s “easy crewed” product offers a bridge between a skippered and fully-crewed charters for groups of up to 10 family members or friends traveling together. You decide how little or how much service you need. Easy crewed charters are currently offered in select destinations in the Mediterranean, the Seychelles, Tahiti, the BVI, and Martinique.

Space for Two…or a Few

If a whole boat is more than you need, you may be most comfortable with a cabin charter, which is a shared-vessel experience that gives you a single or double cabin with a private en suite in the company of other like-minded travelers. The cabin charterers share a full crew, a set itinerary, daily meals with drinks and snacks, and the option for additional onshore excursions.

A Quest for Sustainability

As pioneers in their industry Dream Yacht just started adding a selection of electric sailing catamarans to their charter fleet. Quietly and emission-free gliding through the waves, even when there’s no wind to power you, is another sailing dream come true.

With 50 full-time and seasonal locations throughout the Caribbean, Bahamas, Indian Ocean, Pacific Ocean, Oceania, Asia, the Americas and Europe, Dream Yacht Worldwide has become a household name in sailing charter vacations. Loïc Bonnet’s vision of offering more boats, more destinations and more choice than anyone else is now a reality, and with its high standard of service, local knowledge and suggested itineraries, Dream Yacht is both an avid sailor’s and a novice’s dream guide to discovering the world’s best destinations.

For more information and booking details, visit dreamyachtcharter.com.

The post Around the World in 50 Destinations appeared first on Cruising World.

Our Contessa 25, Skyebird, lay at its mooring in Sydney Harbour, looking forlorn after my year trapped overseas amid the COVID-19 pandemic. Finally back in the Land of Oz, I rowed out to her, my mind filled with thoughts of sailing. It was January—midsummer in our Southern Hemisphere—and my wife, Carole, and I had just enough time to prepare for a voyage north to escape the Australian winter.

Skyebird is a former racer-cruiser that knew Australia’s waters well in its racing heyday. Australia’s east coast is the country’s most popular sailing area—and the most populated part—so there is access to services along the way. Stretching from the edge of the Southern Ocean to the Torres Strait, along an island larger than Europe, the cruising region is one that I have enjoyed several times. It’s best broken into two legs: Sydney to Brisbane, and then the tropical leg north to the Torres Strait and the Indian Ocean. The route is pristine cruising with relatively few other yachts. 

After several months of preparations, we set out in April to cruise the first leg. We gave ourselves six weeks to sail in daylight or overnight, according to the weather. The southern half of the region is more temperate, and the tropical northern part is in the hurricane zone from November to February. The storms can be powerful; Cyclone Debbie, which destroyed much of the Whitsunday Islands charter fleet in March 2017, had the force of a Category 3 hurricane. 

Even after this destruction, the beauty remains. I think of the Whitsundays like the Caribbean in terms of weather, as well as quiet beaches, deep anchorages and, offshore, the beginning of the Great Barrier Reef’s sheltered cruising ground all the way to the Torres Strait. 

Settling into the cruise

Aboard Skyebird, the day had worn on and the wind had lightened, so I hanked on the genoa instead of the working jib for us to reach our destination of Broken Bay before nightfall. Motoring was not really an option because we had only an 8 hp outboard in the transom well. Broken Bay is the Sydney region’s main cruising ground—a network of estuaries, rivers and creeks that offer good shelter. As we sailed in, we passed the busy yachting area known as Pittwater, which is home to several yacht clubs and marinas. 

We glided into our favorite anchorage as the sun fell below the western hills. Later, whisky in hand and our fleeces on, we sat on deck enjoying the evening song of the kookaburras’ laughter. With the strong Australian sun having charged our battery from the two solar panels, I used my laptop to check the weather for the next leg, a 50-nautical-mile sail to the major port of Newcastle. 

Early the next morning, we hoisted sail before sunrise and glided seaward past the winking lighthouse at Barrenjoey Head. With safety in mind, I used my phone app to register our voyage with the Marine Safety Authority. At the tiller, Carole enjoyed the thrill of sailing Skyebird over the swells as the breeze filled in to about 15 knots and white spume flew from the wave crests.

Pilotage on Australia’s east coast is relatively benign at first glance: short tidal range, stable weather and lots of sunshine. But there are hazards, such as the strong, south-flowing East Australian Current. It’s a lee shore when strong easterlies blow, and many of the anchorages are guarded by shifting sandbars. Australian surfers are often world champions for a good reason.

The famous southerly wind caught up with us about 10 miles south of Newcastle and then backed easterly. On the foredeck, I wrestled down the genoa for the working jib as we sped along at 7 knots. Our inshore track was now dangerous, so we added some offing as the gusts grew to 25 and then 30 knots. A second reef was put into the mainsail. Slab reefing, gooseneck bullhorns and a topping lift had been my major changes to the rig, and they were all essentials on this voyage, along with using the heavy topping lift as a running backstay. Conditions worsened, so I worried about the east-facing entrance to Newcastle Harbour, a narrow gap known for cross seas. On approach, we followed an arriving coal boat and surfed in on the breaking swells as night fell over the town. 

As we settled into our berth at the Newcastle Yacht Club, a neighbor ­congratulated us on having the ­smallest oceangoing vessel there, beating his home-built Vertue 26 by a mere 6 inches. The next day, he kindly drove me to Whitworths, which is Australia’s main chandlery chain, and then to Jaycar (kind of like RadioShack) for electrical components. 

But we weren’t in civilization for long. A few days later, we headed north, sailing wing on wing along the seemingly endless beaches of the Stockton Bight. Light southerlies propelled us toward the towering headlands that marked the entrance to the next main cruising ground, Port Stephens. Larger than Sydney Harbour and with hidden estuaries and creeks, it attracts cruising and racing sailors. The main town, Nelson Bay, and the general region were once considered for Australia’s capital, but it’s a terribly shallow area where channels must be religiously followed, or sandbars and rocks await your keel. 

Approaching the heads at Port Stephens can be done only in mild conditions, so we skirted the southern headland below the lighthouse, then studied our Raymarine echo sounder. The numbers fell 6 feet before we found a public mooring at Salamander Bay during low tide. These moorings are meant to be for 24-hour use, but a couple of days can usually be spent on them. 

After rowing ashore, we celebrated our arrival in port from the balcony of the Game Fish Club with some gamefish on our plates, no doubt courtesy of the high-end angling boats that hunt the black marlin in the area. 

A relaxing stretch

The next day, a swim at the beach roused us just in time to watch the racing fleet pass. The four main marinas were packed for the annual Sail Port Stephens event. A grand-prix division of TP52s scythed past our boat, and I considered joining one as crew. My wife read my thoughts and reminded me that I was in cruise mode for this trip, so I ignominiously went grocery shopping instead.

Our next destination was only a 15-mile sail yet one of the most sublime, into the Broughton Archipelago. Guarded on all sides by shoals, some uncharted, its fortress-­type exterior deters most yachties, but I knew it well. As we came under the lee of its north side, the water revealed myriad browns (shoals), sky blue (sand) and deep blue (clear water). A shark swam by—the region is a gray shark nursery—as a muttonbird swooped in toward its burrow. Then, sheer bliss as the engine stopped, its sound replaced by the piping of sooty oystercatchers and the quizzical look of cormorants drying their wings on a nearby rock.

The Broughton Archipelago is a national park, but it used to be a fishing settlement. The Gumbaynggirr and other aboriginal tribes would have paddled the 2-mile mainland crossing when the surf was low. The mainland itself has towering gum and eucalyptus trees (the largest one in the entire state of New South Wales is nearby). The place is beautiful today, although its history is bloody; it’s the site of one of the worst aboriginal massacres in this bloodstained land. The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes is essential reading for those interested in the formation of white Australia. 

On Skyebird, the sweet scent from our methylated stove told me that Carole was preparing dinner while I landed a few zebrafish with the rod. After a run ashore, we knew that lingering at Broughton with a usable southerly was not wise, so the following day, we threaded through the reefs with a pod of 100 dolphins escorting us. “Look, a double-finned one!” Carole shouted, pointing toward one that turned out to be a large, gray nurse shark checking out our trailing lure—which I quickly retrieved. 

A few challenges

Just as well, because we were ­approaching one of the major ­headlands, Sugar Loaf Point. It’s strewn with shoals where sudden swells break. We could see them ahead, but I could see a few more were hidden from eyesight when I zoomed in on my Navionics smartphone chart and checked the Blue Charts on my Garmin plotter. 

Even knowing the area well, we were shocked as a huge swell reared up right beside us, just as a shoal, or bommie, revealed itself. Chastened, we carefully sailed beyond the lighthouse. Just like when I’ve raced this coast, we kept in low to avoid the 3-knot current, but it’s a dangerous game to rock-hop. Ahead, Skeleton Rocks bared its teeth at us in passing, just as the afternoon wind died. Avoiding drifting nearer required using the Mercury outboard, so with a plume of two-stroke smoke, we plodded along. The sun bit down on us, and we grew disgruntled, chomping on egg sandwiches while I thought of a plan. 

Motoring was not a long-term option on Skyebird, so I reluctantly resolved to put in at the river entrance of Forster, yet another sandbarred hamlet. However, with no easterly swell, that bar was quiet as we motored over it against the strong outflowing tide, dodging prawn trawlers as we went. The channel of only 50 meters wide in parts held our attention, as did the mere 1 meter under our keel. 

Finally, we lassoed a piling and came to a semigracious halt near the fishermen’s cooperative. Later, my worry about depth proved correct as I watched the full moon semidry us out, causing me to leap off and secure the mast to a nearby power pole. Our slightly drooping bow revealed the one major flaw in the Contessa 25 design: a cutaway angled forefoot on the keel, unlike the flat forefoot of the English Contessa 26 that regularly takes the ground in the tidal UK.

The next day, the town’s plentiful ­facilities—including Woolworths, a gas station, and a club where I enjoyed a draft VB, the most typical of Aussie beers—were easily within walking distance. 

Leaving Forster with only a light southerly felt like déjà vu, so again, we had to consider shortening our sea time. Like all diligent sailors, I did have a secondary port in mind—in fact, the only one: the commercial fishing harbor at Crowdy Head. 

This headland, like many Anglo-Saxon ones, was named by Capt. James Cook when he surveyed this coast in 1770. Drifting windless would only mean the current sending us southward, so we carefully glided into the shallow harbor with only inches below our keel, right alongside the jetty. 

Later, I threw out our smaller, second anchor to work as side rope—an old technique from my commercial-fishing days in Scotland, where 30-foot tides required creative mooring. The view of the Three Brothers mountains to the north was enjoyed with a Dimple whisky. My son and I regularly surfed the beaches around here, using the farm of a family friend. Famously, Australian novelist Kylie Tennant had a writing hut here and fondly wrote about some of that farming family in her book The Man on the Headland.

The next day saw us running north for our first overnight part of the trip, something that Carole was apprehensive about. With no ports of refuge on this leg, my weather planning had been done carefully, but it didn’t prevent strong winds and sail changes under the tall Smoky Cape. We were glad to see the lights of the all-weather port and town of Coffs Harbour and its good marina. It’s about the cheapest on the coast, and we stayed for 10 days, enjoying the restaurants and our walks up Muttonbird Island to view the nesting shearwaters.

A rough end to the journey

With the planned departure of my lovely wife, the next 200-mile leg was done alone. It began in big swells and wind as I caught the end of a gale to propel me northward before the forecasted lull. However, conditions were heavy and broke the Raymarine Tiller Pilot linkage. As I surfed down 12-foot swells with only the mainsail up, I considered my options. 

There was only one that seemed worthy: North Solitary Island, where I’d heard about fishermen sheltering. With night falling, I closed its wild coast and then sharply turned east into a tiny cove on its northern end. This rocky perch in deep water afforded me enough shelter to rebuild the shattered wooden linkage, and allowed some fitful rest before the long leg that would take me to my final destination on the Gold Coast in the state of Queensland. 

Contrary to the Bureau of Meteorology forecasts for the next day, conditions again worsened considerably as I passed the one possible shelter at the rivermouth town of Yamba, with its breaking sandbar entrance. More sail changes ensued, and then the ship traffic began. I’d been monitoring the ships via my Marine Traffic phone app with a good 4G signal, but there is a delay in this system. And, of course, an app is no substitute for proper shipboard AIS. So I found myself dodging coal ships and some unidentified vessels, including one that I thought was a barge tow, causing me real anxiety. 

Then the gale hit just as my autopilot batteries expired. Thankfully, I had prepared for this potential problem by catnapping in preparation for helm time. 

The worst of the gale came 20 miles off Australia’s most easterly point, Cape Byron, an often-feared place with the strongest of the East Australian Current. I trimmed the jib enough to allow Skyebird to self-steer with the helm lashed. Gaining some respite below from the rain and wind, I recovered, but I knew that the current had gotten me. I battled to douse the main, and with no autopilot, I tacked toward the powerful Cape Byron Lighthouse beam and, at last, beyond the river towns of Nambucca Heads and Tweed Heads, and the final obstacle, the shoals on the south end of the Gold Coast.

With daylight, the towering skyscrapers of this Las Vegas-by-the-sea welcomed me shoreward and provided some blessed relief from King Neptune’s realm.

Kevin Green is a sailor and yachting ­journalist based in Sydney.

The Contessa 25 

A quarter-tonner penned by Australian America’s Cup designer Peter Cole, the Contessa 25 has sweet sheerlines, a semilong and encapsulated lead keel, and a sizable skeg/rudder that, together with a 44.5 percent ballast ratio, makes it a stiff boat. There’s a fairly tall deck-stepped rig of about 36 feet with an inner forestay and a sail plan that has 120 percent genoa plus a symmetrical spinnaker. This boat’s class dominated the Sydney racing scene in the 1970s with 50 hulls launched. The hull is solid GRP that’s thickly laid, and all the bulkheads and cupboards are glassed. The mast has a 4-inch-thick wooden archway connected to the keel. 

The design is, in a word, sturdy. In 1972, one Australian magazine declared after the sea trial that its team would take the Contessa 25 around the world. Race results made some sailors famous, such as aspiring boatbuilder Bruce Ritchie. Bruce Fairlie, at East Coast Yachts in Gosford, built the Contessa 25 as a scaled-down version of the Cole 43 that won Admiral’s Cups and Sydney-Hobart races, and completed record-breaking circumnavigations. 

The deck was simply laid out with a tiller, self-draining cockpit, and large forehatch for spinnaker hoists. Inside, the Contessa was highly customized for each owner. Skyebird (most likely Hull No. 48) has a V-berth and quarter-berth, plus a third that is accessed by removing the table. It is an ideal cruising layout for my wife and me because there’s a large cockpit lazarette instead of a second quarter-berth. 

The standard galley came with a two-burner Maxie stove—the same type I retrofitted to Skyebird—along with a sink. Sharing the V-berth on some hulls was the Bryden Boy head. A useful fitting was the removable jerry-can water tank, handy for Junior Offshore Group racing. 

The standard inboard engine was a 5 hp gas-powered Albin with a feathering propeller. A diesel Volvo Penta MD1 could also be fitted.

The post Well, Hello, Old Friend: A Cruise Up Australia’s East Coast appeared first on Cruising World.

The most useless item on a cruising boat? A calendar.

I can’t recall how often I’ve heard and agreed with this quasi joke. Unfortunately, though it is mostly accurate, it doesn’t take into consideration time frames imposed by natural seasons, plus the pressures of the human-created ones. And twice now, when I’ve been voyaging in Australian waters, a combination of the two have led to more-dramatic sailing than I truly enjoy.

In 1988, Larry and I decided to take a break from fixing up the small run-down cottage and boat shed we had purchased in New Zealand to sail over to rendezvous with cruising friends at Townsville, Australia: a great way to avoid winter, and to explore a bit of the Great Barrier Reef. At the same time, we were in contact with several other friends who were cruising through Polynesia and planned to head south to New Zealand to avoid the tropical cyclone season. It seemed only natural to invite them to spend Christmas at our first-ever “home base.”

So, between the natural calendar events (i.e., changing weather systems) and our “human-created” calendar event, we ended up caught in the worst storm of our lives as we tried to fight south out of the Barrier Reef so we could head for home before the cyclone season and in time for Christmas. (We were caught in a “squeeze zone”: a ridge of high pressure wedged against a stationary tropical low.) Obviously, we survived. Obviously, it didn’t turn me off to sailing. Obviously, we tried and mostly succeeded in avoiding being pressured by calendars after that. But now….

David, who I have voyaged with since 2017, is from Australia. He has three grown daughters living in scattered places. One has a home and slowly expanding family in Melbourne. This definitely influenced our plans. Since David often talked of exploring some of the isolated bays and hiking trails of Tasmania, I agreed: “Let’s go! We can sail across the Bass Strait to Melbourne and have our own home with us for the Christmas season.” His young granddaughter could come on board and play. We could play host part of the time and not be underfoot when little ones got overtired. So, a year ago, after cruising from New Zealand through the islands of Vanuatu and on to Australia, we sailed Sahula, David’s Van de Stadt 40, south to Hobart, Tasmania.

Despite being in the Roaring 40s, we had good winds or good anchorages to hide in as we explored the islands and rivers south of Hobart. Even when we ­meandered around the bottom of “Tassie” to the truly wild west coast, we were able to find well-protected places to wait out the occasional strong winds that blew in from the west, especially as the only calendar influencing our decisions was that created by the weather systems.

We left Sahula safely sheltered in Kettering, just south of Hobart, for several months while I worked in New Zealand to finish a book project, then we traveled to the US to launch it into the world. (It was late summer in the Northern Hemisphere but still winter in the Southern.) Sometimes, in our land travels, I looked at my preferred weather app (windyty.com) and felt pleased to be away from the wild winds and freezing temperatures of the Tasmanian winter.

I reassured myself, when summer in Australia approaches, the high-pressure systems tend to move south and shove the Antarctic lows below Tasmania. That’s when the winds should turn light, the weather kinder. Besides, we only had to sail north, then west, about 400 nautical miles. I checked my mental calendar again. Yes, once we returned to the boat, there would be at least nine weeks to make the journey, with several interesting islands to visit along the way. If we got a bit late, all we’d need was a three-day patch of good weather and we’d be home and hosed, as the Aussies say.

But the reality proved different. Once back in Oz, both calendar events and natural events colluded to provide what can only be called “interesting” sailing.

Instead of the two weeks we’d planned, due to weather and the inevitable extras that always seem to pop up, we needed four weeks to get the boat ready to go after her winter storage. Then the weather turned foul, just when we were ready to set sail. Each Tasmanian we met said, “Worst springtime we’ve had in years.” That was of little solace as we slowly chewed our way north, eating up day after day of our mental calendar by hiding in various nooks and crannies from the often storm-force headwinds. As much as we reminded ourselves, “This is cruising; relax and enjoy this anchorage,” we couldn’t.

Each day we’d scour the weather forecasts looking for that elusive weather window. We worked north until we were sheltered amid the wild beauty of Wineglass Bay. For four days, we checked the forecasts the minute we awoke, at noon and at 6, but the weather failed to cooperate. Low after low marched right through the Bass Strait, sending gale-force headwinds our way. Then we both spotted it: the promise of a fresh southerly breeze to speed us north to Flinders Island at the entrance to the Strait. Three different weather models concurred: 16 to 18 hours of fair winds, maybe blowing up to 25 knots, then easing off for several hours before turning to gale-force westerlies. With only 115 nautical miles to cover, it appeared we’d have plenty of spare time to reach a safe spot before the big westerlies filled back in.

At 0100, we were both wide awake. “That northerly wind has dropped off—let’s go,” David said. Bundled up against the cold, we headed out. We soon found that the wind had mostly abated but the sea hadn’t. We kept going, engine roaring, mainsail doing nothing at all. By daybreak there was no sign of the “fresh south wind” forecast by the Met office. But an hour later, I pointed out dark water to the south.

The engine was shut down with the first gusts, the yankee set, and we were soon scudding in front of a breeze that rose so quickly that within minutes we were reefing down, then reefing some more. Soon, we were running under staysail alone before 32 knots, gusting to 40. At first it was exciting, feeling the boat respond perfectly to each adjustment of the wheel. Then, as we approached the entrance to Banks Strait, the waters rushing from the Indian Ocean through the Bass Strait and curling around the islands and into the Tasman Sea, we began to bank up against the southeast gale-force winds.

Had we been in deeper water, I am pretty sure this could have been just exhilarating sailing. But as so many Sydney-Hobart racing sailors have found, the continental shelf extends far offshore here, and with only 40 meters of water, the seas become short and steep. The autopilot couldn’t cope. Nor could the self-steering vane. It became imperative that someone helm the boat carefully. I tried spelling David to find I could do only 20- or 30-minute stints because of our height difference. The helmsman’s seat on Sahula is built for someone 6 feet, 2 inches. I am only 4 feet, 10 inches and can’t reach it to steady my body as I control the wheel. “We have got to get a wooden step built for you as soon as we get to Melbourne,” David said after helming for almost nine hours straight. (I plan to hold him to that promise.)

The winds neither abated nor shifted to the west as we approached Flinders Island. This presented a worrisome new problem. There is a bar across the entrance to Lady Barron, the small port on Flinders. All the information we had showed that the leading lights should give us at least 4 meters of water at high tide. But the bar is known to shift quite dramatically. I began to be concerned that, with this wind, the bar could be breaking. If the entrance was impassable, we’d have to lay offshore, maybe for as much as 12 or 15 hours, and hope the winds eased or changed because the charts showed no other anchorage that would provide shelter in these winds.

Then luck and modern technology gave us the break we needed. Though no one answered our VHF call, one bar appeared on my cellphone. Google gave me the number of the port manager at Lady Barron. “No fishermen working out of here anymore. Ferries use the eastern entrance,” Garth told me. “So no idea of what the bar is like or where it actually is right now. But you might check out the hook at Harley Point. Some of the ­fishermen used to shelter there when things weren’t right.”

There is a strange feeling of disconnect when the seas suddenly seem to disappear as you round a wave-swept, barren point to encounter almost calm water. Yes, the gusts of wind still screech around you, and yes, the scud of clouds overhead show the gale still rages. But as you feel the anchor grab the bottom and the boat settle back, then you realize you’ve found a secure—if not absolutely steady—place to wait till things calm down, and the adrenalin charge that kept you performing fades out. Then, an almost giddy sense of accomplishment kicks in. Sails fully ­secured. Engine off. Hot soup boiling on the stove. Wind forecast to abate and change to the west in the morning. We both felt this giddiness and at the same time, a ­wonderful sense of accomplishment.

This sailing definitely hadn’t been fun. Being pushed by the calendar lured us out in winds we’d rather have avoided. But we’d done it, worked together as a team, and experienced some of the winds and seas that give the Bass Straits its ­well-deserved reputation.

And now the calendar felt less ­pressing because we had three weeks before the family started gathering. There was still more than 150 miles to go. But now there were signs that things would improve, with the next high-pressure system ­definitely farther south than the past ones.

We’d soon be on our way again. We both agreed, once the holidays were over, we would avoid having the pressures of a calendar or schedules, and instead set only flexible goals. But as I was writing this, a note arrived from friends back at my island home in New Zealand. It read: “You planning to be around during the America’s Cup? Lots of fun parties and races planned for around the island.” The mental calendar clicked in. More than 10 months to get there, only 2,500 miles….

A final thought: Crossing the bar after a good night’s sleep and with the wind more to the west was a bit on the dramatic side but presented no true dangers. We stayed only one day at Lady Barron because a favorable wind kicked in. A relatively benign 12-hour beam reach got us halfway through the Bass Strait to the River Tamar on Northern Tasmania, where we then motored 20 miles inland to the delightful small city of Launceston. A successful passage after all.

Voyaging legend Lin Pardey has spent the season sailing in Australia and is currently planning a return trip to her home in New Zealand. This past summer, her husband, Larry, passed away after a long illness.

Cruising the Bass Strait

Challenging? Yes. Interesting? Definitely. Unfortunately, few visitors to this area of the world take time to explore the islands and anchorages of the Bass Strait. Instead, sailors head south from Sydney to Tasmania to wait for a good weather window in Port Eden, then dash across the straits to beautiful Wineglass Bay. From there they enjoy day-hopping toward Hobart. It’s sort of sad, because the islands of the strait, and the rivers and small fishing ports of Northern Tasmania, can offer the uncrowded, off-the-beaten-­track experiences most of us yearn for. But cruising here requires good timing, patience, appropriate anchoring gear and some local knowledge.

Though I have met hardy Melburnians and Tasmanian sailors who talk of year-round cruising here, for those who are looking for less-challenging sailing, here’s a short weather primer. This is the Roaring 40s, an area of strong westerly winds and frequent fast-­moving low-pressure systems that sweep right around the bottom of the world. Lows tend to compress as they try to push through the strait, turning gale-force westerlies into storm-force tempests. To add further drama, the waters between mainland Australia and Tasmania lie on top of an ancient land bridge. Nowhere is there more than 150 feet of water, and often there is less than 60. So, even moderate winds can create steep seas. The shallow water also exaggerates tidal and ocean currents, which, at the eastern end of the strait, can run at up to 5 knots.

Fortunately, during late summer and early fall, the high-pressure systems that usually dominate mainland Australia migrate south. This provides much milder wind conditions, and also breaks the predominance of westerlies. Though this southern migration can happen as early as mid-December, February and March provide the best chance of fine weather for exploring the Bass Strait islands, small ports and rivers along northern Tasmania. For several years, the Royal Yacht Club of Tasmania has hosted a Round Tasmania rally in mid-February every two years. More than 50 boats take part in the monthlong 800-mile event. To date, rally participants have never been kept in port for more three days due to inclement weather.

Due to the downturn in fisheries in the Bass Strait, VHF communications with harbor authorities among the islands and in the small ports is limited. As noted, we had more luck using local phone numbers provided in cruising guides.

You will be highly dependent on your ground tackle out here. A few places such as Lady Barron anchorage on Flinders Island and Grassy Bay on King Island have guest moorings available for visitors at no cost. Unfortunately, these steel ­moorings are designed for big, rough fishing boats. With wind against tide, you are almost ­guaranteed to suffer topside damage if you choose to use one.

Especially among the islands, sea grasses and kelp can make anchoring difficult. The preferred anchors among Bass Strait cruisers are a fisherman-­type with sharp fluke ends that can dig through the kelp to find the sandy bottom below. If spending a whole season cruising here, I highly recommend adding one to your arsenal.

Cruising Victoria, a Guide to Cruising Victoria, the Bass Strait Islands and Northern Tasmania by the Cruising Yacht Association of Victoria definitely provided the most complete information. We relied on windyty.com and deckee.com for weather planning. The latter also provides tidal information based on your actual location. As tidal changes can be up to an hour different on opposite sides of larger islands, we found their info extremely useful.

If you are dreaming of an endless supply of the famous Bass Strait crayfish, put on your diving gear. Fishermen will not sell to you cheaply because the price has skyrocketed. Crays were priced at 120 AUS per kilo ($40 a pound USD) when we reached King Island.

The post A Dash Across Australia’s Bass Strait appeared first on Cruising World.

The novel coronavirus sent the entire planet, including the sailing world, into a complete tailspin, and at least temporarily altered or even erased the very freedom we enjoy while cruising under sail. The following five COVID-19 dispatches from both near and far-flung waters are a testimony to the resiliency and fortitude of sailors everywhere, serving as snapshots of our time.

This past spring, the global pandemic resulting from the novel coronavirus upended the world—­including the cruising world—as sailors around the planet scrambled to seek safe harbors and dash together new plans even as borders and waterways slammed closed and the notion of “quarantine,” always a feature of the conclusion of a long passage, took on a whole new meaning.

There was nowhere, literally, that was not affected in some way, shape or form. Working from home here in Newport, Rhode Island, the stories began trickling in. Some of those filtering back were troubling; others were inspirational, bordering on outright heroic.

Take the case of Argentine sailor Juan Manuel Ballestero who, as reported in The New York Times, was stranded on a small island off the coast of Portugal in mid-March aboard his Ohlson 29, Skua, when the pandemic struck. Desperate to see his father, who was soon to turn 90, Ballestero decided to sail home. He was denied entry to Cape Verde to reprovision and pressed on anyway, ultimately spending 85 days at sea before reuniting with his dad in Mar del Plata, where he did receive a hero’s welcome.

Or what about the great yacht designer Rod Johnstone, one of the principals of the family-run J/Boat company. According to an account in The Royal Gazette, a Bermuda newspaper, Johnstone’s friend Jean de Fontenay was visiting the United States, with his 67-foot boat, Baraka, docked on the island nation in St. George’s, when everything closed down, including all international flights. Hurricane season was approaching. What to do? Well, Johnstone, de Fontenay and two crew hopped aboard a new 33-foot J/99 and sailed from Connecticut to Bermuda. They were never allowed ashore, but a Bermudan friend left groceries in their dinghy, and the four sailors split up and doublehanded the two boats back to the States. They were not to be denied.

What follows are five more dispatches from around the globe, of sailors facing and reacting to unprecedented circumstances in this dreadful season of COVID-19. They speak for themselves. And they make us proud to be members of the community of cruising sailors.

Problems in the Pacific

By Alvah Simon

The best-laid plans of the cruising sailor oft times go astray. But no matter Mother Ocean’s wind or waves, tides or tantrums, bluewater sailors always knew that somewhere on that distant shore, a port of refuge awaited them. Then along came COVID-19.

Perhaps most illustrative of these dystopian times is the saga of New Zealanders Daryll and Maree Walker and their two children on board their 57-foot yacht, Talasker. They had set off on the trip of a lifetime: a clockwise voyage around the Pacific Rim, up through the islands to Japan, over to Alaska, down the West Coast and back to New Zealand via the fabled South Pacific.

Things were rolling along splendidly but, while in Micronesia, rumors of a global pandemic began to filter in. They headed straight for Guam, arriving a mere three hours before the borders closed. They hoped to push on to Japan but began to suspect that the Japanese government was underreporting COVID-19 cases because of the effect on the coming Olympics. In any event, they could not be sure that the Japanese border would not close while en route.

They made the hard decision to turn around; as it turned out, it was much harder than they could have imagined.

For added safety, they chose to voluntarily isolate on board for two weeks before departing Guam, thus depleting their supplies. They sailed to Ponape, where they were flatly refused entry. Using dwindling fuel supplies, they soldiered on to the remote Kapingamarangi Atoll. The locals were friendly but firm: no entry. Understandable when put in historical context; the Marquesas Islands had a thriving population of over 100,000 when they first allowed foreign sailors to enter with inadvertent but devastating diseases. Their numbers bottomed out at 4,000 souls.

Talasker headed south to the Solomon Islands, emailing ahead for permission to rest, refuel and resupply. Not only was this denied, but they were even refused permission to transit Solomon Islands’ waters toward another port of refuge. Then they were commanded to stop and were visited over several days by police and immigration vessels who threatened fines, jail and impoundment for ill-defined violations. After several days of fear and confusion, they were told they could proceed through Bougainville Channel. But at nearly 100 miles out, they were ordered back to Honiara. They wisely ignored these orders and pushed on toward New Caledonia.

There they were told they would be granted only 24 hours in an isolated anchorage and then must depart. They were tired, low on everything, and dangerous weather was predicted near New Zealand. “Bureaucrat” is actually a French word that roughly translates into English as “cover your butt.” Those were the “official” restrictions, but they were granted two days of glorious rest before they were even approached by officials, then given access to fuel and limited supplies, and allowed to await a safer weather window. Viva le France! Ultimately, they stayed 10 whole days before a weeklong sail to New Zealand. There, after nearly two months at sea, they gratefully dropped their lines on the immigration dock.

But what of the future? While Daryll said that they are raring to head out again, many cruisers are nearly crippled with uncertainty. There are presently 40 foreign vessels “trapped” in Whangarei alone because all Pacific islands and Australia have closed their borders. Many sailors who landed in New Zealand flew home to the States or Europe and now cannot return to their vessels. The New Zealand government has extended all visas and customs exemptions for foreign sailors but, frankly, many skippers feel they are in the safest place in the world and are in no hurry to depart. In fact, normally each year the town of Whangarei hosts an appreciation party for the 100 visiting yachts that contribute an estimated $20 million to the local economy. This year, however, it is the cruisers hosting the party to express their appreciation for their treatment by the town and the Kiwi government.

For local sailors, such as myself, the lockdown was fast and furious. The restrictions were so strict as to prevent me from even rowing out to my yacht to check the mooring and bilges for an agonizing six weeks. Those who were genuine liveaboards—along with those who, against government directives, fled their land homes to self-isolate on board—were given an almost hostile reception by locals in more-remote anchorages such as Great Barrier Island. The locals felt that the yachties were depleting the island’s limited supplies and unnecessarily exposing them to possible infection, and perhaps resented the appearance that while people on land were being desperately inconvenienced, the sailors seemed to be enjoying a holiday of swimming, fishing and moving from anchorage to anchorage. Finally, the police were asked to intervene.

The New Zealand Marine Association last year sent out emissaries to Fiji and Tahiti, and as far afield as Mexico and Panama, to entice cruisers toward New Zealand for the Southern Hemisphere cyclone season. Presently, 300 westbound yachts are waiting in Tahiti for the gates to open. The Whangarei Town Basin Marina receives daily inquiries from the Americas saying: “The Galapagos is closed. Can we come if it is nonstop?” Any response would be obsolete before the ink was dry because the situation is too fluid.

Soon, as a French Territory, Tahiti will open. But New Caledonia, while sharing the same status, will still require a ­14-day isolation in a hotel at the owner’s expense and then a further seven days on board without credit for time at sea.

The point is, there can be no real clarity while nations differ in pandemic strategies, bend to political and economic pressures, brace for the dreaded second wave, and await results of vaccine research, production and, undoubtedly, uneven distribution.

But take heart: By nature we cruisers are an adaptable lot. This COVID-19 crisis will test our patience, but in time we will once again escape to the boundless blue.

Two-time circumnavigator and author Alvah Simon is a contributing editor to Cruising World.

Offshore in the Blue Atlantic

By Hank Schmitt

I have been fortunate to spend the past 15 winter sailing seasons in the Caribbean. My regular port of refuge is St. Maarten, with numerous flights and a high level of quality marine services. Most fellow veteran sailors thought the challenges inflicted by the one-two punch of hurricanes Maria and Irma were insufferable enough. But it turns out nobody had a pandemic plan in place from the smallest Caribbean island to world leaders. The quick shutting down of borders caught many skippers by surprise, locking many in place. Those caught at sea, as islands closed entirely, were in double trouble.

Obligations to departing charter guests in Dominica, along with confusion over the ever-changing closing dates of borders, caught me solo-sailing 180 nautical miles in 24 hours from Dominica to St. Maarten…arriving 11 hours after the island had closed. A 48-hour reprieve under Q flag only deepened the resolve of customs and border patrol to enforce the closure, which led me to Plan B: a sail to the United States Virgin Islands. I could not get into St. Maarten, but with my Swan 48, Avocation, being an America-flagged vessel, and me being an American citizen, I would be guaranteed entry.

In my mind, onboard email capability is not a necessity. So, before leaving St. Maarten, I therefore had to relay by text to friends ashore my answers to the COVID-19-related questions that US Customs was posing that were required 24 hours before arrival. After another solo overnight sail from St. Maarten to Charlotte Amalie, I dropped anchor off the Customs office located at the Blyden Ferry Terminal to clear in. No one in the office had received my pre-arrival health declaration, but no matter. Ten minutes later, I was legally welcomed back to US territory with no quarantine, no restrictions, no fee—not even a temperature check.

This is not to say that everything was normal. At the airport, the National Guard was performing temperature checks for passengers arriving by plane. The cruise-ship terminals were empty, hotels closed, charters canceled and the nearby British Virgin Islands under a no-sail edict. Seeing zero sails traversing Sir Francis Drake Channel at the height of the Caribbean sailing season was somewhat apocalyptic.

Finally having an island to shelter in place allowed me to watch from afar via The New York Times app and WhatsApp video calls as the world changed under pandemic lockdown. As the days turned to weeks that were closing in on insurance-­policy-imposed deadlines for moving to safe harbors ahead of the impending hurricane season, I was witness to the looming logistical nightmare of stranded boats within closed islands with no way for owners or crew to board. Some owners chartered planes—and in one case an entire cargo plane—to get to their boats via St. Thomas.

The group that runs the annual Salty Dawg Rally quickly pivoted to invite boats to join a loose federation of yachts departing weekly over several Sundays, helping roughly 185 boats get home. Almost all chose to listen to weather routers who decided the safest way to return to the States was through the Bahamas to Florida and up the coast. Since many were cruising couples sailing shorthanded, this seemed a safer choice. One big COVID-19 change: Sailors were setting sail shorthanded and not flying in additional crew to help.

I have made the passage from the Caribbean to New England every year since 1999. Normally I sail with a full crew of paying charter guests, but this year I decided to return doublehanded. Most years, I stay east and sail almost due north on a beam reach to Bermuda on the first stretch before making the second, more-challenging leg from Bermuda across the Gulf Stream to Newport.

This year, with a departure from Red Hook—100 miles farther west from my usual departure point—we were lucky to not have to maintain easting to get to Bermuda (which was closed anyway) and were able to sail a relaxed broad reach. I seldom set a waypoint sailing offshore, but rather try to find a comfortable and quick sailing angle for the first half of a passage. If you are within 20 or even 30 degrees of your desired course, you are OK, as long as you have a good idea of the next wind shift. It gets even more important to follow a compass course to a waypoint the last couple of days.

By the time we hit the latitude of Bermuda, we were 160 nautical miles west of the island, and had shaved 100 miles off the traditional passage. After four days of trade-wind sailing, the breeze kicked up from the northeast above Bermuda, which allowed us to crack off and sail west on a broad reach to set up our Gulf Stream crossing. When the winds went southwest a day and a half later, we were able to tack over and sail north to cross the Gulf Stream with the winds and current running in roughly the same direction. Our course was north, but we were making northeast over the ground while in the Stream. We rounded Montauk, New York, some eight and a half days out and were docked before noon, just shy of a nine-day trip dock to dock.

Now that I am home, I look back on my shortened COVID-19 Caribbean season and am trying to predict what next season will look like. Will there be the same rallying cry to return next winter or will many cruisers feel required to stay close to home as a theoretical second wave reels up? Or will more sailors than ever choose to social distance by taking off on their boats looking for safer places to shelter until a vaccine signals the all-clear? At this moment, who knows?

Veteran voyager Hank Schmitt is the founder and proprietor of Offshore Sailing Opportunities, a networking service that links boat owners with prospective crews. For more, visit its website.

Marooned in the Maldives

by Judy Sundin

We are a couple, Sherman and Judy Sundin, sailing the world on our Bristol 41, Fairwinds 1. We arrived in Uligan in the northern Maldives on March 15, with plans to continue to transit the Indian Ocean and then sail back to the southern Caribbean, completing our circumnavigation. In the three days it took to sail from Sri Lanka, so much had changed. The check-in was unusual with our temperatures being taken, but the masked and gloved officials did not come aboard.

At midnight on March 20, the Maldives closed its borders. Several boats that arrived after the closure were provided with a brief time to rest and take on fuel, food and water, but were then asked to leave the Maldives. Borders were closing like falling dominoes, and we were grateful we could officially stay put. Access to shore was prohibited, but we could swim around our boats. SIM cards for cellphones and other supplies were provided. Then we waited. As the weeks passed, our small home became even smaller: 36 steps for a round-trip spin around the deck; seven and a half steps from bow to stern belowdecks; two paces across.

We looked at our options. Tanzania was the only country open, but with our own healthcare concerns, we couldn’t go to a country that had basically ignored the virus, other than suggesting that herbal tea and prayer were a cure. After 20 days, we were given permission to mingle with other cruisers in the anchorage but were not granted shore access. Just how serious was this situation? How long would it last? Had the world gone mad?

Lots of questions, no answers.

COVID-19 cases started to explode in the capital city of Malé. A city of approximately 220,000 people on an island measuring a little over 3 square miles, it is one of the most densely populated cities on Earth. In the meantime, behind the scenes, many of our fellow cruisers were toiling away tirelessly, organizing supply deliveries and searching for alternative anchorages that we might get permission to go to. With a strict no-movement order in place, the latter was not getting any traction.

We once again made contact with our respective embassies to see if they could seek permission for us to return to Malaysia. No luck. We had to stay put. Yet the southwest monsoon season was approaching. The weather was clearly turning and the wind shifting, so we moved across to the western side of the lagoon and found some protection behind the reef and the small island of Innafinolhu.

Several boats successfully sought and received permission to sail to Malé and prepared to continue on their journey. Some had permits to go to the British Indian Ocean Territory in the Chagos Archipelego, while other EU-registered vessels received permission to sail to Reunion Island. As US sailors, both of those places were still closed to us. The rumor was that the Seychelles would open up on June 1, but where to after that?

Our agent was able to secure us permission to go ashore on Innafinolhu. After six weeks of limited exercise, my first walk on the island was blissful. We had turned a corner somehow, and the fact that we could once again resume sundowners on a beach felt like life had taken a turn for the better. Our conversations could be about trivial things instead of our stagnant situation.

However, a cyclone was forming in the Bay of Bengal—not that far away, but heading north. Its tail was sucking all the energy out of this side of the Indian Ocean, and we were about to get hammered. Our agent, horrified at the videos sent to him showing our tenuous anchoring conditions, immediately called the embassies on our behalf to try to get them to put pressure on the government to give us permission to move to other anchorages for our safety. It wasn’t granted, turning it into a wild week of broken rode snubbers and open-sea-passage conditions in our anchorage.

With a combination of the restricted-movement order and bad weather, our supply boat had not made it up this far north. Our supplies were dwindling. We continued to wait for news of any path to open up. The confinement and constant weather worries had surely tested our patience and our mental health.

Finally, we were given permission to move south to Malé. This had become the epicenter of COVID-19 in the Maldives, so we sailed there with some trepidation. Still, it felt wonderful to be on the move and at sea. With the assistance of our agent, we were able to resupply, collect our parts and get our medications. There are four boats remaining here in Malé. After 90 days of being in lockdown, the restrictions were lifted. We will stay here for the time being while we seek permission to go to the Seychelles. From there, we will decide where to go next: South Africa if it opens, the Med via the Suez Canal, or back across the Indian Ocean to Asia. Our uncertain travels continue.

Judy and Sherman Sundin, an Aussie and American, respectively, met while working for American Express in Sydney. They purchased Fairwinds 1 in 2012, and set sail for the Caribbean. They’ve been living aboard and exploring the world ever since.

Isolated on the Intracoastal

By Tory Salvia

On December 6, 2019, I awoke aboard my Mariner 36 sloop, Sparkle Plenty, to sun streaming into the cabin, totally unaware of the crisis that would unfold in the months ahead. Outside, a chilly Chesapeake Bay wind blew out of the south. With two crew, we soon motored out the narrow creek on the West River, about 10 miles south of Annapolis, Maryland. I contemplated the voyage ahead to Georgetown, South Carolina. There I would spend the winter in relative warmth. My plan was to return in April and resume my life.

After a rough three-day trip to Hampton, Virginia, we carried on to the Elizabeth River and into “the Ditch.” On the FM radio I heard something about “China” and “virus” but paid no attention. My focus was on bridge openings and making our designated anchorages before the early winter sunset. Our trip south was relatively uneventful except for one grounding on a mud bank that required a tow, my first ever in nearly 45 years of sailing. Soon I would be aground again.

In Georgetown, South Carolina, on December 21, I docked at Harborwalk Marina, just 100 yards off Front Street, the town’s main drag. I flew home for Christmas and returned at the end of January. By then, Wuhan, China, was starting to appear in the news with reports of a new virus. “Just another flu,” I thought.

By the end of January, the Wuhan outbreak was starting to make international news. In the US, February was a lost month. Even though the number of countries reporting the virus had exploded, locally it was business as usual. Then in early March, the country seemed to wake up. Once the focus shifted to “community spread,” I suddenly realized the virus might be here. Perhaps aboard the next transient boat? My slip mate’s boat? My boat?

Until now, our small group of liveaboards had shared drinks and cooked dinners together. As COVID-19 became a local issue, we started looking at each other with apprehension. What effect would the virus have on our plans? What about Intracoastal Waterway bridges? Would the Corps of Engineers close the Ditch? What about the hundreds of boats about to head north? Should we sail or remain in port? As public health officials called for people to stay home, I decided to remain in Georgetown through April, for my own safety and the general good. Soon marinas started closing along the ICW, local businesses shut down, and social distancing became the new mantra. Few transients passed through. Cruisers went into hunker-down survival mode.

With cases spiking in Maryland, I extended my stay in South Carolina through May. Each morning, I awoke early with plans to accomplish several tasks, but my energy quickly dissipated. I experienced what many have described as “COVID-19 malaise.” In the evenings, I walked the historic district. The streets were deserted. I had a cab deliver provisions purchased online. I did laundry at midnight. I avoided my slip mates. I wore a mask and gloves whenever I left the boat.

Once Maryland allowed recreational boating to resume in late May, it was time to return home. But my June voyage was not what I had envisioned. I had wanted a leisurely passage, visiting towns and isolated anchorages along the ICW, followed by a week or so of cruising the lower Chesapeake. But that was the pre-COVID-19 world. Now, a fast passage was in order, with limited to no external contacts. Then, suddenly, my local crewmember became unavailable. I immediately put out a crew call on my social media and crew finder sites.

The first reply was from Bill Cullen, an extremely experienced sailor known for his gear talks at boat-show seminars. Our passage would be a delivery with as few outside interactions as possible; we would sail as many miles as possible during the long summer days before dropping the hook. During the entire passage, we stayed at only one marina, in Myrtle Beach. From our departure, we raised sail whenever possible. Contrary to some “experts,” you can sail or at least motorsail much of the ICW when the wind is off your stern quarter.

With two weeks of provisions stowed aboard plus extra diesel and water, we made 12-hour runs and 70-plus-mile days; consistent southerlies allowed us to keep sail up along much of the Ditch. We free-sailed the wider rivers, sounds and the Chesapeake. Sailing added 1 to 2 knots to our motoring speed and more to our morale.

It was a fast but eventful trip, so quick that my relief crew was unable to join me, but Bill carried on. Ten days out of Georgetown, we pulled into my slip in the small village of Galesville.

As I write this, I am nearing the end of my self-imposed 14-day quarantine aboard. I made this decision long ago to protect my family and friends once I returned. Outside the marina bubble in the village, most people are not wearing masks. What are they thinking? In rough weather, sailors wear PFDs to protect themselves and their crewmates. If you go overboard without a PFD, you make a rescue much more difficult, putting yourself and other crew at greater risk. Right now, because of COVID-19, we are all experiencing some very rough weather. Like PFDs, we need to wear masks to protect each other.

Once my quarantine ends, I am apprehensive about leaving the boat. I feel like a singlehander returning from a long voyage at sea, unsure of my land legs. I am already weary of constantly being on guard. I am unsure about my future. Will I remain here, or will I sail south again? The only certainty I have is that Sparkle Plenty still pulls at her dock lines.

Filmmaker Tory Salvia specializes in nautical productions and is the president of the Sailing Channel LLC.

Quiet and Connection Down Under

By Lin Pardey

Cruising on,” I wrote to my family in the early days of the pandemic. “Not much has changed.” And in most ways, despite the COVID-19 restrictions here in Australia, that was true.

In mid-March, after a two-and-a-half-month layover near Melbourne to spend time with David’s first granddaughter and to welcome his first grandson, we set sail east and then north aboard his 40-foot cutter, Sahula, slowly meandering toward Queensland’s Great Barrier Reef. “Slowly” is the operative word. We didn’t want to get into the tropics before the end of the cyclone season. We enjoyed beautiful, isolated anchorages near Wilsons Promontory National Park and the excitement of crossing the shallow river bar at the coastal village of Lakes Entrance. Because we had little internet access, we enjoyed days of solitude, reading, catching up with onboard projects, and walks on shore.

Only when we ran low on provisions and headed into the town of Eden two weeks later did we learn the government was ­clamping things down to contain the virus. Self-isolation was to start the very next day. The last nonessential shops were being closed indefinitely as we walked through this normally vibrant little town. The market shelves had dozens of bare spots as I topped up our supply of fresh food. I was thankful I had ­previously done a large reprovisioning, so didn’t need toilet paper or paper towels.

We carefully read the new regulations and found no direct ­reference to people living on yachts, other than to self-isolate and go out only to exercise or buy food. As we journeyed northward, we tried to avoid shopping for groceries more than necessary and took the recommended precautions when we did. The only other times we were within 100 meters of another person was when we topped up on water and fuel.

It was three weeks after the self-isolation orders had gone into effect that we reached Sydney Harbor. And there I had a small taste of how difficult the COVID-19 restrictions were for most other people. Since it was legal to take walks ashore together for exercise purposes, we called David’s daughter, who lives in an a very small terrace house only a few miles from where we anchored. “Come on down to the park here at Blackwattle Bay. Bring Peaches (the dog) for her walk. We can stroll and talk as long as we stay 2 meters apart.” My arms actually ached from wanting to give her kids, Emily and Lachlan, hugs when we met.

Fortunately for us, Sydney Sails was considered an essential business because the crew there makes safety gear bags for the ferry fleet. Thus we were able have the boat measured and a sail fitted, then test the new nylon drifter Sahula needed. Kale, a fine marine electrician, was another whose occupation was declared essential. He did yeoman duty when we accidentally roasted our house batteries. The comings and goings of these tradesmen helped us feel little had changed as we had contact with other people.

It did feel spookily quiet on Sydney Harbor: almost no city sounds, only the occasional rumble of a truck across the normally traffic-laden bridge only a few hundred meters away from our anchorage. And almost no wakes to rock the boat as local yachts stayed tied up, and only a fifth the usual number of ferries crisscrossed the harbor.

When we went ashore for a walk, we did chat casually to half a dozen local liveaboards we passed. “As long as we spend most of our time on board, the local authorities don’t care if we move from anchorage to anchorage,” one told us as we lingered alongside in our dinghy.

The marine police in some of the ports to the north of Sydney had different interpretations of the regulations. On April 28, six weeks after the self-isolation period began, we left Sydney to continue northward. At a small market in the Pittwater region on Broken Bay (about 20 miles north of Sydney Harbor), we chatted with an American sailor who had been told he must find a mooring and not move from there until the lockdown was over. But no one approached us during the two weeks we spent in the isolated-feeling rivers and creeks of Broken Bay.

The American sailor was the first of almost two dozen overseas cruisers we met who were questioning their next moves. They were all stuck meandering the coast of New South Wales as Queensland closed its border to everyone other than residents. Many of these cruisers are having to fight for visa extensions to keep their stays legal. Because I hold both an American and New Zealand passport, David is a returning Queenslander, and Sahula’s hailing port is Townsville, the two of us can sail on to the Barrier Reef, then back to New Zealand.

It was also in Broken Bay that we heard what to me felt like exciting news. As of the next day, anyone in New South Wales could safely and legally have two other adults over for a visit. I immediately invited two Sydney friends to join us on board. Suddenly I realized just how much I missed entertaining, having an excuse to dream up special treats, give the boat an extra bit of sprucing up. When Ben and Di climbed on board, and Di reached out with her elbow, I began to do the same.

“No, that doesn’t feel right tonight,” Di said. Then we both shook our heads and eagerly grabbed each other in a hug. Now I knew what I had craved most of all in these strange COVID-19 days: the warmth that comes from true human contact.

Two-time circumnavigator and prolific sailing writer Lin Pardey is a longtime, cherished and regular contributor to Cruising World.

The post 5 Sailors Tell Their Stories of COVID-19 Quarantine appeared first on Cruising World.

Australia, for many sailors, marks the end of a long, exciting and at times arduous journey across the Pacific Ocean. It’s also the first stop with a large enough population and wealthy enough economy to support a market for yachts. As such, many European and North American cruisers end their trips, and sell their boats, in Australia.

Amidst the post-­passagemaking delirium and elation of completing a lifelong dream, a yacht owner must navigate the morass of Australian bureaucracy. This can be a pretty hard comedown after months of relatively free and easy movement through South Pacific countries and ports. All that is to say that a measure of foresight and preparation can go a long way in easing your crew and vessel’s entry into Australia.

My wife and I imported and sold our boat in Australia in the winter of 2017. The following is based on our experience. Note that policies and procedures can change from year to year, so ask other cruisers who landed there before you about their experience entering Australia.

Choosing a port of entry

Your port of entry will more than likely be determined by weather, route planning and the areas that you’d like to cruise. However, if you have some latitude in where you land, know that certain ports are easier to clear into than others. Some ports have a reputation for stricter officers and slower processing times. Ask cruisers who are ahead of you about their importation experiences to get a feel for the ports and their differences. Bundaberg, due to its proximity to New Caledonia, is the busiest port for yacht arrivals and has a good reputation with sailors.

Boat preparation, Customs

Australia is an island, albeit a very big one, and as such they are extremely careful about what comes into their unique environment. Biosecurity is the department in charge of inspecting vessels for foreign pestilence and can be an expensive hurdle if the proper precautions are not followed. There is an ever-changing list on the government website of what is allowed and what is not. Visit the Australian Border Force website for more information.

The Australian government requires cruisers to provide at least 96 hours’ notice prior to arrival. Arriving boats are placed in quarantine for inspection. Customs and border protection are the first to come on board. They are armed officers with a sniffer dog, looking primarily for drugs. Afterwards, a friendly customs officer will walk through the necessary paperwork for entering Australia.

The border protection officer will ask if you are planning to sell your yacht in Australia. If you say yes, you will be restricted to the port of entry until the importation process has been completed, which can take anywhere from three weeks to a few months. There is no penalty for saying you do not intend to sell your boat in Australia and then changing your mind at a later date. But, it is a bad idea to lie to customs and border protection, especially if the lie is easily found out; for example, if the boat is already listed for sale online prior to arriving. For this reason, many owners wait to list their boats for sale in Australia until after they have arrived. A vessel in Australian waters cannot be listed for sale in the country unless it has been imported.

Biosecurity

After being cleared by customs, next comes the biosecurity inspection. Yachts must declare all plant, food and animal material, and failure to do so can result in hefty fines. There is no penalty for unintentionally bringing banned items into the country, depending on the severity of the infraction.

The list of confiscated items on our boat included: a broom from Canada with millet fibers, a piece of drift wood, a large decorative pine cone and a raw food product including honey, potatoes and vegetable peelings.

The three options for dealing with confiscated products are to, if possible, have them treated (fumigated, irradiated) at your own expense, pay to have them exported or let biosecurity incinerate them. We opted for the last option as it was the only one that didn’t cost us more money.

Biosecurity charges $50 AUD for every 15 minutes they are on the vessel, with a minimum of 1 hour ($200). It is recommended to have prepared as much as possible in advance to make their job as easy as possible.

Many yachts coming from overseas have ants onboard. It is best to eradicate all insects prior to arrival in Australia. Five ants were found on our boat and caused us a month delay in importation while the boat was treated by an exterminator and reinspected.

Importation

The importation process can be complicated if you do it yourself. It requires a lot of paperwork and, in most cases, a valuation survey. In our discussions with yacht brokers and other cruisers, it was strongly recommended that we hire an importation broker, who can help the process go more smoothly and save costly delays. In most cases, without extenuating circumstances, the boat will be imported within 3 weeks.

We were quoted $800 to hire an importation broker in Sydney, but found one in Bundaberg who would do it for $300. Bundaberg is usually cheaper than Sydney for all services.

The valuation survey is conducted by an accredited valuation surveyor. The idea is to establish the value of your vessel so the government will know what taxes and duties should be charged. Often vessels are valued at much less than what they will be sold for to reduce taxes and duties for the importer. In our case, our 1979 Dufour 35 was valued at $19,000 AUD and we sold at $54,000 AUD. We have been told that the valuation typically comes in at half of what the boat will sell for. Nobody but you, the surveyor and a government representative will see the survey, so there is no risk of actually devaluing your boat to prospective buyers.

Taxes and Duties

After the value of the vessel has been established you will be required to pay taxes and duties. The taxes due are 10 percent of the value, which applies to all imported vessels. A 5 percent importation duty is applicable to all vessels that do not have a free-trade agreement with Australia in place (Canadian and American-built vessels are as such exempt from duties).

In the case of high-value yachts, the taxes and duties can be deferred until after the sale of the vessel. The downside of this option is that the taxes and duties may be valued at what the boat sold for as opposed to the typically lower survey valuation. The difference can be many thousands of dollars.

Haulouts and Boatworks

We were shocked at how high the yard costs are in Australia versus North America. To launch and haulout our 35-foot sailboat we were quoted anywhere from $500 AUD to $1,300. In Sydney, typical haulout costs were $500-$600 AUD. Another expense we weren’t used to were the hardstand charges. In Sydney, the typical hardstand cost is $200 AUD per day. Further up the coast, prices decrease somewhat, reaching as low as $60 per day in Bundaberg (still triple what we are used to paying at home).

Prior to hauling out, it is a good idea to check with a boatyard what the work rates are and if you are allowed to do work on the boat yourself. We prefer to do the work ourselves, but were surprised that a few yards in Sydney would not allow this. In the end, we hauled out and worked at the yard in Bundaberg. The haulout and hardstand charges were the cheapest we found (we checked every boatyard on the east coast of Australia), and the staff were extremely friendly and helpful.

Another option is to do any boatworks in Fiji at Vuda Point Marina. In 2017, Vuda Point ran a deal where if you prebooked a haulout at the Tahiti-Moorea Sailing Rendezvous (tahiti-moorea-sailing-rdv.com) in June, you would only pay $50 for haulout and relaunch when you reached Fiji. Even at their full rates, this marina is a good deal. The disadvantages are getting parts to Fiji, which is sometimes slower than in Australia, and getting quality workmanship.

Markets

Australia presents the best market to sell a boat in the South Pacific. New Zealand is another popular option, but due to the lower population and weaker economy, boats usually take longer to sell and go for less. The case is even more pronounced in Fiji and New Caledonia where sellers can avoid importation duties, but may wait a long time for their boats to sell and usually at a significantly lower price than they would receive in Australia.

The best market in Australia is in the Sydney/Pittwater area. When we asked about the possibility of selling farther north in Brisbane, we were strongly advised that the boat stood a far better chance of selling if we made it down to Sydney. Our broker, who has an office in Brisbane as well, told us that owners who tried to sell their boats in Brisbane, often wound up paying a fortune to have them delivered to Sydney after they sat for months on the Brisbane market.

Most of the boats that came across the Pacific in 2017 sold within a few months of arrival for prices higher than they could have achieved in the North American market. Within our small group, a 1972 Swan 44 sold within two days of arriving in Sydney for over $130,000 AUD. Two 1979 Dufour 35s sold within two months for $53,000 AUD each. A mid-‘70s Crealock 37 also sold within a couple of weeks for well more than the owners bought it. Rod Waterhouse at DBY Boat Sales (dbyboatsales.com.au) estimates that the same boat will sell for 15 to 20 percent more in Australia than the west coast of the United States.

Other regulations

Australia requires gas and refrigeration certification for all non-Australian systems. In many cases, it is cheaper and easier to replace the stove with one bought in Australia, especially if the stove is quite old. The same may be true for the refrigeration system. Alternatively, the gas and refrigeration system can be approved by a certified inspector. To get our stove and propane system signed off cost $650 AUD, and we had a 2-year-old stove in perfect condition and new propane lines bought at West Marine.

Australia makes for a fantastic country to cap off your trip across the Pacific and provides a great market for selling your boat. Give yourself at least two months to import the boat and prepare it for sale. Once it’s on the market, a well-priced boat should take around three months to sell. If you do your research and move through the importation process without issue, you’ll be free to enjoy the Sydney Opera House, great Aussie beers, Kanga Bangas (kangaroo sausage) and all the other delights that Australia has to offer.

Robin Urquhart and his wife, Fiona McGlynn, cruised Mexico and the South Pacific. Learn more on their website.

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A s the steel bow of our Tahiti cutter Beatrice surged into the swells, at the helm I felt a long way from the milder climes of mainland Australia as the foreboding mass of Tasmania’s South West Cape loomed large on our starboard bow. The Pilot book describes a voyage to “Tassie” as the Ultima Thule of Australian cruising so my cousin, Christian, and I had spent a year planning and keenly anticipating this three-week summer trip that would require about 300 nautical miles of sailing. We were amidst the fabled Roaring Forties with very little shelter along Tasmania’s unpopulated southwest coast.

The previous day’s passage down the sheltered east coast from our departure point at the Oyster Cove Marina, near the island state’s capital of Hobart, took us through a pristine cruising ground that’s protected from the Pacific Ocean swells by a series of barrier islands. Gleaming beaches, secluded anchorages, welcoming ports and marinas dotted the tree-lined coast. Tasmania is famed for its marine industry that includes wooden-boat building and, of course, the famous 640-nautical-mile Rolex Sydney to Hobart Race, which I’ve enjoyed competing in. Hobart’s biennial Wooden Boat Festival is another major reason to sail to this wild and largely unspoiled region.

In any case, the initial stretch of the trip, in light northerly winds, was uneventful before we sidled into the sheltered anchorage at Recherche Bay to conclude our first day of sailing. Its name — like many others in the region including the barrier island of Bruny — was given by the early French explorer, Captain Bruny D’Entrecasteaux, in 1793. Another notable Frenchman in the island’s history was Nicolas Baudin, who created the first entire chart of Australia during his voyage in 1800. Christian, who speaks French, particularly enjoys Tasmania’s French Festival week where these connections are celebrated, though most of the island’s population descends from former British convicts. Unlike the British colonizers, the French had been mostly scientists and discoverers.

Diving off Beatrice into the cold clear waters of Recherche Bay, I swam down to the sandy bottom to check our anchor and scrub some weeds off the steel hull of our 32-footer before our evening meal and bed. We would have an early start to pass South West Cape the following day.

Into the Wilderness

In planning our voyage, Christian had been diligently watching the Bureau of Meteorology website for weeks, so he knew our window of opportunity was tight for the 70-mile leg from Recherche to Port Davey. North of Port Davey lay the old penal settlement of Macquarie Harbour, but its entrance name of “Hell’s Gate” suggested a precarious welcome. Alas, we could not be going there on this trip.

After overnighting in Recherche, we motorsailed off at sunrise to dodge yet more crab boats as we sped south on calm seas, bound towards South West Cape, leaving our last mobile phone access point behind. Before too long, we passed Australia’s southernmost lighthouse on Maatsuyker Island, where we encountered the first of the bull kelp beds. The 10-meter long stalks reached up from the seabed and seemed determined to entangle Beatrice‘s prop. Perched on the long bowsprit, I directed Christian beyond them.

We passed bays and tall cliffs until the peak of Frenchman’s Cap glistened in the growing sunshine, with the brooding mountains of the World Heritage-listed South West Wilderness region beyond. This had been the last bastion of Tasmania’s indigenous peoples — the Needwonee and Ninene — until the arrival of white explorers and latterly tin miners in 1892 at a bay off our starboard bow named Cox’s Bight.

Albatrosses arrived along with a pod of dolphins to escort us around South West Cape, its gray headland giving way to low, lying cliffs that ran almost uninterrupted for 14 miles to the entrance of Port Davey. A dangerous lee shore in any kind of southerly or westerly wind, it was not a place for sightseeing so we kept our tan sails full and Beatrice moving along under full sail: jib, staysail and main.

Closely watching my Navionics chart, I piloted us past the outlying Pyramid Rocks at the Port Davey entrance. The charts showed reefs all around so it’s a dangerous place in a swell, but the calm of our arrival showed the tranquility of this surreal landscape of glistening quartz headlands, shiny white sea stacks and green tidal reefs. A small shark swam by us and then several seals emerged to stare forlornly at the interruption to their wild seascape. Shearwaters sped past and pied cormorants stood sentinel on the outlying rocks as we glided toward Spain Bay, the first anchorage. Our peace was interrupted by a static hiss from the VHF radio and then the clear and friendly voice of Tas Maritime, giving a mild weather forecast for the following days. In addition, we also had our Sony SSB receiver hooked up to a whip aerial which gave us weather reports from the mainland.

Uncharted Waters

Looking closely at my Navionics charts and the corresponding Australian paper charts showed large amounts of “unsurveyed” patches throughout the hundreds of square miles that make up this sprawling waterway, with only a sole light on Whalers Point near the entrance. First surveyed in 1820 by John Oxley, who concluded “the whole navy of Europe might ride in safety from every wind,” Port Davey became the major logging area for the coveted boatbuilding wood Huon pine, along with celery top and lesser varieties. When tin was found, commercial interest grew strongly and the “nuisance” of the indigenous tribes was removed by Governor George Arthur’s decree of 1826 that aborigines could be legally killed. This led to the infamous Black Line of militia that crossed Tasmania to remove the remaining indigenous population. This bloody history has erased most indigenous culture from the area apart from some cave paintings and the many large middens testifying to 35,000 years of a people that was so hastily removed. Hiking over from Spain Bay to the ocean side at Stephen’s Bay brought me to several large middens where shells and whale bones were seen.

RELATED: Tasmania: The Best for Last

Also marked on the chart were the many wreck sites, which told another sad history about sailing ships running down their easting from the Indian Ocean on the ­prevailing westerly winds. Unlike the sextants used for latitude, the timepieces required to calculate longitude weren’t accurate so many a ship smashed into this wild coast as it overran its intended course toward Asia. One of the worst wrecks was the square rigger Briar Holme in 1905, which drowned nearly all aboard apart from a few who came ashore to die of ­hunger. The only survivor was a man named Oscar Larsen, who survived 100 days in the bush before a fishing boat found him.

Passing Bramble Cove, we could see the main shelter for larger vessels including whaling ships; the small, adjacent graveyard tells another grim story, as the stark vegetation and lack of wild fruit meant little sustenance for shipwrecked mariners. However, indigenous knowledge would have revealed edible roots and other bush tucker, but by then the indigenous people were long gone. Eventually government provisions were stashed and rabbits introduced to sustain shipwrecked sailors. During my hikes over the mountains and dense Melaleuca-clad meadows, there was no sign of them — only wombat tracks and wallaby droppings. Still, I walked warily in case the snakes called death adders lurked. Perhaps the rabbits were all eaten by the majestic sea eagles that soared above me.

Rugged Port Davey

Two large waterways comprise this ­mountainous region, which is a marine reserve and a World Heritage area. These are the ocean bay of Port Davey and the landlocked Bathurst Harbour, which is reached via the fairly deep Bathurst Channel. Its dark-brown waters are fed by the rivers from the peat clad hills. Exploration ­required heavy use of our 20 hp Bukh diesel until one day, while at anchor in Schooner Cove, it emitted a loud groan followed by a plume of black smoke. The sudden horror of being ­engineless — and several days from the nearest habitation — dawned on us as we quickly looked over the smoking red engine. Our noses followed the scent of burnt plastic to the Bosch kill switch. On cranking the engine we discovered, to great relief, that it started but, of course, wouldn’t stop. However, a long pull on the decompression lever returned Beatrice to silence, and we celebrated with two nips of Johnny Walker.

Climbing Balmoral Hill one sunny day I met some more of the local fauna: the ­pesky March flies, a persistent type of horsefly that continued biting even when swatted. Their stings were somewhat soothed by the view, which showed a rugged vista of rocky headlands and bays running west to Port Davey; to the east lay secluded yellow beaches and the narrowing channel that opened to the 5-mile-wide Bathurst Harbour. The unpolluted air allowed for long views with even the saw-toothed Arthur Ranges in sight. The northern view was dominated by the towering 2,500-foot peak of Mount Rugby. As the weeks passed, it would be my navigation beacon when hiking or buzzing around in our inflatable dinghy.

Exploring by yacht proved precarious, as our foray up the northeast corner of Bathurst Harbour brought us to a sudden halt on the white part of the chart again declared “unsurveyed” near Old River. While cursing John Oxley for a job unfinished, I hastily clambered on the out-swung boom after realizing we were on a falling tide with 10 tons of Beatrice resting her long keel on hard peat. An impersonation of an irate Tasmanian Devil followed as I danced on the boom to tilt Beatrice while Christian gunned the smoking Bukh to free us. Yet more Johnny Walker followed to calm the nerves and soothe the March fly stings.

Stormbound!

Hiking one day among the foothills of Mount Rugby along the Port Davey track — the only way into this region from the populated part of Tasmania — I noticed clouds gathering to the southwest as I rested for lunch overlooking Joe Page Bay. I was about to feel the fury of the Roaring Forties but little did I know how quickly it would arrive. Hastily, I made my way back to the dinghy on the small beach at Farrel Point and set off for the 2-mile dinghy ride back to Beatrice. After reaching the boat at Frogs Hollow Bay, it was not long before we heard the first howl, as the wind front crashed over the trees to knock Beatrice over nearly to her gunwales.

The falling barometer confirmed the change in the weather, so in the lull the following morning we sought better shelter and anchored deep into the mud at an anchorage called Claytons Corner. Then the real might of the storm was felt with gales and rain. Nearby Maatsuyker Island reported 74 knots. Braced in the forepeak bunk, I pensively listened to the groan of our 120 feet of chain and line as 50-knot gusts slammed into us. February in Port Davey felt very different from mainland Australia, where Sydney basked in 86-­degree sunshine while we shivered around our charcoal heater as ­temperatures plummeted.

Of the half dozen boats that were cruising the region, most took shelter nearby at Kings Point or in the more protected Casilda Cove. Water is never a problem with rivers flowing all around, and the Claytons and Waterfall Cove offer clean, fresh water. However, our homemade sauerkraut and tinned food began to pale after day four. By then, the second bottle of Johnny Walker was as dangerously low as our barometer. To pass the time we yarned plenty about life and families, to whom we sent messages and position updates via our Spot satellite tracker. I read my way through Christian’s library and particularly enjoyed Christobel Mattingley’s King of the Wilderness, about tin mining and the wildlife pioneer Deny King, at one time the region’s only inhabitant.

However, with cabin fever growing, we eventually tried our first escape from Port Davey, sailing out to meet 20-foot combers rolling into the swell-covered bay. The old sailing ships would have been embayed but the Bukh took us away very slowly as Beatrice‘s deep bulwarks disappeared into green water. Worryingly, we realized the wind would put us on a lee shore on the leg to South West Cape. The time was ticking by for us to make a decision, as the only port of refuge at Spain Bay was downwind, so we waited for a lull and put the helm down to turn around and tuck into its protected anchorage. It would be another four days before the weather turned in our favor, releasing us from what was a most memorable and adventurous visit to the well-named Ultima Thule of Australia.

When not traveling the globe, Australian yachting journalist Kevin Green can be found sailing his 43-year-old Contessa 25 off his mooring in Sydney’s Iron Cove.

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Walking down the dock at Sydney’s Cruising Yacht Club of Australia, I nervously approached the pale-blue yacht, noting its pronounced tumblehome that harked back to another era. At first glance, Perie Banou II was a fairly ordinary-looking IOR-style ­design, but the logos emblazoned along its topsides and the heft of its deck gear confirmed that it was no ordinary Sparkman & Stephens 39. Its skipper, Jon Sanders, had just called into Sydney on one of the last stops of his remarkable 10th circumnavigation before crossing the Australian Bight to his home waters of Perth. As I stepped aboard, he laughed and said, “This will be my 47th crossing of the bight.”

Singlehanders have a reputation for awkwardness or downright grumpiness as I remember with the late Tristan Jones and John Ridgeway, but the tall and spritely Sanders immediately disarmed me with his easy charm and friendly manner. His piercing blue eyes, lightly tanned face and thick thatch of hair made it hard to believe he’s 78 years old and a survivor of open heart surgery only two years ago.

“I never get out of puff on the boat, but when I walked up that hill behind the yacht club I did get a little tired,” he said. The only difference seen in earlier pictures that he sent me — which he took on a previous voyage by self-timer while becalmed off Cape Horn — is his dark hair. Sanders has rounded the Horn five times while completing both east and west circumnavigations.

On this journey, he avoided the Horn, setting off from Perth in October 2016 and later transiting the Panama Canal. His modesty belies a determined appetite for ocean voyaging, which includes several outstanding records, the greatest being his solo, nonstop triple circumnavigation from 1986 to 1987. This remains the longest distance — 71,023 nautical miles — ­ever sailed continuously by any sailor unassisted and alone; it took 678 days at sea and earned Sanders an Order of the British Empire (OBE) and the coveted Blue Water Medal from the Cruising Club of America. While working in Perth a few years ago, I visited that record-breaking boat, a 46-foot Curran sloop named Parry Endeavour, in the Western Australian Maritime Museum. Along with the 1983 America’s Cup winner, ­Australia II, it’s one of the museum’s prized exhibits.

“This trip is my swan song,” he said while sitting below aboard Perie Banou II. A confirmed bachelor, he’s close to his brother, Colin, whom he stays with when ashore. Like some of the other solo sailors I’ve met, such as ­six-time ­circumnavigator Webb Chiles, I got the impression that shore time for Sanders serves as a rather mundane gap between sea time. Unlike Chiles, who has been married six times, the sea is perhaps a steadier mistress for Sanders, one that takes him to favorite ports such as the British Virgin Islands and, on this voyage, New Caledonia.

Sanders’ S&S 39 was built in Sydney in 1971. “It’s the second-stiffest boat in the whole of Western Australia, according to the stats,” he said. “The lead keel weighs nearly half of the boat.” It’s taken a few tumbles over the years. “She went right over once, but I held on, sitting on the cabin sole, and she righted herself fairly easily,” he said.

Walking around the deck, I noticed that most fittings, like the huge hinges on the main skylight, were oversize. “It can open both ways,” he said. Sanders still fondly recalls his first seagoing yacht, a Sparkman & Stephens 34 called Perie Banou, the name of a fairy in the book The Arabian Nights, which his mother — the well-known Western Australian writer Dorothy Lucy McClemans — was fond of (under the pseudonym Lucy Walker, she wrote 42 books). She, along with his father, an academic, encouraged ­Sanders’ sailing, and by the age of 14, with his brother and ­sister, Lucy-Anne, he owned his first sailboat. His late mother’s estate has helped him fulfill his sailing dreams. “She left me a small legacy, which works out like a pension and has given me a bit of money to go on with,” he said.

Perie Banou II has a fairly conventional Bermudan rig with a roller-furling headsail and slab reefing on the mainsail, but the deck-stepped spar also has a tabernacle for raising and lowering. Sanders runs downwind under the main alone, on a preventer, with the headsail furled. When I asked about the twin spinnaker poles lashed to the gunwales, he said, “On other trips I’ve run with twin headsails, but I didn’t use them this time.” At 78, safety and comfort are high priorities: “I’m in no hurry, so I always sail with one reef in the main now, which allows me to sleep for 20 minutes at a time. I don’t need alarms to wake me; my body does it itself.” There are three reefing points in the main. “And the third one is like a trysail — it’s been up in 50 knots and was fine.”

Sanders doesn’t engage dedicated meteorologists and weather routers, unlike younger Aussie circumnavigators Jessica Watson and Jesse Martin. “I watch the barometer!” But his approach is far from old school.

“I have the iPad connected to the Iridium satellite for emails and comms,” he said. One of his major sponsors, Navico, installed most of the navigation gear for this trip, including a B&G chart plotter, VHF/AIS-radio and a Simrad tillerpilot. “The tillerpilot is ideal when I’m motorsailing, and the Aries windvane handles the rest,” he said.

In the cluttered confines of his saloon, there’s memorabilia from all over the world. One of the plates above the chart table is a certificate from his last transit of the Panama ­Canal (his seventh), and another plate commemorates his participation in the Cape Town to Rio de Janeiro race (he’s done two). Sanders usually sleeps on the port saloon bunk, equipped with both a lee cloth and a cup holder for his usual can of Pepsi. His ­­galley is a two-burner gimbaled stove with a big gap beneath it. “I had an oven there that I used to bake bread in, but took it off for this trip because I’m not eating so much.” Instead, his meals mostly consist of dehydrated fare.

After the tour of the boat, we retired to the bar at the CYCA. “There’s no grog on board when I’m sailing because at my age I might not wake up for my watch!” he said, laughing. Back home, he’s usually seen puttering around the pontoons of the Royal Perth Yacht Club, another major sponsor.

“Jon is really easy to work with, and he’s just a great man,” said the club’s Kelly Scott.

As host club for the annual Rolex Sydney Hobart yacht race, the CYCA was a busy place, but a few of the sailors stopped by to say hello, though the majority had no idea about the identity of this tall, innocuous mariner. I sort of felt sorry for them.

The conversation shifted to motorcycles, and when he noticed my Yamaha dirt bike parked behind the club he confessed that a road in Perth was named after him. So he’s not exactly anonymous back home.

After a few pints of beer, Sanders glanced at the acres of shiny fiberglass floating along the pontoons and said, “I’d like that big Beneteau 60 over there. With the thrusters and all the luxury accommodations, it would be perfect for my retirement!” When I asked him if he would ever really retire from ocean sailing, he said, “Oh, maybe. Then again, I might just sneak off again one day without letting them know I’m gone. Not until I call them from Malaysia or someplace!”

Kevin Green is a writer, sailor and editor based in Sydney, Australia. For more on Jon Sanders, including his history of record-setting voyages, visit his website.

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Crossing the South Pacific on a small sailboat is really quite an accomplishment, and for many cruisers, Australia represents the final destination of this epic voyage. For those lucky enough to reach Sydney Harbour in time for New Year’s Eve, watching the city’s fireworks — considered to be one of the most impressive displays in the world — provides the perfect occasion to celebrate.

We sailed into Sydney Harbour on December 26, after cruising 32,000 nautical miles, meandering our way from New York to Australia over the past 10 years. To commemorate our arrival on Dream Time, our 1981 Cabo Rico, we chose to anchor next to the opera house in Farm Cove — what experienced locals consider the epicenter of excitement on New Year’s Eve. As one local put it, “Mate, it’s about as close to 7 tons of explosives as you wanna get!”

We arrived early, and on New Year’s Eve, my wife, Catherine, and I managed to hold Dream Time’s front-row position in Farm Cove, on the edge of the exclusion zone, without getting arrested, assaulted or damaged. The tiny cove swelled beyond belief with boats bumping, squeezing and pushing into every conceivable space. And just when we thought the bay had reached absolute capacity, another wave of enthusiastic late arrivals somehow managed to burrow inside. Fenders were needed and forced raft-ups were common. Our scope, which began at a moderate 3-to-1 was finally reduced to a measly 1.5-to-1. But Dream Time held, the weather remained calm, and positive vibes and shared merriment in the bay helped reduce a little of the stress between short-fused, close-quartered captains.

When the sun dipped behind Sydney’s skyline, maritime police declared the anchorage closed to new traffic — we had made it! There was a universal sigh of relief in the cove. Fenders, lines and anchor chains were adjusted for the last time of the year as hundreds of boats, in an anchorage that normally supports just a dozen, settled down in anticipation of Sydney’s largest fireworks display in history.

The New Year’s events began in the early evening, and for hours we were completely transfixed by daredevil aerobatic displays over the harbor, Tall Ship and megayacht light parades, and video projections. At the stroke of midnight, an eruption of pyrotechnics shook the city and for 12 magical minutes consumed the entire Sydney Harbour Bridge in an explosion of color that decorated the opera house in a dazzling canopy of light.

It was an unforgettable experience, and like Carnaval in Panama, the Matava’a o te Henua Enana festival in the Marquesas and the Naghol land-diving ceremony in Vanuatu, it was a defining moment in our world voyage. Sure, it was a little stressful at times — we had to assert our position, fend off boats to avoid collision and politely ask others not to drop their anchor across our chain — but it was definitely worth it. In fact, it was such an awesome experience we’re considering doing it all over again next year!

Although, perhaps on somebody else’s boat.

We soaked in the surroundings from Dream Time’s coachroof, amazed that we had managed to secure an uninterrupted panoramic view of the opera house and the entire Sydney Harbour Bridge, and the energy on the water and shoreline, where up to a million spectators had gathered to watch the display, was electrifying. We invited kayakers to raft up to our dinghy, we shared drinks and laughs, and the charter catamaran that had aggressively anchored at the last minute just feet from our bow even graciously presented plates heaped with delicious barbecued kebabs and lamb chops as an apologetic offering.

Tips for watching the Fireworks:

For cruisers arriving in Australia at the end of the year and planning to complete their Pacific crossing with a celebratory big bang, here are a few tips that may prove helpful:

Where: There are dozens of bays around Sydney Harbour, and almost all of them offer incredible views of the fireworks. But Farm Cove, framed by the Royal Botanical Gardens, is the closest civilian crafts (under 50 feet in length) are allowed to get. So, if you want an intimate experience, one where you’ll even feel the percussion blast from the pyrotechnics, this is where you’ll want to be. We anchored at: 33° 51.48′ S and 151° 13.19′ E on the exclusion line in the middle of the bay.

When: The anchorage fills up quickly, so arrive in Farm Cove no later than the morning of December 30. When city officials drop the exclusion buoys, if you want an uninterrupted view, immediately relocate and anchor as close to the line as you can. But be sure wind and current don’t carry you over because you will be told to move.

How: In depths of around 40 feet, drop a 3-to-1 scope when you first arrive, and give your anchor time to settle into the mud bottom. Later, on New Year’s Eve, when the bay fills to capacity with late arrivals, be prepared to reduce scope. Also, until the anchorage is closed, consider keeping your engine running so, if necessary and at idle speed, you can hold your position.

Tips: Put out all your fenders! Wind and water eddies in the bay will spin you in every direction. If there’s a little space next to you at the end of the day, encourage boats similar to your vessel or small motorboats to fill the hole. Don’t use an anchor snubber because you might want to adjust scope quickly, and if wind and water are so rough you require a snubber, you definitely don’t want to be in Farm Cove!

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The whale shark is certainly not a whale, nor is it really much of a shark, at least not the snarly predatory kind often imagined with row upon row of serrated teeth. It’s not particularly fast either, and swaggers around the ocean at much the same casual pace of a sea turtle. And because it never has to surface for air, and regularly swims to depths of more than 3,000 feet, its breeding habits and migration patterns remain mostly a wonderful mystery. But one fact is indisputable: The whale shark is an absolute giant. At about 40 feet and 47,000 pounds, it’s the world’s largest fish, to be exact, and recently we had the rare privilege and pleasure of swimming with one.

Only at certain times and in a few specific corners of the world can these gentle giants be sighted with regularity — about one week after a full moon, during coral spawning, when aquatic life gathers in vast numbers to feed up the food chain. And as fate would have it, our arrival in Australia on Dream Time, our 1981 Cabo Rico, and an expedition along the country’s remote western coastline, just happened to coincide with this phenomenon.

Even with nature in your favor, simply sighting a whale shark is a challenging endeavor. After all, the Ningaloo Reef, a World Heritage Site where these fish gather for a few months each year, covers a vast area more than 2,000 square nautical miles, and swimming with one, well, that’s significantly harder and requires a coordinated team effort.

We teamed up with Coral Bay Eco Tours, one of only three vessels in the area that’s licensed, experienced and equipped to research and view these magnificent fish. But with more than 20 years’ ­experience, even its crew requires a little help locating the elusive creatures, relying on a spotter plane to circle this corner of the Indian Ocean in the hope of narrowing the search.

After a few hours of snorkeling the drop-off, where the reef fell away under our fins to a deep, rich world of blue sapphire and sparkling light fractures, the VHF crackled to life to deliver the much-awaited news — a whale shark sighting 10 miles offshore. The dive vessel became a flurry of excitement and activity, and while our skipper navigated us in the general direction of Madagascar, we quickly geared up and, as practiced, gathered on the swim platform like a team of Navy SEALs readying for deployment. With confirmation that the whale shark was approaching, we all rolled, splashed and clambered into the ocean, buried our masks underwater and eagerly awaited our first encounter with the king of fish.

It materialized slowly from the planktonic-rich waters like a white-spotted submarine, its broad, flat head gliding directly toward our tiny huddled group. It seemed entirely indifferent to our presence, judging us, perhaps, to be just a rather amusing school of fish wishing to hitchhike a ride. As it drew closer, we swam to the sides to avoid a very slow head-on collision, and for a few magical minutes we swam alongside and behind its great swaying tail before watching it silently disappear into the depths. It was an awe-inspiring encounter, much like how sighting an alien spacecraft would feel, I imagine, or perhaps contact with a woolly mammoth. It felt out of this world.

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Over the years, I have been to many boat shows, and I’ve enjoyed all of them. From a business perspective, they are the perfect setting for marine manufacturers and retailers to showcase their wares and innovations. From a consumer’s point of view, they draw enthusiasts from far and wide into a critical mass of kindred spirits. No matter if you are strolling the docks on a beautiful autumn day or crowded into a convention center, sheltered from a brutal Chicago winter, the atmosphere becomes one of fun, fantasy, inspiration and education. Good things happen.

Until visiting the Australian Wooden Boat Festival last February, however, I had never been to a “boat festival,” and did not quite understand the difference. While boat shows are essentially driven by profit, festivals are driven by passion. A boat show is about the future of yachting; a boat festival is about its past. A focus on the future tends to be individual, the past collective, thus a special bond seems to develop between festival participants. But there is another difference: uni­directional cellulose fiber, aka wood. Wooden-boat people are more than mere enthusiasts; they are true believers, adherents to an ancient religion. Their flame of faith may have flickered historically, but it has never been extinguished. Their connection to wooden boats and the tried-and-true ways of yore grows beyond a hobby to become a holistic lifestyle intertwined with elements of reverence and respect.

Thanks to a host of volunteers and perhaps some local municipal sponsorship, most festivals are free to the public. The “displays” are mostly the treasured vessels of amateur wooden-boat owners with no other incentive to attend than the pride of ownership. Somehow, the shared dedication of preserving elegant icons of an age past combines with every sailor’s need for a grand ol’ party to create a palpably friendly atmosphere.

There are three major and many minor festivals worldwide. Brest, in France, hosts Europe’s largest every four years, the next being in 2020. Because of its proximity to major European ports, this festival boasts the attendance of numerous historic Tall Ships plus a large complement of traditional recreational vessels. The docks hold an eclectic crowd, the Celtic music is loud and the food and wine are of the best French standard.

Port Townsend, Washington, which years ago might have been considered a hippie holdout in nautical terms, has matured into a vibrant sailing town, and is now recognized as the epicenter of traditional boating for the entire West Coast. From humble beginnings 40 years ago, the Port Townsend Wooden Boat Festival has grown into a world-renowned event. With more than 300 vessels on display, top-quality music, food, lectures and other family-friendly events, the annual September show bustles to overflowing. The early success of the Wooden Boat Festival gave birth to the Northwest Maritime Center, which has served more than 150,000 students of all ages in areas such as boatbuilding, sailing, maritime safety and community activism.

And in a galaxy far, far away, there is the aforementioned Australian Wooden Boat Festival held every two years in Hobart, Tasmania. Admittedly, this is down under even by Australian standards. But distance notwithstanding, with 455 vessels featured in its 2017 festival, it is certainly the largest “wood only” event and perhaps the largest in any terms. All claims of size aside, the AWBF is a world-class extravaganza. Any sailor with caulk in their seams should make this pilgrimage at least once in their lifetime.

Feature Vessels, Parade of Sails, AWBF 2017, Hobart, Tasmania, Australia

I finally did so and was thrilled with what I found. It all starts with authenticity. The Dutchman Abel Tasman first laid eyes upon this glorious island 375 years ago (more on that to come). It languished in European terms until the British established a colony on the banks of the Derwent River in 1803 and named it Hobart Town. It is Tasmania’s remoteness that has made it so significant in maritime history because, by nature, everything happened by ship.

Early settlers discovered massive groves of trees in the nearby Huon Valley. Huon pine (Lagarostrobos franklinii) is one of the oldest living organisms on Earth, with one tree calculated to be 3,462 years old. It is very slow growing, with a tight grain, and oozes with insect-repelling oils. It is said that the only thing slower than the Huon pine’s growth is its decay, making it the perfect ship-building wood. It gave birth to a massive ship-building industry, the legacy of which survives to this day.

Hobart has retained much of its historically quaint architecture. Fortunately, old taverns feature prominently. It is the perfect stage for celebrating the glorious era of sail. The entire waterfront became a floating beauty contest, simply open to the public without charge. Dozens of musical groups rotated between strategically placed amplified stations. The smell of ethnic cuisine wafted out from rows of food stalls. Wood chips flew at several boatbuilding demonstrations next to grizzled lobstermen handcrafting old-fashioned lobster pots from a native cane. Seminars included a host of local luminaries as well as international speakers, such as yacht designer Ron Holland, author Lin Pardey and photographer Benjamin Mendlowitz.

The main docks were dominated by gargantuan square riggers, such as Tenacious, the largest wooden ship built in the United Kingdom in over a century. After a little controversy involving a wooden “ship” that actually sits on land and serves as a restaurant in Dubai, at 213 feet overall and carrying 13,000 square feet of canvas, Tenacious now holds the official record of being the largest wooden ship afloat. The midsize square riggers and schooners included Yukon, Windward Bound, Lady Nelson and, arguably the prettiest of them all, Julie Burgess.

The floating docks shimmered with national flags, burgees and pennants. The docks glistened with hand-rubbed varnish and polished brass. My head and heart got turned in every direction. Fashion and function were not mutually exclusive; these were sailing sculptures. They were art you can leave out in the rain.

Here was the George Luckman-­designed-and-built Terra Linna, circa 1880, the oldest racing yacht afloat in Tasmania. But by no means is it the oldest design. A replica of the Aboriginal cork-weed-and-strip-bark canoe, lashed together with over 1,600 feet of handmade rope, paddled by. Its origins reach back an estimated 42,000 years. It is named Rrala, which means “strong” in the Palawa kani language. It serves as a humbling reminder that we contemporary sailors were not the first on the water.

Rrala passed under the elegant stern of Holger Danske, an Aage Nielsen 41, winner of the 1980 Newport Bermuda Race. I eavesdropped on the language of the aficionados as they perused the spectacle and heard adjectives more frequently reserved for wine bottles: sassy, sultry, robust, supple, approachable…

There were plenty of personalities to go with these unique vessels. On the diminutive Cape Stormy, I met the indomitable 89-year-old Peter Maussey, who in 1953, with his beautiful wife, Lesley, became the first Australian couple to circumnavigate. He is known as the “Million Mile Man;” between his cruising and yacht deliveries of many decades, he has logged up an incredible tally of trips and tales.

The docks were full of long sprits and high spirits. With close to a quarter million people in attendance, shoreside accommodations were tight. Problem solved: Bring in the cruise liner Ovation of the Seas, with 5,000 passengers treated to a bird’s-eye view of the show below, the highlight of which is the Parade of Sail. All the vessels gathered in the bay in front of Hobart and formed an exquisite sail-by for cheering crowds on the shore. If you love the sea and all that sails upon it, this cloud of canvas is almost a sensory overload.

Each biennial festival centers on a specific theme. This year’s was the celebration of the 375th anniversary of Tasman’s famous voyage. The local museum created a comprehensive historical display of Tasman’s journey replete with authentic memorabilia. The Dutch ambassador opened the ceremonies. A contingent of Dutch sailors came over with several historical designs, such as the 20-foot shoal-draft Tjotter class. A team of Dutch boatbuilders constructed a Regenboog (rainbow)-class boat from old celery-top pine and ultimately raced against a local Tasmanian crew in a Gnome-class sloop. Special Dutch food, music and classic vessels completed the celebration of that nation’s rich maritime history.

Why is this important to us? Because the theme of the 2019 Australian Wooden Boat Festival is Americana! This is an opportunity to share our amazingly rich maritime heritage with sailors from around the world and forge special ties with our antipodean brothers and sisters of the sea. Historians, boatbuilders, designers, speakers, musicians, authors and just plain intrepid tourists, take note. Here we can showcase and celebrate the graceful designs of John Alden, Nathanael and L.

Francis Herreshoff, Olin Stephens, William Atkin, Philip Rhodes, William Tripp and too many more to mention. (Who is your favorite?) And what of our mighty Tall Ships and schooners? Oh, Roseway, you still hold my heart. America has a deep and abiding connection to the sea, and that is so wonderfully preserved by our many fine maritime museums, such as Mystic Seaport, Maine Maritime, Peabody Essex, New Bedford Whaling Museum and so on. Imagine the contributions to this marvelous event they could make.

Pacific cruisers can start planning an itinerary now that will land them on Tasmanian shores by February 2019. They will find Hobart a safe and welcoming harbor. After the festival, they will experience almost limitless pristine cruising grounds offering spectacular geography and unique flora and fauna.

My wife, Diana, and I stayed aboard the Radford-designed, cedar-strip-planked Bindawalla courtesy of longtime sailing friends and circumnavigators John and De Deegan. I so enjoyed being smack in the middle of the action that I plan to sail our own Roger Henry over there for the next festival. I want to be downwind of all that pine tar and simply soak up all that tradition.

Upon its conclusion, I hope to explore the wilder southwest coast of Tasmania, enjoy the increasingly famous culinary delights and fine wineries, and perhaps sample a wee dram of what has been voted “the best whiskey in the world,” produced in a little distillery nearby. We are often told that life is a journey, not a destination. In a sense, the Australian Wooden Boat Festival in Hobart is a bit of both.

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Contributing editor Alvah Simon is the author of the critically acclaimed best-seller North to the Night.

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