We’ve crossed major milestones in Totem’s refit, and I’ve included the highlights here. But first, a shout-out to the guy making it happen. Jamie is at the boatyard seven days a week, virtually without fail. Refit realities don’t make for sexy social media posts. What is sexy, though, 

is the commitment of this guy to getting the job done, and done right, as we bring Totem into the 21st century.

The work is hard on his body. It’s repetitive. It’s not fun. It’s emotionally wearing. We’ve passed major milestones, but there are days that forward progress feels thwarted. There seems to be a natural law about boat projects taking more than the expected time—at more than the expected cost—and we are internalizing it with our slow progress. Yet, ultimately, there is progress, and it is awesome to see. I’m excited to share the updates. But first, I want to tell you about one of our favorite roles on board.

The Happiness Engineer

Who is your “happiness engineer?” At some point, every boat needs one. Typically, we use this moniker during the transition from land to living aboard to describe the person for whom cruising was “the dream,” and upon whom it is incumbent to ensure that their partner has a positive reality. Right now, the happiness engineer is a role I take on to make sure that Jamie’s laser focus on finishing the refit includes breaks to enjoy life, heal his body and soul, and stave off burnout. Sure, I’m working hard, too—long hours in other roles. But it’s easier to be a keyboard warrior. Recently, I stole Jamie away from the yard for a three-day trip out of town so we could remember what it’s like to be living as travelers instead of refit grunts. 

Getting away was more than a break from work. It was reconnecting to an important way we find our joy in cruising: by engaging with, and learning from, the different cultures we intersect with. The best of those experiences are what I refer to as “walking on the moon,” because they transport you so thoroughly into another world that sharing the experience defies explanation. (How can you effectively explain to someone what it was like to walk on the moon?)

An Indigenous New Year 

A few weeks ago, I had learned from a friend that the Comcáac (first nations people from the northeast coast of the Sea of Cortez—also referred to as Sierra Seri) New Year was in the last days of June. Our friend, Ruben, organizes small-group trips. He planned a trip for us all to witness and participate in the New Year ceremonies, bringing along an indigenous guide to help us understand. We went, and we walked on the moon. From the moment we arrived, we were enveloped by reminders of a very different way of life. Pressed by adversity, Comcáac people have held tightly to traditions and language, and we had much to learn. 

At the ceremony, red, white and blue ribbons, the color of the Comcáac flag, fluttered from bent cactus armatures on the beach. The chanting of elders was carried over loudspeakers, accompanied by the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. 

Blazing sun and temperatures in the triple digits beat down upon the women and girls who wore vibrant, ankle-length skirts and flounced, long-sleeved blouses. After crossing the channel to the sacred Isla Tiburón, a Comcáac shaman included us in the traditional face painting and spiritual cleansing. It was some marvelous moonwalking.

We returned to the mainland to join in the feast and enjoy the music. As sunset turned the sky from gold to purple and then black, the beat of gourd drums, the rattle of shell cuffs on the legs of the dancers, and the jingle of bells hanging from their belts filled the air. We watched the dancers’ movements mimic the deer they represented, while mounted deer heads were strapped to the heads of the Yoreme brothers who were invited to join the event.  

Deep in this moonwalk, fresh artists soon stepped in and worlds shifted. The crash of modern rock music wasn’t that jarring, but what seemed at first like a collision of cultures leveled up into something mind-blowing. The musical was familiar, but the lyrics were being belted out in Cmiique iitom, the Comcáac language. Those same women and girls in head-to-toe jewel tones now jumped up and down, singing along, screaming song requests and Comcáac of all ages and genders threw themselves enthusiastically into the celebrations. 

It was spectacular.

The music capped off a day steeped in tradition, and it demonstrated how Comcáac are finding ways to bring their cultural roots forward into the modern world. Hamac Caziim, the rock band, was founded on the belief that rock music will to help foster an interest in retaining the indigenous language. To our experience, I’d say that they have been wildly successful in engaging more than just the younger generation.

Back to Totem: Interior Finishes

Back in Puerto Peñasco, Totem’s interior work has reached major milestones. We didn’t start this refit thinking we’d resurface the whole interior. We just knew that the cabin sole was suffering in a few areas, that some bulkhead rot needed to be addressed, and that the Formica in parts of the galley had worn through to particle board. Those tasks were addressed, and they made it easier to add on some voluntary cosmetic work. 

We realized that the dinged-up, 41-year-old veneer, the junky headliner, and horizontal surfaces such as the table and countertops would all need replacement. Jamie crafted a simple, elegant solution for the headliner from insulation, thin plywood and alder battens—oh, and a lot of epoxy! We replaced the horizontal surfaces, originally wood veneer, by bamboo, which seems to glow from within, restoring some natural warmth to the cabin.

Suddenly, the huge undertaking to look nice, stay more comfortable and be ready for faraway cruising feels like it’s coming together.

We’ve learned so much along the way. When Jamie first rebuilt a bulkhead on Dogwatch, his 22-foot S&S Sailmaster, around 1984, it felt significant. Now he’s rebuilt entire cabins. He’s learned about fillers, materials and how to apply accumulated years of knowledge about Totem along the way, making her our long-term home, and now hopefully easier to maintain—at least as much as any boat can be.

Want to learn more about Comcáac?

• NY Times: An Intimate Look at Mexico’s Indigenous Seri People
• Video: Seri turtle songs of survival (Spanish with subtitles: Comcáac history in <15 min)
• Video: Hamac Cazíim | an indigenous punk documentary (29 min: the Comcáac rock band we heard)
• Creative Pinellas: Seri Tribe (konkaak / comca’ac) of Sonora Mexico
• Sonora tourism: indigenous people of Sonora
• Mexico Escultura: Seri New Year 

Totem Talks

Our free, monthly livestreamed talks cover topics of interest pertinent to cruisers. Coming up this month: Tools and Spares. It’s tempting to bring everything you might need. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to bring everything you will need. How do you decide what’s essential to have on board for tools and spares? Register here to join the session. Other recent topics include getting sails for your boat. How do you know when it’s time to replace your sails? What is the process like? What should boat owners know about evaluating options? Also, don’t miss our adventures while anchoring. This talk covers key anchoring techniques and discusses how to figure out where you can anchor and how to deal with anchorage politics.

The post State of Our Totem appeared first on Cruising World.

As a fellow cruiser gazed around the torn-up main cabin of our 1982 Stevens 47, Totem, his eyes grew wide. He asked a head-scratcher: “Why?” 

Why not buy a newer sailboat? Why take on so much work? Why not be anchored at a remote Pacific Island right now instead of dry-docked in a dusty shipyard? 

Because this boat—our home of 15 years through dozens of countries along a path around Earth, classroom for our three children, magic carpet to unimaginable experiences—is our Totem. Named as an homage to our home waters in the Pacific Northwest, the tribute became our truth. Totem is as much a symbol as a safe conveyance for our family. This boat has cared for us, and we now care for it, with a refit centered on its 40th year.

The Stevens 47 is a storied Sparkman & Stephens ­design, praised by experienced sailors for seaworthiness, ­sturdiness and performance. We dispute none of this, but even well-proven boats will age into meaningful needs. All materials degrade sooner or later, especially when they’re subjected to extended use in the harsh marine environment. Some boatbuilding practices become dated. Plywood-cored decks become spongy. Fiberglassed-in chainplates become a rusty, unsafe mess. Totem wasn’t built with either, but she has original flaws. Below the lovely teak and juniper cabin sole is a plywood subfloor that is delaminated and rotten in some areas. My husband, Jamie, has been known to quip that “everything on a boat is consumable.” And ultimately, it’s true.

This isn’t Totem’s first refit; others took place under the care of prior owners, a history we’ve never fully unraveled. We’ve done several refits too. Back in 2007, the listing claimed the sailboat was “turnkey.” We found it necessary to add new standing rigging, sailhandling improvements and a working watermaker. Seven years in, another round was due in Thailand: replacing through-hulls, a failed stainless-steel water tank, and a fridge box with water-saturated foam insulation. Rerigging (again), a new watermaker (again) and new hatches were a big part of a 2019 refit in preparation for sailing across the Pacific. The pandemic scratched that plan, but it was nice to have the upgrades, regardless.

Sometimes, routine updates speak to good stewardship. When bronze fittings get a pink tone, it’s a red flag for deteriorating metal and time to replace the part—even if it looks fine. There can be spaghetti wiring with ghost wires that prior owners ignored rather than removed. Sometimes, we’ve had to make do with less-than-ideal materials or supplies; when a hidden flaw under the C-clip end of our steering chain failed off the coast of Colombia, spliced Dyneema was a quick and reliable solution that served for 5,000 nautical miles. We now have a new steering chain, a new 7-by-19 stainless-steel wire cables and an entirely new binnacle.

The 40-year refit is the biggest we’ve taken on, and was entirely unplanned. We sailed down the Sea of Cortez in Mexico in early 2021, with permits in hand to explore remote islands several hundred miles offshore. Just a few hundred miles in, our always reliable Yanmar 4JH3-TE with 8,300 hours on the clock ­manifested an unrepairable problem. Repowering is a big financial drain on the cruising kitty and, as it turned out, a big cost in time as well. Waiting for the new engine, we stumbled into additional, discretionary projects. Here’s a look at some of what we’ve been doing.

 Repowering 

The engine problem that started this refit came to our attention when we ­discovered oil in the engine’s cooling system. Troubleshooting showed that the issue wasn’t the head ­gasket; instead, pinholes in the oil gallery leaked oil across to the cooling system. Five to eight hours of motoring was enough to make a gloppy mess of the coolant. 

Totem had been repowered once before, around 2002—a major tick in her favor when we were boat shopping. But 20 years of active cruising later, the bill came due. A shiny new Beta 70 turbo is now aligned and mounted in Totem’s engine room, chosen for reliability and simpler routine maintenance. 

We also updated the engine-room insulation and engine-exhaust hose. The challenge of replacing 24 feet of 3-inch-diameter exhaust hose snaked through tight, hidden spaces brings to mind wrestling an alligator at night. We also replaced and sealed delaminated plywood, and the entire engine room is now painted glossy gray.

 Hull Paint 

Totem’s hull was a cosmetic disaster for years, and we’ve worn that scruffiness like a badge. Each scratch is the reminder of a dugout canoe that came to visit, or an enthusiastic fisherman who arrived to trade. But the paint wore through in places, exposing the original dark blue gelcoat. Even that was thin in places. It was becoming more than a cosmetic problem. 

We hired crew at the Cabrales Boatyard in Puerto Penasco, Mexico, to prep (so much sanding and fairing), prime, and spray two-part topcoat. The hardest part was choosing which white to use. I wish that were a joke.

 Cabin Rehabilitation 

Global supply-chain issues caused refit delays that led to more refit projects. Every cabin is now included on the list. In the heads, the shower pans let water find a way to the adjacent bulkheads. (Shower pans, you had one job!) Over time, hidden sections of the bulkhead rotted. Even though we converted the forward wet head to be dry in 2007, the problem percolated out of sight. Removing the shower pans revealed rotten plywood subfloor. As with many projects, you start one and find four more.

Repairing the ­bulkheads was relatively easy. We removed the roughly ­12-by-18-inch section in each, created a tapered edge, and then layered fiberglass down to the hull. In the ­forward head, the new plywood floor is sealed, fiberglassed with epoxy, and capped with tiles. 

The aft head, which still has a shower, needed the pan improved. The original was board-flat, so water collected when Totem sat at a slight angle. The new pan has a distinct angle that actually drains. And the plywood subfloor was replaced. 

We also fixed the original, cracked laminate surfaces that lined both heads. That job required a heat gun, metal scraper, and no small measure of blood, sweat and tears.

Surprisingly Consumable 

Abovedecks, it’s easy to assume that a binnacle will last as long as a boat. Totem’s is original, and while it has served well, the chain cog and axle show notable wear, and the brake mechanism is so worn that it no longer secures the wheel. Plus, Jamie has never liked the design because of poor access to inspecting the inner mechanics. 

Now, in its place, we have an Edson Vision II ­pedestal that opens easily for inspection.

Safety Issues 

Fiberglass is flexible—to a point. Over 40 years, smooth water and big seas alike pressed or smashed into Totem’s bow. We now have slight oil canning, or waviness and distortion near the bow. The Stevens 47 hull is thick, but it still gets only so many million flexes before the resin degrades. And we have plans to carve through many more sea miles.

Reinforcing inside Totem’s hull at the bow to address the distortion opened up another opportunity: to install a crash box. Our friends recently suffered some scary damage to their 2008 Seawind 1160 when they hit an unidentified floating object north of Hawaii. That object ripped a hole in the starboard bow while they were 1,500 nautical miles from land. An effective crash bulkhead saved the vessel—and the crew—from needing rescue. We want that level of security too.

Safety updates are a theme we carried throughout this refit. Our old stainless-steel cockpit scuppers looked fine, but after removing them, we found them to be brittle and replaced them. Chainplate inspection is vital to a vessel’s safety, and we removed and inspected each one. Using a 10x magnifying loupe to examine them thoroughly, Jamie noted a few small areas (about ¼-inch in diameter) where shallow pitting started through the otherwise mirror finish. These minor areas of rust occurred where water must have leaked through. We used muriatic acid to eliminate the rust, and polished the chainplates with a progression of sandpaper, starting at 260 grit and going up to 3,000 grit, before reinstalling.

We switched out Totem’s rudder-shaft gland assembly, which required a complete redesign using off-the-shelf parts because a standard replacement was not available. We replaced the boot with a 4-inch-diameter exhaust hose and fabricated a new upper gland.

We upgraded our old ditch kit with ACR’s RapidDitch kit, and customized locker space near the companionway to accommodate it.

 Headliner 

I remember, when we purchased Totem, stepping belowdecks at a marina up the estuary in Alameda, California. The basket-weave-­embossed vinyl headliner was permanently grubby. I thought, That will be the first to go. 

It wasn’t essential, so it continued to irritate me for another seven years. We put in a Formica headliner in Thailand, which bought us time, but it wasn’t done right. We lived with it and thought about how we’d do it better someday.

 Our extended stay at the yard has allowed us to tackle a lot of “someday” projects like this one. Jamie worked up a solution for the headliner by using ¼-inch plywood panels, cut to fit, and faired with West System epoxy and 407 filler. They create a super-smooth and tough finish. And the panels can be fabricated outside the boat, sparing grueling overhead sanding. The trick was securing the panels in place. They were too thin for screws. The solution Jamie landed on was wetting out fiberglass tape with epoxy, and forming ridged strips that bonded to the panels and ceiling. The only remaining work was to apply thickened epoxy on the seams.

 Cabinets 

Totem’s main cabin has been through several iterations, each one tuned to the stage we found ourselves in life. In 2007, Jamie did a significant rebuild that took an 18-inch section of stowage out of the port side; moving the settee and table outboard allowed us to create midline seating for the family. It was a fantastic upgrade, and the shelves on the port hull were perfect for our children’s collections of books. 

Fast-forward a few years: We opened up the space, giving our dwarf hamster a place to run as our need for printed books reduced. That change was effective, if a bit crude. 

Now, with help from a skilled carpenter, that space is reconfigured again to retain stowage and bookshelves, with a finer finish.Similarly, in the aft cabin, we did a makeover of the cabinets and a desk space for our current needs.

 Cockpit Comfort 

Abovedecks, our dodger and Bimini top have been through several rounds of progressive improvement. The hard dodger crafted in 2007 now has fairing to clean up the rough underside, as well as improved stainless mounts. There are new snaps for the soft-sided dodger. A car-painting shop sprayed it with epoxy topcoat to gleaming perfection: It will now look like the dodger we always wanted, with molded-in grips that channel rain to the sides instead of sheeting it into the cockpit.

 Swim Steps 

The most dramatic change was among the first that we tackled. We had been hauled out for only a few weeks when Jamie pressed an angle-grinder cutting disc into Totem’s transom. Years of pondering how to make it a better platform for entering and exiting finally landed on a clever approach. 

He perched on a ladder against our reverse transom, a legacy of 1970s design, and created steps that would appear as if they are carved into the back. Partway through, I described my vision for sitting back there, feet in the water, enjoying morning coffee and a view. The bottom step then became a swim platform. 

This upgrade has created a new space for us to enjoy life afloat. It eliminated the awkward, perpetually rusting stainless-steel ladder, and gave us bonus space in the propane locker, which is about 20 percent larger. 

Reaching The End 

“When will you splash Totem?” is the question we hear repeatedly. “It’s a 40-year refit, so only 38 years to go,” Jamie replies with a weary, wry smile. 

The timeline has extended far beyond anything we imagined. The delays answer the question of why cutting the dock lines can be so hard for cruisers. Life gets in the way. There was a pandemic. Our daughters went off to college and life on land. There were unanticipated ­delivery delays. And it was an important time to be in reach of my parents. We could not have known that these two years in the shipyard would be my mother’s last two on Earth; to be in reach for easy visits was priceless. She passed away early this year.

But ultimately, Jamie and I are on no timeline but our own. As we reach the point of being ready enough, the islands beckon, and we’ll soon point their way. 

Galley Upgrades

While every cabin on Totem is part of the refit, changes to the ­galley crept up on us. At first, we focused entirely on ­nondiscretionary needs. The Force 10 we installed in 2007 was on its last legs, and was not practically repairable. The laminate countertop installed in 2014 in Thailand was wearing through enough to expose particleboard—that had to go. Jamie fell through dry-rotted stringers under the sole—looks like that would have to be replaced!

Discretionary updates crept in, easily justified. The new stove’s geometry would let us reclaim precious inches of workspace at the forward end by rebuilding a cabinet, turning it from skinny to functional. Then, when pulling off the laminate—why not just pull the whole countertop and reimagine a better use of the storage spaces below? That engine compartment (the whole inboard side of the galley) needed to be gutted for the new Beta anyway. It wasn’t long before the only remaining part of the galley we weren’t tearing into were the lockers along the port hull—and it had always bothered Jamie how when they were rebuilt in 2014, they weren’t to his spec, leaving yawning portals to unrealized storage.

Suddenly we were looking at our galley as a near-rebuild, not a few fixes. But a love for cooking and eating well, and no additional time cost to the haulout, made it easy to embrace expanded plans.

The first splurge was a GN-Espace stove. This UK-made “cooker” is a rarity among boat ovens—it’s actually insulated. This means baking in the tropics without heating the boat, and vastly more efficient use of propane. I can’t wait to hone my sourdough skills from the tropics!

 Countertop material has been the hardest to settle on. For months, installing quartz—a manufactured product from stone powder and resin—was the plan. But it’s too heavy: not because of the weight overall (we determined it to be about the same as having another person on board), but the heft needed to lift the slab for refrigerator access, or a large square to reach the garbage can hidden beneath. Solid surfacing was our second choice, but there isn’t an installer/fabricator or supplier in this part of Mexico—and it’s not a material we’d like to tackle as amateurs. We decided on bamboo. Strips of the grass bonded to form a slab creates the lightest-weight countertop among all options (save laminate), with the benefit of being relatively thin—an asset because we seek to avoid adding height. The environmentally friendly option feels and looks good.

Cabin-sole replacement has been a trickier proposition than expected. We could never match the teak and juniper elsewhere on Totem; attempting it would look awkward. Casting for options, we initially chose recycled rubber tiles, but Jamie and I kept returning to memories of the cork flooring we loved in our Seattle kitchen: It is comfortably resilient underfoot, handles traffic well (hiding grime from toddlers and dogs), and is a renewable material that we can feel good about. Finding glue-down tiles intended for use in high-moisture settings (such as a bathroom…or a sailboat!) settled the choice.

Finally, there is literally the kitchen sink thrown in. With new counters and fresh finishes everywhere else in the galley, that 1982 sink was going to look pretty out of place. Jamie jokingly refers to our new sink as “The Bathtub.” And while the household size might be inordinately large on a sailboat, it fits, it has fantastic utility with nested cutting boards and drainage, and we know from our prior use patterns that we’ll appreciate the capacity. —BG

A Paean to Sanding

It’s ironic that making  Totem  better requires removing so much of Totem in a slow, agonizing process. I’m referring to sanding. I hate sanding. I recall learning this as a ­7-year-old kid; sandpaper wrapped around the wooden block, cleaning the gunwales of an old wooden skiff in my backyard. At 13, I rebuilt the centerboard trunk on my Enterprise-class sailing dinghy and produced an astonishing quantity of dust. My summer job at age 18 was preparing boats in a shipyard for spring launch in Mystic, Connecticut. Wet sanding ­bottom paint is a grueling, messy business. Almost four decades later, this refit on Totem is one epic, tedious, awful sanding event. Countless coarse 60- and 80-grit sander disks, cut through rough surfaces. An eternity of 120-grit sheets. When the dust settled, I learned to row in that wooden skiff. I learned to race the wind in that sailing ­dinghy. Totem might be a dusty mess, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.—Jamie Gifford

The post Total Refit of Our 40-Year-Old Stevens 47 Totem appeared first on Cruising World.

Do you ever have a feeling that your life is about to change?” My wife said these words to me as we parked our Toyota 4Runner in front of the covered warehouse containing a 31-foot Hallberg-Rassy Monsun from 1975. I didn’t know what struck Missy, but I shrugged it off. “Let’s leave our ­emotions here in the car,” I said. I was lying. For the ­previous two months, I had been admiring this boat online, asking the broker for more pictures, and digesting anything that had information about the Monsun. Even before seeing the boat in person, I had dreams of ­following along the tracks that John Neal wrote about having sailed in his Monsun, which he owned for 11 years and sailed 44,000 miles before selling it in Australia. We wanted our first keelboat to sail (with Poseidon’s blessing) from our home port on Lake Erie to the Pacific. 

At that moment, though, I had to reel back my mind to where I was standing in Michigan. I had learned from reading all the books that you have to leave your emotions out of buying a sailboat. Which, in all honesty, I think is a bunch of baloney. Why shouldn’t you fall in love with something as time-consuming, money-depleting and frustrating as an old sailboat?

Anyway, it was time to focus. I had to find a reason not to buy this boat. 

The broker unlocked the warehouse and turned on the dim, fluorescent lights. The warehouse could fit about 50 average-size sailboats, but only about 10 were left on the hard that season, all tucked back into the corner. After five minutes of searching, we found the boat. 

The hull looked and felt solid, fair and clean. At first glance, the gelcoat looked outstanding for a 45-year-old boat, and even the nonslip on deck was still in good condition. The downside was that when we went inside the cabin, there was a strong odor coming from the head and holding tank. The cushions no longer had any resilience, and the covers needed replacing. Missy and I were too infatuated with the cockpit to care. It was covered in teak, and it felt snug and secure. The interior mahogany seemed so nautical. 

And then I opened the engine bay to see the Yanmar 3YM30, outfitted to the boat in 2015 and with only 200 hours logged. The engine looked immaculate, something I wouldn’t mind working on. 

A clean engine bay was a major ­checkpoint for me. It meant that the ­previous owner had cared. Not only that, but when something broke, I would be able to hop in and fix it without later stepping into our boat’s cabin covered in grease. 

The sails still had their inspection tags from the sailmaker for their yearly service. And, being a freshwater boat, it had rigging in decent condition. 

That was it. The boat had its flaws, but we were sold. 

Making the monsun shipshape

We closed on the boat after the survey and arranged to have it shipped to our marina in Monroe, Michigan. Our project list was built on our bluewater passagemaking dreams, which we’d spun up by reading Don Casey’s This Old Boat and Inspecting the Aging Sailboat, listening to Andy Shell and crew’s 59° North (now called On the Wind) podcasts, clicking around John Harris’ website, morganscloud.com, and scouring our surveyor’s report. Everything we wanted to do would be in our spare time because we were working full time. On the ­weekends, we would haul our tools to the marina and work on the boat throughout winter. Our goal was to fix up the boat in two years, and then cast off the lines. 

We followed the basic principles that Schell and Harris preach: Keep the water out, keep the rig up, and keep the crew happy and healthy. We added a fourth item: Keep it small and simple. 

Keeping the water out required us to replace all the original through-hulls, which had gate valves as seacocks instead of ball valves. We also had to replace the hoses and clamps for the deck scuppers and cockpit drains. 

We went with Groco IBVF seacocks and flanged adapters, and Scandvik ABA hose clamps. Replacing the through-hulls was an intimidating project, but the most technical aspect was ensuring that the through-hull and flange were flush to the hull inside and outside. It took some time to level the inside of the hull with epoxy resin and colloidal silica filler. With lots of sanding on the inside of the hull, and patience, we were able to ensure a watertight seal once the 3M Marine Adhesive Sealant 5200 was applied. 

During the survey, we had noticed some evidence of water entering from the lower shroud plates, so another task was to remove the U-bolt-style lower shroud plates. Then we had to remove any of the core that seemed to have water intrusion. We filled it with epoxy and redrilled the original bolt holes. I went to a local machine shop and had them fabricate the backing plates out of quarter-inch 316 stainless steel. 

That mom-and-pop shop with a couple of CNC machines was able to knock out the job in no time. As a plus, they became enthusiastic followers of our journey. 

Five frustrating inches

Next we focused on keeping up the rig. The rigging was old, its age unknown. So, even though the boat was lightly used for four months out of the year and had never seen salt water, we still decided to replace the rigging. The turnbuckles were replaced the first season with BSI turnbuckles and toggles. The following season, we replaced the 1-by-19 wire, ordering the length of wire and mechanical Sta-Lok terminals online from Defender. We took the measurements of the stays in January, but we didn’t get around to cutting them until much later. We cut the backstay in May, a few days before the boat was ready to splash. 

When we stepped the mast, Missy ­informed me that the backstay wasn’t going to reach the chainplate. “Well, unscrew the turnbuckle. It will fit,” I said. 

She replied with, “It’s about 5 inches short, and the turnbuckle is on its last few threads.” 

My heart sank. We were going to have to take off the mast and wait for another order of wire to replace it. But in a pinch, we found a Dyneema strop and a soft shackle that we could use as an extender. That combination allowed us to step the mast and move the boat over to our dock slip. 

We left the rig only hand-tight and did not bend on the sails. Once the new order of 1-by-19 wire showed up, I began cutting again, checking and double-checking measurements. In front of our boat slip, I used a mini hacksaw and a homemade miter box to make a clean, perpendicular cut. 

Once the backstay was cut and ready to go, Missy went up the mast, after setting the halyard and topping lift as additional temporary backstays. To my disbelief, once again, the backstay was short. 

“What the heck!” I yelled in frustration. 

“How is this so off?” Missy asked with undertones of blame. 

Both times, I had cut the backstay 5 inches short. I finally figured out that I was failing to account for the difference in swage and Sta-Lok length (about 2½ inches on each end). I learned that, when measuring stays, it is important to make a simple sketch or note stating exactly where the measurement started and ended, even if you are freezing your butt off while taking the measurements in Michigan in January. 

The third time, Missy came up with a plan to ensure that the length would be correct. I would first attach the Sta-Lok fitting to only one end, and Missy would go aloft and connect the fitting to the masthead. Then I would cut the backstay to the correct length by visually checking it. 

Finally, we had a backstay. With this setback, the rest of the rigging waited until we were on our way along the Erie Canal. The remaining shrouds were cut with the mast down, on the free dock in Waterford, New York. 

Getting comfortable

The most daunting and time-consuming of the tasks was keeping the crew happy and healthy. To us, this meant staying well-rested and well-fed, and living in a clean environment. Our boat had been a Great Lakes vacation cruiser. Used lightly and only for the summer season, it wasn’t outfitted for full-time living aboard. 

Since we would spend every day sitting and sleeping on the boat, we decided to replace the cushions and covers. We ­transformed one bedroom of our ­two-bedroom apartment into our canvas loft, and another room into boat-parts storage. This meant that our bed would have to be relocated to the living room, which we figured would be good practice for living in a small space. Missy measured all the cushions, including the V-berth, and came up with a quantity of foam, Sunbrella, underlining fabric and zipper length. Before ordering, we tried Sailrite’s foam sample box to find the perfect foam firmness. We placed the 6-by-6-inch foam samples on the ground, testing each to see what worked best for us—which would have been a funny sight to see, trying to test a cushion with our butts halfway on and halfway off the tiny samples. 

Missy then cut out the cushions using an electric knife, the kind regularly brought out for Thanksgiving turkey. All of the cushions required curved edges along the hull, which required Missy to make two measurement lines (top and bottom), and then cut the cushions at an angle. To make this complicated cut, I would sit under the cushion and guide one side of the blade to make sure it was still on the cut line. The cushion edges were not perfect, but, by oversizing the cushion slightly and using Sailrite’s plastic-shrink method, the small imperfections were no longer noticeable. 

The cushion covers were sized and sewn to the same dimensions as the original Hallberg-Rassy. This resulted in a skintight fitting. Missy decided to modify the settee cushions, changing them from a single 6-foot-long cushion to separate cushions that matched the stowage underneath. This greatly improved our access to cans of beans and tuna below the settees. Missy also cut the fabric-wrapped backrests in half so that we wouldn’t have to clear off an entire side of the salon to access underneath. 

I had learned from reading all the books that you have to leave your emotions out of buying a sailboat. Which, in all honesty, I think is a bunch of baloney. Why shouldn’t you fall in love with something as time-consuming, money-depleting and frustrating as an old sailboat?

And finally, to keep us snuggly in our bunks underway, Missy sewed some lee cloths out of Phifertex and binding, with pockets for quick storage of a headlamp, headphones, a book or a cellphone. She used webbing and buckles to allow for quick tensioning, and ease of ingress and egress. Every time I come in to rest on our boat, I still marvel at how amazing the cushions look and feel. 

Getting even more comfortable

When we first received our boat, it came with an Origo two-burner stove. We kept the alcohol stovetop for the first summer, but it became obvious within the first two weekends that it was not for us. I immediately grew tired of refilling the alcohol, which always seemed to be empty in the morning when we wanted to make coffee. The following winter, I replaced the Origo with a Force 10 two-burner ­propane stove and oven. It’s a major ­luxury to be able to light the stovetop without a lighter or match, and without fumbling around the cockpit locker to find the denatured alcohol. 

Then there is the added benefit of ­oven-baked fresh bread, which my wife said was a requirement for our new lifestyle. Since beginning cruising, she has made bread on the Hudson River approaching New York City, while underway in the Atlantic bound for Marsh Harbour in the Bahamas, and many times ­throughout the islands.

We also tried to go down the path of no refrigeration. We did it as part-time liveaboards the first summer. We bought bags of ice every weekend. Then we attempted it as full-time liveaboards. But halfway through the Erie Canal, we ordered an Engel fridge and had it shipped to meet us in Annapolis, Maryland. For vegetables and eggs, we chose to keep our icebox filled, which meant that every two or three days, we were buying a bag of ice. If I wanted cold beer, I had to splurge for two bags of ice. 

Man, was the fridge worth it. Enjoying a cold beer off Hawksbill Cay in the Exumas while sitting waist-deep in crystal-clear water on a mile-long sandbar with new friends was bliss. The only downsides of the fridge are the space it takes up and the extra 100-watt solar panel we had to add for the energy use. 

Setting off aboard Ukiyo

With these changes and many other small projects done, we planned to set off from Monroe, Michigan. We quit our jobs, terminated our apartment lease, and attempted to move onto the boat. We struggled to fit all of our stuff aboard, so we laid out everything on the lawn in front of our slip. Curious dock neighbors came by later that evening, worried we were dividing up our belongings and separating. 

After two more weeks at the dock, we were bound for Annapolis via the Erie Canal, Hudson River, New Jersey coast and Delaware Bay. In Annapolis, we spent five weeks on a second refit geared toward offshore sailing. We anchored the boat up the Severn River near Severna Park, Maryland—my childhood hometown. 

With the help of my family, we had a mooring ball and access to a dock. My dad and I worked for weeks to finish some major items. We installed a Hydrovane self-steering system, replaced our 50 feet of three-eighths G4 chain with 125 feet, swapped out the 35-pound CQR anchor for a 44-pound Spade anchor, and added deck fittings and ­reinforcements for the Dyneema ­removable inner forestay. We also bought new sails and completed many minor projects. It was a real treat working with my dad, and my mom always had a ­world-class dinner ready when we got home. 

All of these items, in my mind, fell ­under the category of “keep the crew ­happy and healthy.” You see, happiness to me is sleeping soundly and staying well-rested at anchor and underway. Adding a Hydrovane, which acts as our third crewmember and steers the boat perfectly offshore, allowed Missy and me to relax. And the oversize Spade anchor has been worth every penny during winter cold fronts that blow through the Bahamas. 

Meanwhile, Missy converted my ­parents’ basement into another canvas loft. This time, she spent two weeks redoing our dodger and dodger frame. The smile on her face when the test fit was successful rivaled our wedding day. 

Finally, we added critical safety equipment, including an ISO-certified life raft, an EPIRB, two personal locator beacons and a new manual bilge pump. Then we were off to Morehead City, North Carolina, to wait for a weather window for a five-day trip offshore to Marsh Harbour. 

All in all, with our refitted boat, we spent three months cruising across Lake Erie and along the US East Coast, and then four months cruising the Bahamas. We waited out hurricane season in Luperón, Dominican Republic, with plans of sailing the Eastern Caribbean before heading west to Panama. 

The refit almost broke us a few times, even before we left the dock. There were so many unknowns, from how we would shower to whether we could actually live in such a small space. Once we left the dock, though, we immediately adapted to our new home and lifestyle. 

As we continue our journey, we wake up every morning not knowing what the day will bring. Will we swim with eagle rays? Run aground? Lose our dinghy? Adopt a kitten?

We never know. To us, this is what life is all about. It’s all part of the adventure. 

Follow Missy Hearn and Greg Thomasson’s journey on Instagram @sv_ukiyo or on their website, ­thirdreefadventures.com.

The post A Classic Reborn: Refitting a Hallberg-Rassy 31 For Long Term Cruising appeared first on Cruising World.

I think of problems like gas molecules, expanding to fill the space they’re given. I try to imagine that space as a box that I squish down and put away on a shelf before moving on. 

With that perspective, our “problem” at the moment is more like a recalibration: delays in the refit of our Stevens 47 Totem have cost us the window of opportunity for sailing to the South Pacific this year. G’bye, pamplemousse; so long, poisson cru.

Our crew has anticipated returning to those most spectacular of cruising grounds for months, ever since we received permission to arrive from French Polynesia’s maritime authority in September. We feel pandemic stagnation weighing on our nomadic outlook, and all aboard are eager for the stagnation weight to vanish in our wake.

We expected to put Totem in the water in March, spend a month shaking down new systems as we sailed south to La Paz, Mexico, and then depart from southern Baja for the Marquesas in April. Our schedule has slowly pushed forward month by month. We figured out how we could leave in May, and then in June, but now, we can’t push it out any farther. Hurricane season encroaches. 

I’m not going to lie: It hurt to give up this itinerary. But after some demoralized days of processing, I’m over it (mostly). We have no right to complain about our very privileged problems. 

I credit cruising for giving us flexibility and patience, and an appreciation for what we have. In case further perspective was needed, we learned recently about a former coaching client (their cruising sabbatical is over and they’re currently living in Eastern Europe) who is buying bulk goods and helping to transport them to Poland, to benefit Ukraine. “My wife and I are buying supplies for the soldiers and the people in Ukraine that chose to stay,” he told us. “Mostly, we are buying things like diapers, feminine products, first-aid supplies and ready-to-eat food. We then deliver the supplies to a train on the Polish border that goes under the cover of darkness into Ukraine.” 

Our lives are so good.

After all, more time in Peñasco, Mexico, means enjoying what must be the loveliest weather of the year. It’s a balmy 70 degrees Fahrenheit by day, with cooler nights. Windows stay open at our casita; I can work while listening to birds twitter in the dappled sunlight from trees that shade the view. 

Regular trips to Phoenix with a girlfriend mean spotting cactus blooms. These trips keep us in bagels, salmon and kale—and, oh yes, Girl Scout cookies, which are underappreciated until they are out of reach. I can access the US market variety and value for any needs we have on Totem, from epoxy to orbital sanders (my husband, Jamie, is on his third sander). More time in Peñasco means appreciating access to this bounty, to the roadside wildflowers, to the buds appearing on the crowns of the saguaro sentinels marking the path between the sea and Phoenix. 

More time in Peñasco also means more days assisting in post-op services at the Clinica Esperanza, a free veterinary and spay/neuter clinic. This past week, they fixed puppy number 30,000 since they opened in 2015. I’m so proud that my daughter, Siobhan, and I can be a tiny supporting part of the smart, fun, caring, committed team that runs the show. Somebody has to help stick thermometers in all those dog and cat butts; might as well be us. (They are 80 percent supported by direct donations, so give to Compassion Without Borders if you are so moved.)

And, more time in Peñasco means experiencing small-town coincidences: A resident recommended a donut shop on the far north side of town. We picked up a box to bring to the staff at the clinica, and learn that the donut shop owner’s family used to have a restaurant in the same building as the clinic, years ago. Of course, I had to share a photo of what used to be the walk-in cooler for their restaurant, which is now where the cats are crated.

Not everything is rosy. Not bad, just the stuff of life.

We have a Google Fi family plan shared among a few phones. Last week, Siobhan got the dreaded cutoff message. 

I used to think Fi was the best phone plan ever for cruisers, but the service has cracked down on international use (as with every other US carrier, full-time international use is not part of the plan). I had a trip up to Arizona planned a few days later, so I tucked Siobhan’s phone into a bag and, once in the range of the border, streamed videos of whatever K-pop playlist I could find, to log some US cell-tower time and data use. Will it be enough? We’ll know soon.

Some days at the clinica are harder. People bring in animals who have been hit by cars, or in fights. I picked 30 ticks out of one ear on one dog the other day. I laid hands on an injured cat while he got euthanized, hoping to ease him out more gently. 

There’s exhaustion. Jamie’s exhaustion is physical and intense, since he bears the brunt of Totem’s interior effort. My exhaustion is mental, juggling many hats when I’d rather be looking at our weather forecast than succumbing to decision fatigue on the galley sole (I wish I could make better decisions, and make them faster).

We’re moving forward one day at a time. Eventually, there will be an estimated time of arrival for Totem’s new engine, and that will help immensely with concrete plans.

We’re also contemplating something truly radical for our family: a vacation. Years in the tropics have made our daughters wistful for higher-latitude climates. We’re considering options from Iceland to Scotland to Ireland, all new territory. Hookups to a Scottish Highlands cabin are welcome.

For Totem’s future route, while our daughters were especially excited about French Polynesia (they were too young to remember it from our first pass), they’re even more excited about the western Pacific and Japan. We’ve played out multiple scenarios that would get us to Japan, and that’s something to be excited about.

Here are some of the topics we’re thinking about now: how to keep a cell number and use international data; whether it’s worth the space to have a printer on board; the new lithium battery bank on Totem; mail services for cruising (and how to get stuff along the way); fitting a washing machine on board. That should keep us busy in the boat yard!

Buy basic items for Ukrainians. Want to help our friends in the Czech Republic with their mission? Send us an email and we’ll pass the PayPal information along.

Give street dogs and cats a better life. Clinica La Esperanza is part of Compassion Without Borders. See their website for more information.

The post Sailing Totem: Our Messy, Beautiful Cruising Life appeared first on Cruising World.

I still remember (­robustly) arguing with my dad when he announced his plans to add a windlass to the J/44 he owned. He was thinking of easy anchoring. I was thinking of weight and the boat’s ability to hit its polars. I lost that fight, and I’ll admit to having some smoldering feelings—until we went cruising and I was charged with anchor retrieval. I reached down to start sweating in the ­7-to-1 scope and the big Danforth anchor, until I saw the windlass foot switch. I ­remember pulling in the rode until it came vertical, waiting for my dad to break the anchor’s grip by nudging the boat forward with the engine, and then nonchalantly employing the switch, hoping he wouldn’t ­notice. No dice. 

Bottom line: As a racing sailor, I wasn’t going to admit that the windlass was an ­upgrade, but there’s no question that it allowed my parents to ­enjoy years of additional cruising, while also saving me from back pain more than once. 

The premise behind a ­windlass is simple: It ­employs power and mechanical ­advantage to make it easier to ­retrieve a vessel’s ground tackle and feed its rode into the anchor well. To do so, over time, windlass design evolved into two camps: horizontal and vertical, allowing boat owners or, more likely with new boats, the builders, to ­select equipment that best fits their particular yacht. 

While high-quality ­windlasses are effective and dependable, a cost-cutting trend emerged in the 1970s and 1990s whereby boatbuilders offered windlasses as optional—not standard—equipment. As a result, many cruising boats were delivered sans windlasses. Flash-­forward to the 2020s, and many of these boats are now ­changing hands. Their new owners, however, are less interested in footing chiropractic bills. Here’s a look at how a windlass works, the design and installation considerations involved, and the benefits it provides.

The Big Picture

A windlass functions as part of a larger system that includes the anchor, sometimes a swivel and chain, sometimes rope, some sort of a snubber or chain stopper, the anchor roller, the windlass itself, the anchor well, the windlass controls, and the windlass’s power supply. All of these ­individual pieces of equipment need to be correctly spec’d for the ­system to work properly. 

“Start with what size anchor you’re going to use,” Harcourt Schutz advises. He is Lewmar’s senior director of aftermarket sales. He explains that the total weight of the boat’s ground tackle (not just the ­tackle that you expect to deploy) should represent one-quarter of the windlass’s working load. “It’s based on the anchor and rode, not the boat’s displacement. The anchor and rode are what you’re picking up. If you ­already have the rope and chain, match what’s there.” 

If you’re starting from scratch, Fred Cook, ­president of Schaefer Marine, ­advises that not all chain is ­created equal. “I wish everybody would use high-test chain,” he says, adding that while this is more expensive than a ­standard galvanized marine alloy, it delivers considerably greater strength. 

Cook says that the windlass’s chain wildcat, or gypsy (the coglike mechanism that controls the chain), must be spec’d to match the ­specific chain with which it will be paired. (Wildcat is the term typically used in the States; gypsy is preferred by Brits. To further confuse matters, in the US, an additional drum around which an anchor rope is wound is called the gypsy; the Brits call it a warping head.) 

Wildcats typically ­are ­modular, and Cook suggests that cruisers mail a small section of chain to the windlass’s manufacturer (or distributor) to ensure that the chain wildcat’s web (that is, the teeth that engage the chain links) is properly matched.  

While chain-and-rope rodes are common in North America, this isn’t the ­international norm. “No one uses rope ­except the US. Everyone else ­uses all-chain rodes,” says Jim Thomas, Imtra’s product ­manager for Lofrans and Muir ­anchoring products. He says rope-to-chain rodes evolved in the 1990s as a cost-cutting measure. These setups are rigged with the chain attached directly to the anchor on one end and spliced to rope (typically three-strand) on the other. While this setup reduces bow weight (“aah,” the racing sailor says), anyone who might eventually want an all-chain rode should consider this when spec’ing their windlass. 

Swivels are sometimes ­situated between the chain’s last link and the anchor. ­Thomas notes that swivels are helpful in removing twists from the anchor rode during recovery. Meanwhile, if the anchor-roller wheel has a notch or a groove, this helps in aligning the links for entry into the gypsy, he adds. And the swivel’s
articulation helps align the chain as the anchor is pulled onto the roller. Additionally, swivels can help a set anchor negotiate windshifts and rising and falling tides, but Thomas and Schutz are both quick to point out that each additional proverbial link in the chain could be a point of failure. ­Because of this, both experts encouraged customers to use only high-quality swivels.

Any boat that’s equipped for anchoring with a windlass should have a bow-­mounted anchor roller, which ­safely contains the anchor on deck and helps keep the rode in line with the windlass. As ­mentioned, it’s important to ensure that the roller’s shape matches the profile of your ­anchor chain.

There’s still more to note when it comes to assessing a vessel’s anchoring system. “­Anchor lockers are ­unfriendly environments,” Schutz says of the belowdecks space where the rode is stowed. “They’re oversaturated with salt air.” This is a result of the ­inevitable water and harbor mud that windlasses raise along with the hook. The rub is that anchor wells usually contain the windlass’s power cables and, depending on the design of the windlass, its gear box. As a result, experts suggest that cruisers employ a bow hose or shower to rinse the rode as it’s ­hoisted, and to give the windlass, the ­anchor, and its rode freshwater rinses when possible.

Up and Down or Sideways

As mentioned, there are two common windlass designs: horizontal and vertical. While both retrieve anchor gear, the drive shaft on horizontal ­windlasses is horizontal, while vertical windlasses employ vertical drive shafts. This means that the chain wildcat on a horizontal windlass spins like a Ferris wheel, while the chain gypsy on a vertical windlass turns like a merry-go-round. 

“Horizontal ­windlasses don’t have as much ­contact with the chain,” Thomas says, adding that the wildcat on a horizontal windlass ­typically has 110 degrees of chain ­contact. Conversely, “a vertical windlass has 270 ­degrees of surface contact. Vertical windlasses are better with rope-and-chain rodes, while horizontal windlasses are better-suited for all-chain rodes.”

Because of their fixed-­volume nature, anchor wells often dictate how much rode one can carry, and they can ­influence one’s purchase decisions. “The distance between the windlass to the top of the line stack in the locker matters,” Schutz advises, adding that horizontal windlasses work best if this distance is at least a foot, while vertical designs work best when there’s 12 to 18 inches separating the windlass from the top of the line stack.

The other major design ­difference involves how much of the windlass is situated ­abovedecks. Horizontal windlasses are typically entirely deck-mounted. This frees up bow-locker space, but they occupy more deck real estate than vertical windlasses, which typically employ a belowdecks gear box. While Thomas advises that deck thickness can sometimes steer purchase decisions, given that most vertical windlasses use drive shafts that top out at 5 inches, Cook points out that custom shaft lengths can usually be accommodated. That said, unless you sail a wooden classic, odds are good that your fiberglass deck is only an inch or two thick. 

Besides their design ­orientation, there are a variety of ways to control their ­operation. One common way is to employ deck-mounted foot switches, with one pedal lowering the rode and the other reversing the ­direction of the wildcat to retrieve it. Manufacturers also offer ­handheld controllers, wireless ­key-fob-like controls and even helm-mounted controls. 

Lowering an anchor and its rode is fairly straightforward. Some cruisers install chain or rope counters in the system to help quantify the amount of deployed scope. Others paint the chain and rode at ­regular intervals or use a variety of plastic or cloth markers. It’s worth noting that at present, windlasses still employ solenoids to control the direction in which the wildcat turns. This means that windlasses have yet to become NMEA 2000 compatible, and therefore they currently ­cannot be controlled via the vessel’s chart plotter, a networked smartphone, or a digital-­switching system. However, the experts interviewed for this story suggest that NMEA compatibility is coming in the next year or two.

Put It to Use

Once the anchor is set and the scope properly ­adjusted, ­experts suggest transferring the load off the windlass’s gear box and onto independent hardware. If you’re ­running a chain-to-rope rode, the easy solution if all of the chain is out is to tie the rope to a bow cleat. If you’re using an all-chain rode, manufacturers offer various hooks and/or snubbers that attach to a cleat and to a link in the chain, thus transferring the load off the windlass. As an aside, most modern catamarans come with a bridle arrangement that’s been pre-installed and which keeps the rode centered ­between the two hulls.

One of the smartest things anyone told me about sailhandling involves ­constantly looking at the sail or ­running rigging that’s affected when jumping a halyard or ­spinning a winch to ensure that ­something isn’t ­accidentally overloaded. Windlasses are no different. All experts agree that it’s wise to station one crewmember at the bow and another at the helm for ­anchor-retrieval work. They all also strongly recommend keeping the engine in gear (low RPM) and using it to drive the boat toward the anchor, with the forward crew either manually sweating in the rode or using the windlass. Once the rode is taut and near-vertical, it’s best to use the engine—not the windlass—to break the anchor’s grip on the seafloor. Once the hook is free, the crew can reengage the windlass, keeping a constant eye on things to ensure that the anchor roller or bow section isn’t damaged by overstraining the system once the anchor is on board.

If used properly, ­windlasses can greatly simplify anchor retrieval, but it goes without saying, just as with any high-torque system, it’s ­critical to pay attention and keep one’s hands clear of lines and ­moving parts.

As with all electrical ­systems, windlasses require DC juice. In a retrofit, this means an owner will ­typically have to run two, or ­possibly three, heavy-gauge cables forward to the bow from the house batteries. If you have a bow thruster installed that’s serviced by a local battery, this well of DC ­power can ­service the windlass too. The experts stressed the ­importance of situating a suitably sized windlass ­breaker as close to the battery as ­possible. “The circuit ­breaker ­protects the wires and the windlass ­motor,” Thomas says, advising that it’s wise to use thermal breakers.

Given that boatyards typically require two days of labor to install a windlass aboard a 40-footer, it’s tempting for do-it-yourselfers to tackle a windlass refit on their own. “It’s pretty straightforward, but you need to be comfortable cutting holes in fiberglass,” Schutz says, ­adding that vertical windlasses ­usually necessitate ­larger apertures. “It’s not super easy, but if you’re comfortable with power tools, it’s not a deal-breaker. Running the wires is the hardest part.”

Maintenance is the last ­major consideration. Aside from keeping the rode clean and occasionally rinsing it with fresh water, it’s important to use your windlass several times per season (more is better) to ensure that the lubricating oil inside the windlass’s case is evenly distributed along its internal worm drive. “The worm gear is set in oil halfway,” Cook says. “The worm gear can rust out above the oil” if it’s not regularly used. Cook also suggested periodically checking your windlass’s seals to ensure that water isn’t entering the casing and affecting internal oil levels. Schutz recommends that owners with vertical windlasses keep the belowdecks componentry properly painted to avoid rust or ­corrosion—in other words, touch up nicks and dings. Thomas also recommends keeping the system’s clutch cones clean and greased. 

Provided that users apply proper care and maintenance, a modern windlass should ­provide years of great service. And while there’s no ­escaping the added bow weight, this matters only if you’re more ­interested in winning pickle dishes than enjoying peaceful nights in beautiful locales with your friends and family. 

David Schmidt is CW’s ­electronics editor and occasionally writes on other gear topics.

Vendor List

Bainbridge distributes Italwinch:
bainbridgeintusa.com/italwinch
from $1,060.

Imtra offers windlasses from Muir and Lofrans:
imtra.com; from $1,200.

Lewmar:
lewmar.com
from $1,000.

Vetus distributes Maxwell windlasses:
vetus-maxwell.com
from $2,210.

Quick Spa:
quickitaly.com
from $1,500.

Schaefer Marine carries the Ideal windlass brand:
schaefermarine.com
from $4,000.

The post Refit a Classic Yacht with an Electric Windlass appeared first on Cruising World.

We’re calling our extended refit “the 40-year refit,” as our Stevens 47, Totem, was built in 1982. There was a brief time last year when the effort was optimistically referred to as the 39-year refit. Ha! Projects grew as we saw an opportunity to make lasting improvements. Some are essential, but many are quality-of-life additions we’ll appreciate for years to come.

I’ve started cataloging the 40-year refit in four sections: repowering; improvements to the hull & deck; cabin updates and interior improvement; and systems updates. In May 2021 (it’s really been that long), I made a list of refit projects we planned to tackle. There has been great progress on some, little on others, and a lot of additional effort we didn’t even imagine. 

Here’s a rundown of some of the biggest and most essential projects.

Repowering with Beta. A 70 hp (turbo) Beta will replace Totem’s 75-hp Yanmar 4JH3-TE. The new engine has a long way to travel, starting with fabrication at Kubota in Japan, then getting marinized at Beta in the United Kingdom, then arriving at the US distributor in North Carolina for customization, after which it’s shipped to us in Arizona and we bring it into Mexico. 

Primed for hull paint. Last week, Totem was moved into the paint shed at Cabrales Boatyard. AlexSeal’s matterhorn white is on order from the San Diego Marine Exchange. I couldn’t get my family to go along with an international orange boot stripe, but we all like the deep shade of green that’s planned.

Cooking with GN Espace. Taunting me from the porch of our temporary land digs, the OceanChef propane cooker (that’s UK English for stove) ticked every box for me. I’ll share more after it’s installed; feast your eyes here for now. We’re excited to put it to use.

Replacing the chainplate. We’re replacing Totem’s headstay, the only chainplate we didn’t replace in 2008. The machine shop at Cabrales did fine work with a piece of 316 stainless steel. Jamie is scheming about how to adapt it for a sprit so we can fly a cruising Code Zero. We’re trying to avoid project creep, but wouldn’t that be cool, to have the ability to fly a Code Zero?

Adding swim steps. Jamie made the first cuts into Totem’s reverse transom in May. It’s all done now except for the priming and painting. 

Updating cabins. We thought we’d make a few changes to freshen things up. Ha, a few changes! Most of Totem’s vertical and horizontal surfaces, from bulkheads to lockers, are being rebuilt. This project is radical and slightly overwhelming: interior design is not our strong suit. (Advice is welcome.) The traditionalists will bemoan the loss of all that lovely teak finish below, but we think it’s going to be great.

Thru-hulls have moved. Gray-water tanks have been created. Cabin sole is being replaced in some areas, and there has been a lot of bulkhead reinforcing because the low humidity here sucks out moisture and exposes hidden rot. There’s a long “bonus project” list.

Some big decisions are still pending, such as selections for a new battery bank. We know we want to migrate from AGMs to lithium. Weighing the pros and cons of different setups takes focused time we haven’t been able to dedicate.

Our son, Niall, who is our happiness engineer, has finished his visit with us and is back on his college campus now, eyeing graduation in May 2022, and possibly not disappointed that our delays improve his chances of joining us for extended passagemaking.

The post Sailing Totem: The 40-Year Refit appeared first on Cruising World.

Shipyard burnout is real. My husband, Jamie, and I don’t just have a full plate; we have a few brimming plates and are passing them back and forth while juggling and spinning them on straws. At least, that’s how it feels some days. Our everyday shuffle to make progress on our Sparkman & Stephens Stevens 47 Totem’s refit while supporting our normal work also included boat show presentations. All good, but very busy, and time to take our own advice about crew morale.

Enter the happiness engineer.

At one stage or another, most boats need someone in the role we call the happiness engineer. This need is especially common during the transition to living aboard. Cruising is usually one person’s dream more than anyone else’s. That person is responsible for making sure that the transition goes well, so the more tentative crew doesn’t mutiny. Being aware of that reality, and having the happiness engineer put effort into boosting the crew’s happiness factor, can be critical to making the leap successfully.

The unfortunate truth is that we have seen a badly managed transition kill the dream, just cut it short, sometimes before leaving the dock. It’s incumbent on whoever is most invested in that dream’s success to manage it well. That means different things to different crews, and is something we work on with clients.

The underlying point is to remember building in fun when times are tough. That transition on board is most delicate because it is so hard. There are other times, too, that stepping outside the things you’re supposed to be doing for the purpose of injecting that fun is critical—like when you’ve been flat-out with multiple priorities, as we have.

Our son Niall inadvertently reminded us that the happiness engineer is a role we need to remember, too. Pandemic realities meant that he and his girlfriend, Julia, extended their stay with us in Mexico (hooray!). Why attend class online from a dorm room with cafeteria food when you can have taco-fueled remote classes from a Mexican casita? But Niall noted, when ruminating about the options, that we should make sure we did things: fit in the fun, instead of just being busy with life. 

So, we did.

We hit our favorite place for hot, fresh churros. We ate more delicious tortas and tacos than we have in months. At home, dinners went up a notch: We made fresh pasta, Julia cooked up homemade gnocchi, and she taught us her shakshuka recipe. 

We hiked shifting sand dunes (the largest complex of dunes in North America) at El Pinacate. We splurged on a fantastic day trip heading east into Sonora, led by experienced guides, that started with breakfast under a mesquite tree (I discovered I’ve been mispronouncing mesquite; it’s meh-SKEE-tay) with a nonagenarian rancher exercising his horse nearby. We wondered at the carved messages of petroglyphs stacked up a hillside studded with cacti. We passed through an organ-pipe cactus portal with a blessing from our Tohono O’odham guide. In the whitewashed walls of 200-plus-year-old missions, we heard stories from a curator and a priest, and then let the original murals tell us their own stories. 

We took time out for sunsets with a view, overlooking oyster beds in the lagoon and across the top of the sea to Baja.

The work is still there, and maybe a few things slid back a little, but what we’ll remember looking back in a month, or a year, or 10 years will not be the stress of some crunch time on presentations. It will be the good times we shared as a family, thanks to our happiness engineer.

Thank goodness for the wisdom of our kids, and the reminder to slow down and fit in the fun. It’s not just for the transition into cruising.

Speaking of fun: you might have found Wordle, the simple word game that took off in such a big way that The New York Times bought it. The Totem crew thinks you should try Wordle No. 77. Trust us.

A big month for learning

In the weeks ahead, we have a pile of workshops and seminars for the TRU crew, our coaching community. Some topics are inspired by their questions and seasonal sailing goals, while others are to support incremental learning and support plans for cruising:

Where to from the Bahamas? Tips on how best to sail east and move south. What’s it like entering Caribbean countries? Routes to consider toward hurricane season destinations.

Lessons from crossing an ocean. The Worldtowning family on s/v Friendship, a Broadblue 38 Prestige Catamaran, sailed from the Canary Islands to the Caribbean. What went well? What didn’t? What would they change? Debriefing the passage to help others learn from their experience. 

Electrical systems. Fundamentals and troubleshooting are common early-cruising headaches, so Jamie’s going to cover major principles, common problems and how to help new cruisers prepare.

Health care for cruising. Tackling common questions about what to expect. One of our TRU crew is an emergency-room doctor who spent much of the past couple of years cruising. Join in and share his perspective.If you’d like to nominate one of these topics for Totem Talks, let us know. These free, public livestreams are typically the last Sunday of the month. Registration details will be posted to our Events page, or you can subscribe to be notified.

The post Sailing Totem: Fitting In Some Fun appeared first on Cruising World.

“It’s the world flattest anchorage!” Jamie quips from Totem’s main cabin. We’re propped on jackstands in the shipyard, and truly, it is so flat! On our last night afloat, I savored every lick of water whispering through the hull. It’s an unnatural feeling not to have that gentle movement, that soundtrack of life on the water.

Flat it may be; easy living it is not. Life on the hard can be, well, hard. The ladder to get on board, the inconvenience of having not quite normal use of water and holding tanks, our reluctance to use the yard’s community shower/toilet facilities before vaccinations kicked in. But we can deal with all of that, and we have—over six haulouts. Even when Puerto Peñasco hit the scorcher weeks of summer (did it ever go below 100°F from August until nearly the end of September? I’m not sure it did), we’ve always stayed on board while in the boatyard…until now. We have just become CLODS—Cruisers Living On Dirt.

Home sweet apartment

I’m writing this from an actual desk in an actual one-bedroom flat on a quiet street a short walk from Totem. It’s quite surreal. We’re still getting our land legs. Our temporary home is in a compound belonging to a family who has built out a number of informal units to let.

It’s an extension of this already social yard: every unit is occupied by another cruiser doing work at nearby Cabrales Boatyard! Passing along apartments here, cruiser to cruiser, has become almost a word of mouth tradition. We all appreciate the local-style ambiance: trees surrounding the compound mean our mornings are garnished with birdsong. In the evening we have dinner on the porch, listening to neighborhood children playing soccer on the sand road that runs to the east.

Adjusting to land

The first sign that we were, well, fish out of water was when we moved furniture around (comes with! Bonus!). Mairen used the descriptors fore and aft, and inboard and outboard, to give directions. We did have a discussion and determine that there wasn’t a way to have port and starboard sides of the apartment.

Then there are all the crazy new appliances. A few days in, Siobhan made chocolate chip cookies. (Tangent: it turns out that land ovens actually get really hot, and they do it really fast… cue pizza night!) She called from the galley, I mean kitchen, to say the process would have to wait a while so the butter could soften. I pointed out the miraculous properties of the microwave on the counter, and commenced the ancient mother/daughter ritual of transferring this valuable knowledge.

Some changes are easier to make! We don’t have to call a pumpout truck. There are a couple of air conditioners we’ll be especially grateful for soon. The freezer freezes things (laugh, sure, but we haven’t been able to keep ice cream hard since ever)! We will enjoy the coffeemaker and toaster, but do fine without them later too.

Why we’re moving ashore

It wasn’t necessary before—why now? We have plans that require turning portions of not just the exterior, but the interior of Totem into a workzone: it’s not really habitable. And the weather…  have I mentioned the weeks over 100°F?  One of my favorite sayings in life is “misery is optional,” and I think that might just qualify. That 2019 summer saw heat index routinely 110°+. It’s really nice to retreat to a clean, cool abode.

The last few nights we were on board, dust grinding fiberglass on the transom as Jamie cut in the swim steps had wafted through those mysterious routes air finds inside and settled onto our bedding. No. Just, no. I am OK with a lot of things, sleeping in fiberglass dust isn’t one of them, and we moved just in time to keep the happy factor at a reasonable level on board.

In other news

On the shortlist of things to catch up on once we settled into Puerto Peñasco were some routine checkups. Siobhan was interested in contacts and Jamie felt his prescription was changing, so we trundled up to get eye exams with more sophisticated equipment than we’d had locally before.

Surprise: Jamie’s left eye had a cataract! Double whammy: at a surgical consult a week later, it turns out both his eyes have posterior cataracts. WELL THEN. Add cataract surgery to the fun and games on Jamie’s docket. We’re proceeding with surgery ASAP and he’s excited about the prospect of clearer vision.

An ophthalmologist/cruiser friend pointed out that being relatively young for this diagnosis (a good two decades younger than the average age for cataract surgery in the US) means Jamie’s eyes should be easier to operate on. And I’ll call the circumstance of timing fortunate, too. Thanks to demographics, nearby Arizona has a saturated market for ophthalmology services. That means a lot of options when researching for a quality surgeon, and competitive rates (it’s all out of pocket. Ouch. And we’ll deal, as always.)

Maybe now the kids will wear sunglasses? Maybe.

Learning opportunities: routing and sails

Routing fundamentals. planning from the big picture to passages, with considerations for better efficiency and comfort along the way. Jamie and I are delivering this for the Salty Dawg Sailing Association; register for Route Planning Strategies – A Cruisers Perspective on their website ($12 for non-SDSA members).

Sails for cruising. Last weekend we held our latest TOTEM TALKS, and Jamie held forth on his area of expertise: sails! amie has a unique blend of experience as a professional sailmaker… who took his proficiency cruising, and learned a lot about how well-intentioned sailmakers sometimes miss particular needs cruisers have. The replay is now online! Listen in to gain no-nonsense insight on sails for cruisers.

The post Sailing Totem: Cruiser Speak—The CLODs appeared first on Cruising World.

This story originally appeared on Sailing Totem.

Stepping off the bow while Totem hung in the Travelift at Cabrales Boatyard’s slipway, Jamie and I wondered to each other how Totem’s bottom would look once we could step back and look. We’re three years into our Coppercoat application. It’s worked for us, but we had just spent more than three months sitting in a high-growth area. Parked in Santa Rosalia, the dirty harbor and cold water left us uninterested in jumping in to clean.

Coppercoat myths or misconceptions

Stepping back: our article in the recent issue of Cruising World – now online! – breaks down a number of the myths that exist around using this particular type of antifouling (don’t call it paint. It’s epoxy). We’ve been happy with it, but for some reason it’s…controversial? Misunderstood? It seems to spark opinions, at any rate. To understand the range of experiences, I spoke at length to a number of cruisers to try and get a handle on the critical success factors, and why it worked for some but not others.

The details are in that article linked above. The short version: there are two main factors in a happy outcome. First, getting it applied correctly, which isn’t as simple as slapping on fresh paint – that includes exposing the suspended copper, too. We outlined the step-by-step process on Totem. Second, the expectations from boat owners on how it works (it’s not magical! Less frequent, easier cleaning… not zero cleaning).

Ultimately, the DIYers tend to be happier campers. Nobody cares about getting it right as much as you do! We’re also more likely to be ready to pop into the water to wipe down slime. OK, except when it’s cold and we’re stuck in a dirty harbor… this was not a banner winter for our crew. Thus the touch of trepidation we had before getting a look at the bottom upon last month’s haul.

How Totem’s Coppercoat fared

Jamie and I stepped back from the Travelift, and checked out Totem’s bottom. The first look left us slightly dismayed; from a distance, we could see some three-dimensional striation on the hull. We looked at each other, shrugged, and got on with other tasks. To understand the range of experiences, I spoke at length to a number of cruisers to try and get a handle on the critical success factors, and why it worked for some but not others – although the story told is ours.

Realizing key benefits

Coppercoat has been a big win for us, and getting into our third year of cruising in a high-growth area gives us confidence in the results. We’re experiencing most of the major benefits first hand (hauling again is for other reasons!):

Cleaning less often. At first this was deliberate. We wanted to observe the rate and type of growth first hand. Now we know how much less cleaning is needed, at least in Pacific Mexico. It’s not just less frequently needed (about monthly), it’s mostly soft, and even if there’s some hard growth—cleaning is dramatically easier with the hard epoxy bottom compared to conventional paint.

Being kinder to the environment. This is such a big win, and where we value Coppercoat most: how it has allowed us to be kinder and gentler to the marine environment around us. I’m so happy about this!

Hauling less frequently. One of the real assets of Coppercoat is not needing to haul as often to repaint the bottom. Oops! We’ve hauled anyway, but not because we had to address bottom paint.

Is Coppercoat expensive?

There was no difference in cost for us to apply Coppercoat, in comparison to the second-choice hard paint we had picked out as a Plan B. But we had the benefit of starting from a bare hull. Bottom preparation can be extensive (we wrote about ours in detail), and it’s both important and necessary: this why people complain about the cost of Coppercoat. So the cost isn’t Coppercoat; it’s the level of prep you may (or may not) be required to do.

Four other Coppercoat stories

In preparing for the article in Cruising World, I spoke I spoke with a number of folks who shared their experiences. Here are a few that didn’t make it into the final piece; each highlights a different aspect of the antifouling to consider.

Complexity: overseas sourcing

Jim and Barbara Cole took a cue from evolving regulations when deciding what to put on their Hallberg-Rassy Complexity’s bottom in Malaysia. Standards were bending towards more environmentally friendly rules: they looked for a paint that complied with strict California law. While researching copper leaching data, Barbara learned that Coppercoat exceeded the California standards by a factor of 10!

Their international application had a few hiccups as they pieced together supplies. “The rollers that were available for the application had too long of a nap. This left a lot of texture in the finished surface. I spent many days sanding off precious copper. If I had it to do over again, I would seriously consider hiring the local spray painter to apply the Coppercoat.”

In 2020 they sailed from Southeast Asia to the Mediterranean, through the Red Sea. “Before each leg of our passages to the Med, our young crew cleaned the bottom. There was very little to scrape, mostly just slime. What few barnacles were on the bottom came off very easily. When our crew cleaned bottoms for other boats in our group, it sometimes took them several days to do one boat. They could always do our bottom in an hour or so.”

Soulianis: DIY perspective

Lauren and Kirk decided to DIY their Coppercoat application when they put it on the bottom of their Tartan 37, Soulianis in Florida in 2018. They cruise the warmer waters of the Bahamas and Florida, and have had to haul a few times for travel away from the boat. “I am super pumped I haven’t had to paint again each time before splashing. That for me is the biggest win so far.” But to hear Kirk’s description of the maintenance routine—”last year, we were in the water from Feb-June and only scrubbed it twice. There has been some growth but not much”—it’s sounds like a win on the antifouling front, too.

The couple are clear about the tradeoff of cruising kitty funds for effort: “…it absolutely IS a DIY job; you can do it with zero experience, and our hull is proof. But, be forewarned: It is one hell of a big job.”

Grateful: bottom prep blues

Jamie and Niki knew application was key, and decided to research experienced pros to put Coppercoat on their Fountaine Pajot Lavezzi 40, Grateful. “After stripping old bottom paint down to the epoxy barrier, our contractor insisted on applying an additional epoxy barrier prior to the Coppercoat. Six months after the Coppercoat was applied and on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean from our contractor, we found several areas where the second epoxy barrier coat had peeled off and others with numerous tiny blisters.” Coppercoat remained tenaciously adhered to the epoxy – but the epoxy was literally falling off the boat! They suspect a residual chemical contamination from paint stripping, but they’ll never know.

When hauling a year later, the fix was a low-drama event: they applied Coppercoat on the exposed, original epoxy. This has been problem-free in the years since.

Distant Shores III: incomplete initial application

Paul and Sheryl Shard know their way around boats, after more than three decades of living aboard and cruising—sharing their stories by videos first on TV, and now also on YouTube.

They decided to put Coppercoat on the bottom of their third and most recent Southerly, Distant Shores III. But the rush to launch and get the boat to the boat show in Düsseldorf meant that the application wasn’t completed properly. The cured epoxy wasn’t burnished to Coppercoat’s instructions, and it might have been snowing during the application. Antifouling fail resulted!

The couple later hauled the boat under warranty in Annapolis to have the bottom re-done and properly burnished. The difference in performance is striking. Sheryl says: “Distant Shores III was in the water in Panama for seven months of lockdown, but looked like new when we returned.”

Touching up Coppercoat

Totem is getting some spa treatment here at Cabrales Boatyard. Among the projects: hull painting. This means we could adjust the waterline slightly and it’s tempting. While we don’t need to raise the waterline, per se (a tactic used when boats are loaded down more than they should be), the fact that growth does creep above the waterline makes it tempting to push it up. The verdigris tint would be a fine peek of color below whatever we pick for our boot stripe… thumb wrestling on that choice is ongoing! Otherwise, our antifouling shouldn’t need work for many, many years.

The post Sailing Totem: Coppercoat, Three Years On appeared first on Cruising World.

This story originally appeared on Sailing Totem.

“Don’t make them like they used to!” One of the refrains about cruising boats is how newer vessels don’t have the desirable qualities of their older brethren. It’s not inaccurate to say they’re different, but it’s not right to suggest older boats built for bluewater sailing are better.

Totem is nearly 40 years old. Our current Old Boat Headache is rotting stainless steel. Yes, rotting!

This week Jamie pulled out our cockpit drains. They looked OK; just a little surface rust, no big deal. Except stainless steel doesn’t age well, and these are original. Knowing the stainless surface we can’t see is where stainless trouble happens, and having replaced nearly all stainless steel on board, it was time to upgrade this minor component. This would be an easy starter project to tackle as we got into the groove of shipyard life again. When the drains were pulled, this crumbling rust is what we found under that shinier top.

Classic bluewater or new production?

Totem is a Stevens 47 (later evolved Hylas 47s, and same mold for the long line of Hylas 49s); these are among the makes put on a pedestal for their suitability to offshore sailing. We wouldn’t disagree that Totem has been an excellent magic carpet to safely carry our family across oceans. But suggestions that newer, “production” boats are inferior isn’t fair, either. It’s a longer discussion (and one we get into somewhat in our TOTEM TALKS about what makes a bluewater boat: link from our Events page to watch the replay).

Taking this from the other side: the assumption that older bluewater boats are better, because of the build quality differences, isn’t accurate. Something buyers fail to appreciate is that older boats come with old boat problems—like those deck drains, along with chainplates, tanks, cleats, stanchion bases, standing rigging, steering chain/cable, and countless fasteners. It’s a small example but represents the wider problems that may not be apparent at purchase, despite a good surveyor’s efforts. Refitting core components can add up significantly, and may leave a hopeful cruiser struggling with a money pit instead of another fine sunset at anchor.

Boat listings commonly mislead

Sometimes, buyers are simply so taken by the promise of affordably buying their “proven” bluewater boat that they fail to appreciate the full investment required. Boat listings are often more marketing mud than truth: “ready to go,” “she knows the way,” “hop aboard and sail away!” Our new cockpit drains are only $59 each, an inexpensive DIY repair. Listings that don’t detail rigging age, accurate engine hours, weeping through hulls, or those glassed-in chainplates that seemed like a good idea in 1979 but now represent a serious PITA project may just keep you in the boatyard longer than resources support. There’s a good looking, highly-respected UK built bluewater boat near us staring down a rusty cast iron fuel tank (among other projects) and wondering how much time is left ticking on that bomb.

Jamie decided to follow up on the cockpit drains by removing Totem’s deck drains. These drains aren’t necessary with our perforated toe rail (the lip is about 3/16ths of an inch); water simply doesn’t accumulate. Totem originally came with three drains per side. He removed four of them in 2007, but not the final ones because it meant a cosmetic above the waterline patch job. Now that we’re staring down a paint job, out they’ve come – and the only way was in pieces!  Another case of seriously rotten steel.

Meanwhile on Totem

We’re still coming to grips with the scope of our projects for this haulout, but it’s been a very busy start in several ways. We had three trips to the USA in three weeks. It started with J&J COVID vaccinations at the high school gymnasium in Ajo, Arizona.

Then we road tripped with Salvador Cabrales, who runs the show for cruisers in his shipyard, in his big rig to San Diego. Salvador was picking up a boat to truck back to Mexico; we were picking up a car generously loaned by friends. We tagged in a bonus day to spend time with cousins in Carlsbad.

The subsequent trip to Phoenix got our youngest crew member on the COVID vaccination train (Siobhan couldn’t get J&J; that’s only 18+ currently). Last weekend was our “vaxxiversary” for the J&J shot. It feels very, very good to have our family on the road to all being fully vaccinated.

Little projects like the drains get us into the routine of shipyard life; we have a long haul[out] ahead. There are plenty of projects awaiting this 39.4-year-old boat. Of course, newer boats have their problems too; the newish Leopard adjacent is sorting out puzzling hull coating issues.

Maybe the dogma about the capabilities of new and old boats is a statement of crew competency more than actual capability.

Meanwhile, routines return: revisiting favorite taco carts, getting to know shipyard cat Dulce all over again, and sharing a drink with friends at the end of the day – and in this case, sharing it while we all muddle over older-boat challenges: rebuilding a rudder, replacing an engine, replacing rigging, galley remodel… And the list goes on.

In case you missed it

Last weekend on TOTEM TALKS: our topic was – get weather smart! We’ve heard so many sailors say “the forecast was wrong,” when usually it wasn’t wrong… it was mis-interpreted. Replay this session to hear how to avoid the typical mistakes in understanding GRIBs, and tips for downloading GRIBs offshore.

The post Sailing Totem: Hidden Issues in Older Boats appeared first on Cruising World.