“Nineteen,” my wife counted, staring up into the night sky.

She was leaning against me as we sat in the starboard cockpit of Migration, our 46-foot Cross trimaran. We were anchored at San Benedicto Island in the Revillagigedo Archipelago, 350 miles off the Pacific coast of Mexico.

“Twenty,” she said, a few minutes later. “There, just to the right of the mizzen.”

I squinted toward where she was pointing and finally saw the small dot moving among the stars.

That night, like most nights in the largest marine-­protected area in North America, the sky was glorious. Both the Southern Cross and the North Star can be seen hanging low in the star-strewn sky. So many stars.

And so many satellites. 

I forgot the exact count that night, but we spotted ­somewhere around 25 in just under an hour. We’ve always loved looking for satellites but had never seen so many in such a short time. It was surprising. And, somehow, upsetting.

The next day, diving into the waters of the Revillagigedo Islands, we were overwhelmed by the beauty of what appeared to be pristine ocean inhabited by dozens of sharks, whales, turtles, dolphins and manta rays. We surfaced shouting with joy. But those who visited 30 years ago would have rolled their eyes at our enthusiasm. They were diving when the area was brimming with hundreds, not dozens, of these charismatic species. The baseline has moved. We can compare now only to what we’ve experienced. As time rolls forward, we don’t know what we don’t know.

If you dreamed of cruising in the 1970s, ’80s or ’90s, you most likely read Dove by Robin Lee Graham and Sailing Alone Around the World by Joshua Slocum. Maybe Bernard Moitessier’s books, as well as those by Robin Knox-Johnston, Sir Francis Chichester, Steven Callahan, or Miles and Beryl Smeeton. Though diverse in their stories and experience, all the writers had one thing in common: Voyaging changed them deeply. Their journeys were not just about sailing great distances, but were also about introspection. Perhaps you’ve been aboard a sailboat far out at sea during the past decade, under a glorious sky that forces you to think of the size of the universe, and your place in it, and how the natural world rolls on and on. The sails are drawing the boat forward with that inherently beautiful, astonishing, magical power. Everything in tune, the compelling energy of it all rising from the sea, through the boat, into your body. And you know that it is impossible not to be infinitely grateful for where you are, who you are. You feel the deepness of the sea, the universe, existence—and the awe of it all is ­complete. Nothing is needed at the moment except to sit. To sail. To be.

Then, you jump up to get the phone. Or the drone. Or the laptop. 

And post.

There’s a very good chance that several of those 20-some satellites we saw were those of Starlink, SpaceX’s ­constellation of more than 2,500 satellites, launched to provide Internet access to nearly every spot on Earth. Internet access in midocean isn’t new; if you have a big enough yacht, and the wallet to go with it, you can have pretty good access via satellite almost anywhere. Starlink will make that possible for the rest of us. We already have 24/7 texting and tweeting using Iridium Go for less than $150 per month. We are only a few years away from everyone having full Internet access 24/7 for a couple hundred dollars.

But will anyone ask, “Do I want it?”

If you’re a young sailor who learned about cruising from famous vloggers, you might think the cruising life means sharing everything you do all the time (well, that, and making sure you video lots of bikini’d bottoms). That’s a natural assumption since the rise of social media. The baseline for someone who spent much of his early adulthood with a phone in hand is that you shoot and post and tweet and are connected to the Internet all the time. It’s what you know. It’s what you do.

Many sailors have grown up learning that you can make money by selling the cruising dream online via blogs, vlogs, coaching and sponsorships. Some might not be aware that dreams were once shared in person, exchanging ideas and plans freely with other sailors at dockside. Or spontaneously hanging on the words of an experienced circumnavigator who invited you aboard to see her boat. Or intimately curling in the bunk of your half-refurbished boat, reading and dreaming along with the intensely personal reflections of a lone sailor at sea who had no contact with the outside world. Those dreams were often based in a desire to be free from the constraints of life ashore, unchained from the anchors of the daily slog. To live differently, expansively, individually. Can one be free when an invisible wire tethers you to civilization? Is it even possible to make the decision to cut that wire if one has never known a life without it? 

Cruising has changed, and will continue to do so, from sextants and paper charts to Mario Kart-ing a triangle of your boat on a screen at the helm, and from finding a secluded anchorage because you know it’s not listed in the popular cruising guide to finding a secluded anchorage because you know it doesn’t have a mobile signal. 

When I mention the possible detrimental effects of technology on the cruising lifestyle, some sailors shoot back, “If Capt. Cook had GPS, he’d surely have used it.” I agree, but he would also have a man in the rigging on lookout. Just because a technology exists doesn’t mean we must use it as we are directed, whether those directions come from marine-­electronics corporations or social media giants. There is nothing inherently good about technology. It just is. How it affects our lives, by making us safer, healthier or more joyful, is based on how we choose to use it.

It’s all our choice: going to sea, multihull or monohull, cutter or sloop, wood or glass, Dacron or carbon, west or east.

As an individual, you most probably cannot choose whether the sky that humans have gazed at with wonder for millennia will be crisscrossed every couple of minutes by satellites. But, when you sit beneath those stars and satellites, whether you remain present and revel in the life you are living or get up to post—that is your choice. 

Bruce and his wife, Alene, have sailed their 1969 Cross trimaran, Migration (svmigration.com), more than 65,000 nautical miles over the past 17 years. He has ​authored several children’s books and is the founder of ­thechartlocker.com.

The post Making a Case to Disconnect appeared first on Cruising World.

Confession: I have an irrational fear. Not of heavy weather, but rather of having salt water back-siphon into my vessel’s diesel engine. Weird, right? 

Actually, not so weird. On new diesel installations, I’ve found that a common cause of premature engine failure is exhaust-related. 

Thus, a decade or so ago, when I installed a brand-new Perkins M92B in our 43-foot ketch, Ganesh, I paid careful attention to its exhaust system. I not only repeatedly rubbed it with hundred-dollar bills, but I also consulted various marine engineers and exhaust experts, including “Diesel” Dan Durbin, formerly of Parts and Power on Tortola, the guy who wrote the excellent “Please Don’t Drown Me” technical paper for Northern Lights. 

I’m totally anal about my exhaust system. For example: I have a custom drain on my marine muffler (Centek Vernalift) so that I can empty it during severe gales, or at least monitor the water level during extreme weather or after a 360-degree roll. Not only that, but the large exhaust hoses going into and out of that Centek muffler are different sizes at different points to reduce back pressure. And, yes, I’ve physically tested the back pressure in my system to make sure it is within spec. 

Even better, I have a water-exhaust separator (also Centek) mounted high up in my engine room, a setup that allows the raw water to flow out independently of my exhaust fumes. That’s right—my exhaust gases exit through one through-hull, and my exhaust water through another. 

Why so complicated? Because I am a poor man who sails in rough water with empty pockets, and I need my exhaust system to be bulletproof. It is much harder for a hose without salt water to allow salt water to back up into your engine than it is for a hose that contains salt water. 

Notice I said “much harder” but not impossible? That’s because nothing is really impossible for a determined, ­malevolent water molecule—nothing.

Anyway, the good news is that my system has worked perfectly, often in extreme weather conditions, for more than a decade and 50,000-plus ocean miles. The littlest details of seamanship matter most. For example, I always check my engine’s fluids before cranking up, and I always check the raw-water flow after cranking up. Always. (Well, except once in 62 years.) 

Here’s a quick overview of marine exhaust basics: There are two types. The hot-exhaust type is excellent at not allowing any salt water to back up into the engine, but the whole system is red-hot and often inadvertently catches the boat on fire; so often, in fact, that hot exhausts aren’t allowed on certain charter boats. They are just too dangerous on passenger-carrying craft. Fire at sea can be almost instantly life-endangering. 

It is much harder for a hose without salt water to allow salt water to back up into your engine than it is for a hose that contains salt water.

Most sailboats have a wet-exhaust system where the raw (salt) water mixes with the exhaust gases just after the ­manifold, and the coolish water/exhaust gets pumped into a muffler where the force of the exiting exhaust fumes lifts them both up and overboard. 

The problem with a wet exhaust is that there is always the possibility of water backing up and getting into the head of the engine. This often results in catastrophic failure of the engine—and, as a bonus, mental breakdowns among the boat’s owners. 

Which brings us to two days ago. I was waiting for a crowd of Singaporean friends to come aboard to go island-­hopping with us. They were slightly delayed. I checked the fluids in my engine, carefully eyeballed it, cranked it up (it started perfectly), and immediately visually checked its raw-water output by leaning over the side of my vessel. The raw water was pumping overboard just fine. Oh, what a good boy am I.

I ran my engine for a couple of ­minutes to allow it to come up to temperature, and then shut it off. During that time, I heard a clink, which I thought was something rolling off the cockpit table onto the cockpit sole. I lazily searched around the cockpit for the fallen object but couldn’t find it. (Clue.) No biggie, right? 

Once everyone was aboard, I recranked my now-warm engine, but this time it did not fire up on first revolution. It cranked a bit. That was unusual. (Clue: Anything unusual is a clue.)

Hmm, I mused to myself, thinking I needed to file, sand and clean my battery cables to get rid of any building corrosion. I did not check my raw water because, hey, I’d just checked it four minutes ago. What could go wrong in such a short span of time?

Plenty.

In blissful ignorance, I yelled, “Cast off!” at my wife, Carolyn, on our bow. She dropped the mooring pennant. 

All my Singaporean guests were ­huddled in the cockpit, thrilled to be underway on such a primitive, wild, daring-do sea adventure. 

“Is this safe?” asked a fellow who had never been on such a life-endangering voyage. 

“Oh,” I smirked confidently, “after three circumnavigations, I think I can get you to that placid isle called Ubin a few hundred meters ahead.”

Yes, pride always cometh before the fall. 

I attempted to increase my throttle—and, to my amazement, my engine slowed. It was at this point that it occurred to my seldom-used little pea brain that I might have a problem worthy of my feeble attention. (Clue: All problems are worthy of a skipper’s attention.)

While I was scratching my head where my hair used to be, and wondering if I had a throttle linkage problem, all hell broke loose. Huge billows of thick, gray smoke started coming out of all the hatches, companionways and opening ports. Coughing people came rushing on deck, terror in their eyes. 

“Fire!” someone screamed. 

All this happened quickly, just as I ­realized my engine was losing rpm because there was no oxygen in my engine room, only smoke. 

We were on fire. 

Carolyn and my daughter, Roma Orion, bravely hopped below to grab fire extinguishers, but both came shooting right back out, coughing heavily and bleary-eyed. 

“Poison!” Carolyn screamed. “Deadly gas!”

The situation was deteriorating quickly. Our Singaporean friends were desperately attempting to wave down a passing supertanker, screaming to be taken off Ganesh before their imminent and inevitable deaths at the hands of ocean-intoxicated, thrill-seeking Westerners.

My reputation as a respected circumnavigator was plummeting fast. I now did what I always do in emergencies: I glued on a confident smile, as if I possessed intelligence. I took a deep breath and asked myself, What the hell is going on? 

I shut off my engine and ordered the crew to the foredeck (they were all coughing and tearing up from the poisonous fumes). Next, I opened all the hatches for maximum ventilation, shut off the main battery switch (by feel while holding my breath) and, back on deck, unrolled the genoa to gain steerage. 

Once the engine and battery switch were off, the emergency was over. Well, except for our crying, terrorized guests, many of whom have since purchased rural property far inland. One claims to throw up whenever he sees a seascape. “It was exactly like the Titanic!” he tells his therapist and anyone else who will listen.

What, exactly, had happened? In a word: corrosion. When I initially cranked up, everything was fine until the clink. This sound was the flange connection between my manifold and exhaust system breaking three of its four corroded bolts. The breakage permitted the heavy pipe connection to gape open. 

Once there was no exhaust pressure in my exhaust system, there was nothing to force the raw water out of my muffler. Hence, my entire exhaust system and large-diameter hoses filled with seawater. 

After I shut off the engine the first time, some salt water flowed into my engine, not overboard. That’s why the engine hesitated while cranking the second time. But I didn’t realize the significance; I was too busy cracking dirty jokes in Mandarin. 

Mistake No. 2 was failing to recheck my raw water visually. It wasn’t pumping overboard, and if I’d have checked it, I’d have never cast off. Again, my bad. 

Before Carolyn cast off the mooring pennant, we were already in trouble. I was just too dumb to realize it. Pressurized salt water was spraying down the entire engine compartment. This caused numerous wires in my engine room to short out and begin melting their insulation. All this burning plastic, of course, produced massive toxic fumes. 

Once we were back on the mooring, we aired out the boat, unloaded all the praying, happy-to-be-alive, we’ll-never-go-to-sea-again guests, and attempted to troubleshoot our problem. 

Troubleshooting, of course, requires intelligence—why I thought I should be involved, I have no idea. I put Carolyn to port and Roma Orion to starboard, and cranked up the engine. They were supposed to tell me if they saw any new smoke or any tiny drips of water. 

Roma was immediately drenched with salt water. From where? The raw-water ­injection riser after the manifold, where the raw water gets injected into the exhaust system to cool it. 

At this point—idiot of limited ­intelligence that I am—I figured that I fully understood what had just happened. The hose clamp or hose had failed where the raw water goes into the injection point, and it had squirted under pressure, setting off a chain reaction. 

Clever, me not. 

At 3 a.m. the following day, I sat up in my bunk and said, “Oh, darn!” At first light, I unwrapped the vision-blocking fireproofing from the exhaust flanges that connect the manifold to the exhaust system. That’s when I saw the large, angled gap between the two. Without exhaust pressure in the system to evacuate the raw water, my engine exhaust system had filled completely with salt water. When I shut off the engine for the second time—thinking the emergency was over—the natural rocking and pitching of the vessel allowed salt water to get back-splashed into my cylinder head.

I now did what I always do in emergencies: I glued on a confident smile and asked myself, What the hell is going on?

The evil, ever-focused water molecules had finally had their day. I’d been too ­myopic to think through all the ramifications of the squirting water. Thus, corrosive salt water had been trapped in the cylinders for 18 long hours before I managed to get it out, and to fire up my no-longer-so-new engine. 

How much damage did this salt water do? I don’t know. My engine currently starts fine. And runs OK. (Yes, I changed the oil a couple of times.) But, surely, having the engine flooded with salt water for almost a day didn’t help its compression, now or tomorrow. 

And do I have another $20,000 laying around for a new engine? Nope! I could barely afford the new exhaust gasket and my extra-large serving of crow.

Why write such a depressing sea yarn? Because, as the T-shirts say, “Poop happens.” Despite a lifetime of guarding against salt water getting into any of the numerous engines that I’ve installed, my ever-plotting nemesis finally won a round. 

 Cap’n Fatty and Carolyn are currently in Langkawi, Malaysia, slapping paint on their bottom. (Did that come out right?)

The post Exhausted In Singapore, For All the Wrong Reasons appeared first on Cruising World.

From our back porch in Annapolis, Maryland,we gaze out on 6 miles of the Chesapeake Bay at the mouth of the Severn River. On a good summer weekend, we’ll see scores of sailboats milling about—hundreds if a big regatta is on. Some will catch the eye and get you to take a longer look. But only one stops me in my tracks every time.

Well, two, actually: the schooners Woodwind I and II. They are swan-white 74-foot twins that carry tourists on two-hour cruises daily from early spring to late fall. They’re just too pretty to ignore.

So it is with schooners. There’s something about the beamy, swooping hull shape and the dynamic angle of the rig that demands special notice. With a short mast forward and the tall one aft, the sail plan looks like a butcher’s knife cleaving the wind. When all the canvas is up and pulling—two or three jibs, foresail, topsails, and main—these graceful boats carry an air of timeless utility and majesty. 

Imagine the scene 150 years ago, when schooners by the hundreds roamed the coast, laden with cargos of lumber, coal and other dry goods. What a sight to see them tacking and jibing off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, or Provincetown, Massachusetts, killing time waiting for a fair breeze to make the rounding.

No boat is perfect, of course, and schooners have their ­downside. Fred Hecklinger, the late guru of wooden boats around the Chesapeake, used to say, “If you love schooners, get a picture of one and put it on your wall.” It was his way of ­acknowledging that for all their beauty, schooners of old were also heavy, not particularly good at going to windward, and relatively slow except on a screaming reach.

There’s only one place left on the East Coast where you can reliably see a gaggle of schooners hard at work on any summer day, and that’s Penobscot Bay off midcoast Maine. A dozen or so of the wooden beauties up to 100 feet long charter, offering four- to six-day trips out of Rockland and Camden. Smaller ones run daily excursions. A few are purpose-made for the charter trade, but most are meticulously maintained relics of the ­freight-­carrying past, including two—Lewis R. French and Stephen Taber—that each turned 150 years old in 2021.

Schooners hold a special place in my heart because they’re where I caught the sailing bug. Sixty years ago, my father and I took a four-day trip on Mattie out of Camden, Maine. It was the first overnight sailing trip for either of us. We drove up from Long Island, New York, stopping at Cape Neddick, Maine, where I cracked my first lobster claw. We boarded that night for early departure next morning. I was 16.

Mattie’s new owner and captain was a slim fellow named Jim Nesbit, who showed us around what would be our humble digs for the next few days. Mattie was then 78 years old, having launched in 1883 in Patchogue, New York, just 37 miles from our Long Island home.

The old freighter had few amenities. Lights were kerosene, and cabins were tiny and had no portholes. The head was dark and airless. Meals, including daily fresh bread, were cooked on a cast-iron wood stove. Passengers ate on deck or in a dim, low-slung main cabin. Back then, there were no electronic navigation aids, so when fog swept in, you made your way to the next anchorage by guess and by God, with a man in the bow sounding the mournful foghorn while peering through the mist for danger.

We found our fog the third day out, thick as soup. I was a nervous rabbit, so when we finally heard the clang of a bell and then saw a green buoy heave up through the mist as proof that we were safe, the moment of relief and joy formed my lasting attachment to sailing and the sea.

Advance the log by 60 years, to 2021, and little has changed. We’re back in the same cold, clear waters off Vinalhaven, Maine—the biggest island in Penobscot Bay—and the fog is back, thick as ever but no longer quite so scary. We know where we are thanks to electronics. The chart plotter inside a varnished box near the helm shows precisely where we’re going.   

Everything else remains much the same. A starry, moonless sky at midnight. The gauzy curtain that hangs as dawn gives way to misty day. A protected cove at daybreak with no breeze, ripples emanating from a circle of bait as little fish spin nervously on the surface and seals lurk below, popping up to grab a snack. Eagles and ospreys wheeling overhead; terns squawking and dipping for minnows; black guillemots, a northern seabird, paddling along the bank.

 A dark blockade of spruce lines the shore, ending in a band of pale granite, beneath which sweet-smelling seaweed clings from the high-tide line down to the ocean, which will rise and fall 10 feet and more with the diurnal pull of the moon.

Then there’s our boat itself, pretty as a picture once the sails are up and pulling. 

When my wife, Fran, and I decided to take a trip back in time this past summer, the schooner we chose was Heritage, out of Rockland, Maine. It’s one of the bigger vessels in the modern fleet at 95 feet on deck, and one of the newest, launched in 1983. It’s the creation of Capt. Doug and Linda Lee, who built the boat over three years in the boatyard they own at the foot of Front Street.

If the Lees took advantage of modern technology in construction, you couldn’t tell by looking. Heritage weighs 165 tons. The frames and hull are oak, steamed and bent to shape. The decks and cabin tops are straight-grain pine. Heritage has no engine for propulsion; to get in and out of tight spots, this vessel (like most in the fleet) uses a diesel-powered push boat that tucks quietly under the stern.

The Lees did have the advantage of designing Heritage for people, not freight, so they could fashion a central cabin for dining where everyone can sit at once, instead of in shifts. Other than that, this is a traditional Maine schooner, stem to stern. Meals are prepared on the antique wood stove, and sails are heavy canvas. To raise the weighty gaffs, sails and anchor, the crew fires up Old Joe: a 1921, make-or-break, single-cylinder donkey engine that the Lees rebuilt from junk. It snorts like a misfiring freight train.

Twenty-nine of us, a full house, paid to board this sturdy anachronism to stuff ourselves into cramped cabins, to clamber up the companionways in the dark to use the head, and to wait our turns for the only bathing facility: a showerhead on the end of a flexible tube in one of the three heads.

Missing, sadly, were the Lees, who sailed Heritage for 37 years after they built it. Now in their 70s, they sold the schooner to two crewmen in 2020, when chartering was suspended in the pandemic. 

Fortunately for the new owners, 2021 proved a boom year, as vacationers looked for holidays closer to home. I don’t remember it, but Fran says that I came home the day in March when I got my second vaccination shot and announced that we were going schooner sailing in Maine.

You might wonder why a couple with their own cruise-worthy sailboat (albeit small, at 27 feet) would drive 11 hours to get on somebody else’s boat with a crowd of strangers. The answer is uncomplicated: The food is plentiful and good; the scenery is incomparable; the company is generally soft-spoken; and it’s nice to find yourself in the hands of competent, cheerful young people whose main interest is keeping you safe and happy. You know, instead being the one who is fretting about rocks and tides and fog.

The new co-skippers of Heritage are a pair of bearded, scruffy, 30-something bachelors who worked for years on the vessel, and who seem as devoted to tradition as the Lees were. 

Capt. Ben Welzenbach was teaching guitar in Chicago nearly a decade ago when his dad took him on a father-son trip on Heritage. As soon as he got home, Welzenbach sent a job inquiry. He was on the deck crew the next season. 

Capt. Sean Grimes was a line cook in a southern New Hampshire restaurant when a buddy dragged him to Maine and introduced him to schooners. The next year, he ran the wood stove on Heritage.

Welzenbach had the helm and Grimes was in the push boat when we departed Rockland under a mackerel sky and little breeze. Passengers ranged in age from 15-year-old Cassidey Card of Connecticut, tagging along with her grandparents, to 85-year-old Faith Hadala of Tennessee, who quizzed anyone who looked like they might be in the running to make sure she was indeed the oldest.

Hadala was with her 84-year-old husband, Paul. Her first marriage lasted 17 years, she said. The second also lasted 17. She and Paul had been together 16 years. “We’re waiting to see what happens next year,” she said with a chuckle.

Schooner trips skew to the upper age brackets. You won’t find many go-go, 40-something J/70 racers from Scarsdale, New York, on the passenger list. They’re more likely down in St. Martin sipping Red Bull and vodka on a Caribbean beach.

But you still do get characters, like Bo Kinsman, a lobsterman from Ogunquit, Maine, who takes a week off every month in summer to sail on Heritage. He likes going from having to do everything on his boat to doing nothing on the schooner. A ringer for Ernest Hemingway with his silver fringe beard, gimlet eyes and battered fishing cap, he usually works alone tending 400 pots on a 32-footer.

He surprised us when we stopped the first night at tiny Burnt Island for our lobster bake, a staple of every Maine Windjammer cruise. We had 65 live lobsters in a tank; the crew steamed them over a wood fire in a blanket of seaweed plucked from the rocks. They were unbelievably fresh, and you could eat all you wanted. Kinsman took none. He chose hot dogs and burgers. “I don’t eat lobsters,” the lobsterman sniffed.

There were other bright lights in our thrown-together crew. Steve Berthiaume, who builds flutes in Massachusetts for a living, brought a travel guitar and led singalongs at night while his wife, Kim, sang nice harmonies. Suzanne Farace, a divorce lawyer from Baltimore, spun yarns about previous kayak-camping trips she’d made in Penobscot Bay. Her paddling partner, John Garon, told of his days as a spy in the National Security Agency—no state secrets but good palaver nonetheless. Jill McConnell of upstate New York jumped in and swam around the boat for an hour one evening, as if we were in the Bahamas, which we certainly were not.

The crew were young, with interesting lives. Ginger-haired Courtney King was born to the sea: Her parents own the schooner Mary Day out of Camden, and she’s working on her own master’s ticket at Maine Maritime Academy. She hopes to buy a small schooner to live on. Kyle Gray was working long hours at a commercial real estate firm in New York when he decided to kick over the traces and work long hours climbing the mast on Heritage instead. He’d be heading to the University of Pennsylvania to study education policy in the fall.

Our cook, Stephanie Cech, was a wiry small-boat racer in Ohio when she got the urge to head east. Everything she knew about cooking meals for 35 people on a wood stove she learned in a few weeks from Capt. Sean, who rose at 5 every morning to help her start the fire. It was fun watching her pound out huge blobs of dough for the daily bread. 

Jeremy Schmich was bored writing software code for a living. Now, he’s in charge of Old Joe, the donkey engine, and arms himself with an oil can and ether spritzer to get it going. “First time, every time,” he chanted while spinning the flywheel with one hand and tickling the compression release with the other, hoping for the chug-chug-BAM that signaled success.

We never got much wind. Usually in Maine you can count on an afternoon southwesterly sea breeze, but this year was fickle, Capt. Ben said. Yet, the push boat was quiet enough that you barely knew it was running, and the sails were up all day to catch any breeze that came along. The scenery never disappointed. At 68 degrees, the water was warm enough for the bold to swim. And three lovely old rowboats were launched at each anchorage for exploring the shore.

All in all, it was a memorable trip. Yes, you could occasionally hear the guy in the next cabin snoring, and the shower situation took some getting used to. But there is much to admire in a place that has changed little in 150 years.

The Maine charter trade for schooners was hatched in 1936 by a 20-year-old entrepreneur named Frank Swift, who saw the sailing fleet moldering away as motor vessels took over. He wondered if a boat could be cleaned up and pitched to adventurous vacationers as a cruise ship. He found a skipper and a boat, dubbed the enterprise Windjammer Cruises, and sold the first trip to a trio of ladies from Boston who paid $35 for a week on board.

Twenty-five years later, when I got my sea legs on Mattie, an industry was already in place. It’s still thriving today. I asked Courtney King if Mattie was still around. “Oh, sure,” she said. “She’s out here doing the same thing we are. She’s still running out of Camden. They changed her name, though, back to the original: Grace Bailey.”

She tugged on my sleeve the next day and gestured across the sparking sea to a sailing relic, shining proud and going strong at 138 years of age. “There she is,” she said. “There goes the old Mattie.”

Angus Phillips is a longtime Chesapeake Bay-based racing and ­cruising sailor, former outdoor columnist for TheWashington Post, and frequent contributor to CW.

The post Passion For All Time appeared first on Cruising World.

A bareboat charter is perfect for kids. It’s fun, it’s educational, and it bonds parents and children. Rediscovering the joys of boating through the eyes of a child is a remarkable experience that transports you back to your own first days on the water. 

But, as with everything involving kids, you’ll need to plan ahead for success. 

Set the ground rules long in advance, reinforce them before you cast off, and offer subtle reminders during the charter. The most important rule is that the skipper’s word is law. With two families aboard, parents should sort out the various issues in private. Bottom line: One person is in charge.

Life jackets are essential, but how and when you require them is up to each parent. In my case, all preteens have the run of the cockpit and the cabin without life jackets. Set one foot on deck, and the life jacket rule is in force. Adults should set a good example by wearing their own PFDs so that the kids don’t feel like outcasts.

Before you depart for your charter, find comfortable life jackets for the kids: Wearing bulky PFDs is a quick way to turn a swell trip into a hell trip. Life jackets for youngsters should be lightweight and flexible for their active lifestyle, and ideally have colors that are “cool” designs. With a comfortable PFD, kids won’t think twice about wearing it constantly. If possible, have them wear the life jackets before the trip to make sure there aren’t any chafing issues.

Kids also need nonslip shoes just like adults, and they need sun protection in the form of hats, sunglasses (with cord!), sunblock and protective clothing. And, to fully integrate them into the “crew,” they should have their own sailing gloves as well.

No running and no horsing around until they get ashore. And no kids on deck unless an adult is present. No youngster leaves the boat without permission from an adult. For smaller kids, no one goes forward (even at anchor) without an adult present and on watch.  

When it comes to swimming, the buddy system is always in effect, either with another youngster or with a parent.

The Boat and Trip

For several reasons, I’m partial to catamarans, both power and sail, when it comes to kid charters. Cats have more room inside for playing, they’re more stable, and kids love the trampolines on the foredeck.  

When planning your charter, try to break the distances into small chunks to prevent boredom. A four-hour passage between two harbors can benefit from a short beach stop that creates a pair of two-hour trips, and lets the kids unleash that pent-up energy too. 

 As any parent knows, comfort foods can save the day. Whether it’s a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch or a special cereal for breakfast, make sure you have all the makings on board. It’s a good idea to pack some of their favorite treats in your luggage too because snacks and candy brands aren’t universally available.  

Trust me, kids will be hungry from all the activity, so take plenty of nonperishable snacks. It’s nice to think that they should all be nutritious, but, hey, this is a vacation. Mix up a routine of potato chips with cereal bars, and dried fruit with peanuts.  

A bareboating pleasure for adults is the happy hour, so include the kids. Create virgin piña coladas or Shirley Temple daiquiris to enjoy with the grown-ups.

Time for Fun

Snorkeling is a part of bareboating, but let them try it first in shallow water on a beach. Not only does it feel more secure when they can put their feet down, but it’s a lot easier to adjust masks and fins in shallow water.  

Most charter companies offer masks, snorkels and fins with their charter package, but my experience is that children’s sizes are slim pickings. Buy these at home so you know they fit, and take them with you.  

Kids need sun protection in the water, so take some tightly knit T-shirts to protect their backs. Since they’ll want to explore the beaches and reefs, have reef-runner slip-on shoes too.

Get the kids involved on the boat. Let them take the helm, crank a winch, place a fender. Give them a piece of line, and teach them a few knots before the charter. Then, during the charter, have them tie a few knots for real projects such as fenders or dock lines. Reinforce these efforts with praise. 

For better or worse, this is the digital age, and many kids are addicted. One professional skipper solves this problem by telling young guests that he has to confiscate their gadgets because, as on airplanes, they interfere with the navigational equipment.  

On the other hand, kids love the electronics on board, and a chart plotter (with supervision) can fascinate the youngsters with planning courses and setting waypoints.

Share the responsibilities. One family regularly appoints different youngsters to specific duties, with titles such as dinghy captain (tending the tender), buoy officer (pointing at the buoy for the helmsman when mooring) and forward lookout. Most kids get a kick out of cooking, and the barbecue on board is the perfect chance for them to learn how to flip burgers and steaks. After all, every restaurant has a sous chef to handle the details. Why not a bareboat?

A bareboat charter is a wonderful educational opportunity in so many ways. One family takes books on birds, fish and the local area. Learning about the islands and the wildlife then becomes the key to evening trivia contests.

Encourage and help your youngsters to keep a journal or log of the charter. They can add postcards and drawings, as well as everything from shells to postage stamps from the area. These are not only fun to look at in future years, but they also provide the basis for school reports or show-and-tell sessions. There are a number of logbooks aimed at youngsters in most marine stores, or you can make your own.

Kids need their space, so be sure to designate areas where they can keep their things and have their private time. Have enough blankets and pillows available if they want to curl up for a nap (or make a blanket fort). 

Don’t forget the simple stuff. Being allowed to stay up late and sit on deck with the adults to gaze at the stars (a star chart is helpful) is always a special treat. On one drizzly charter, we taught the kids to play hearts, and they loved beating us. 

One last piece of advice: Don’t overplan everything. Families already have overcrowded worlds with too much scheduling. Use your bareboat charter as a chance to play together, enjoy each other, and just relax.

 Most important, chill out and have fun.

Award-winning writer Chris Caswell is a regular CW contributor and the ­editor and publisher of Charter Savvy, a digital magazine for bareboat charter. 

Pirate Treasure 

Pirates are endlessly enthralling to kids, so you might trace a treasure map that, amazingly, matches your itinerary. It could be “found” in a bottle on a beach, and it might just lead to a trove of chocolate doubloons. You’ll need to take the bottle with you (glass, not old merlot), along with parchment-type paper, a pen that seems old (not a ballpoint), and doubloons. Stash the “treasure” and then “find” the bottle. Don’t forget the “10 paces due west from the colored rock” directions. —CC 

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One year ago this month, as director of this magazine’s annual Boat of the Year contest, I joined our judging team aboard the CNB 66 Escape in Annapolis, Maryland, to conduct our sea trials on Chesapeake Bay. The high-end, long-range cruising boat was owned by a vastly experienced German couple named Karl and Annamarie Frank, who’d been based in Annapolis the past several years while rambling up and down the East Coast. Generally, our test sails involve yacht designers and manufacturers’ representatives. It was unusual, though not unprecedented, to go sailing with a couple on their own boat (our earlier dockside inspections occurred on a newer sistership model of the CNB 66). When it happens, though, it’s always interesting and enlightening. 

Karl Frank was clearly one hell of a sailor who’d optimized the deck layout for singlehanded sailing; we all shared a joke about “German engineering.” He’d put a lot of thought into everything, and quickly got our attention and respect. (Annamarie told us that she didn’t care much for offshore sailing but loved the destinations, and opted out of passages when she could.) Later, in deliberations, judge Gerry Douglas said: “The build quality was just impeccable. The owner understood how to sail it well, and he had a system where he could handle it solo. He proved that you could operate a big, sophisticated boat alone.”

Here are a few excerpts about this ultra-sophisticated yacht from my own notes that day: “German couple on board their personal boat… Have laid it out beautifully… Running backstays with split fixed backstays adjusted belowdecks w/ hydraulic ram… Complicated… Carbon rig, in-boom furler… Huge Park Ave.-style boom….”

I hadn’t thought anything about Karl and Annamarie until late in July, when I learned that they both died in mid-June after a reefing maneuver gone very wrong in stormy conditions en route from Bermuda to Nova Scotia. Both had been airlifted from Escape by a US Coast Guard helicopter but succumbed to their wounds before ever reaching shore. 

A lengthy report, first published by Blue Water Sailing magazine and later reprinted in the newsletter Scuttlebutt, recounted the entire horrible tale, as told to veteran cruising sailor Sheldon Stuchell by one of the two additional crew on board for the trip (I was surprised by this detail because Karl had been quite clear that he preferred sailing without outside assistance). In essence, it appeared that Annamarie, handling the mainsheet, lost control of that big boom, and both she and Karl subsequently got tangled in and clobbered by its flailing sheet. 

So, if there even is one, what’s the moral of all this? Pretty simple. If it could happen to the Franks, it could happen to any of us. 

Earlier this year, I took a sailing trip with a famous, world-class mountain climber. Late one night after a few belts, we got around to talking about the perils of our respective passions, and of our friends and acquaintances who’d perished pursuing them (see “The Sail to Nowhere,” September). As I started to mentally take inventory of the longish list of ocean sailors I personally knew who have been lost at sea, it occurred to me that offshore sailing isn’t quite as hazardous as high-altitude mountaineering adventures. But it’s a damn sight closer than most of us would ever care to admit. 

A decade ago, as I’ve written before, I was part of a 28,000-nautical-mile ­expedition that sailed around North and South America via the Northwest Passage and Cape Horn. Before we shoved off, our core crew had a sobering conversation about what to do with our bodies if we didn’t make it back to shore. My answer was quick and straightforward: Commit me to the deep. I’ve got a few mates waiting for me.

And now Karl and Annamarie are waiting there too. 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

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Halos in bottom paint around ­underwater hardware is a phenomenon I encounter on a regular basis. And just as often, I’m asked: “What causes this? Is it something to worry about?” The answers lie in an understanding of underwater metals and bonding systems. 

Most fiberglass sailing vessels rely on metal alloys for through-hull fittings, struts, rudder gudgeons, hinges and so forth. In most cases, these metals are connected by wires (part of the vessel’s bonding system) to a sacrificial anode or anodes, which provide what is commonly referred to as cathodic protection.  

From a corrosion perspective, the anode—often called a “zinc,” even though it can be zinc, aluminum or magnesium—is less noble, and thus more prone to corrosion, than the metals to which it is connected. As a result, the anode corrodes, or sacrifices itself, in order to protect the other metals. 

A well-maintained anode should be replaced when it’s no more than 50 percent depleted, to provide adequate protection for other submerged metals. How do you know if the anode is depleted? The corrosion process is galvanic-electric, which means that interconnected, dissimilar metals immersed in an electrolyte (seawater, in this case) will reach a negative voltage. That voltage can be measured using a reference cell.

Too Much of a Good Thing

The needed volume, surface area, and weight of anodes is a function of several factors, including the surface area of the metals being protected, water salinity, temperature, and movement. The goal is to use enough anodes to drive each metal to a minimum of 200 mV more negative than its resting voltage, which affords it the necessary protection; for fiberglass vessels, this is usually about negative 550 to negative 1100 mV. That approach, along with maintaining the bonding system to ensure that no more than 1 ohm of resistance exists between protected metals and anodes, will keep galvanic corrosion at bay. All of this might lead boaters to conclude that if some zinc is good, more is better. There is some truth to this. However, there can be deleterious side effects from overprotection, which produces an alkaline solution around the protected metals (there can also be an interaction with the copper in many bottom paints). In the case of fiberglass vessels, this situation can lead to paint failure, called cathodic disbondment—the familiar haloing. The loss of antifouling paint then often leads to the formation of marine fouling. Overprotection is not harmful to bronze or stainless steel. It can be prevented by reducing the number of anodes, or by epoxy-coating these metals to encapsulate them, to stop the formation of alkaline.  

At the same time, overprotection can be destructive to boats made of wood or aluminum. The soft pulp between wood’s grain, called lignin, is dissolved by alkaline, leading to a phenomenon known as delignification, which will compromise the wood’s strength. Aluminum is an amphoteric metal, which means it can be attacked by an acid or an alkaline solution.

Ultimately, no matter the type of boat, try to provide the right amount of cathodic protection, especially in the case of wood and aluminum hulls.

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

The post How Can You Prevent Halos In Bottom Paint Around Underwater Hardware? appeared first on Cruising World.

Having fiberglassing skills is a powerful do-it-yourself tool for customizing and repairing sailboats. Recent examples of fiberglass work we’ve done on our Stevens 47, Totem, include creating a custom gray water tank, building the new swim steps into our reverse transom, and filling in holes from decommissioned through-hulls. 

And occasionally, ­fiberglassing skills fill a more critical need: saving a boat.

A squall raged in the dark over Totem’s Indian Ocean anchorage when Jamie heard a plea for help over the VHF radio. One of the cruising boats within the uninhabited atoll had gone against a reef. We were in Salomon Atoll, the British Indian Ocean Territory of Chagos. Strained by high winds, the boat’s mooring line chafed through on the sharp edges of a coral head. Far from any help or official options for rescue, a handful of crews rallied to aid the distressed Wauquiez 48 Pipistrelle, and prevent it from becoming a wreck in this pristine, remote location. 

After the vessel was kedged to safety, assessment revealed that the hull and keel had only superficial scratches, but the prop shaft was bent and the rudder severely damaged. For Pipistrelle to sail to the nearest haulout facility in the Seychelles, some 1,200 nautical miles away, the large chunk missing from the leading edge of the rudder needed significant fiberglass repair. Without fiberglassing materials and know-how, the crew would have to use the wreck-removal insurance that we all needed for a permit to the territory.

The band of cruisers pooled their knowledge and resources to tackle the repair. Materials were in adequate supply except for one key part: the fiberglass. 

On a remote, tropical, uninhabited coconut island, what could possibly substit­ute for glass fibers to comb­ine with resin to form a structural composite? Coconut fibers, of course! 

Junior crew from several kid boats were sent to collect and shred the fibrous coir that clings to a coconut’s husk. Fiberglass repairs commenced. When done, the repair was so sound, Jamie said that Coconut Composites should be a going venture. 

Before we went cruising, our fiberglassing skills were thin. Jamie had repaired bulkhead tabbing and approximately a billion osmotic blisters in the bottom of Dogwatch, his 1964 Sailmaster 22. In the process, toxic vapors from fiberglass resin confirmed that his marine-industry interests leaned to sailmaking and design rather than boatbuilding. 

Over the course of 25 years, we’ve developed fiberglassing skills out of necessity, as self-sufficient cruisers who seek remote destinations. Safety and frugality from DIY fiberglassing know-how is an asset.

Fundamentals

The coconut composite we used to repair that rudder had an unusual ingredient but was fundamentally the same as other composites that form boats, bathtubs, giant wind-turbine blades and myriad strong, noncorrosive, relatively lightweight items. Liquid resin mixed with liquid hardener, in correct proportions, heats up in what’s called an exothermic chemical reaction. This toasty mix cures into a very solid state with perfectly mediocre properties. Unless, that is, once mixed and before curing starts, the liquid saturates reinforcing fibers. Combined correctly and cured, these three components form composites with remarkable properties. 

Resin comes in three types: polyester, vinylester and epoxy. The first two are most common in fiberglass boatbuilding, while epoxy has superior qualities and a cost that’s high enough to make it less financially appealing in boatbuilding. Epoxy is a common choice for fiberglass repairs, aftermarket projects and some new-boat construction.

For basic fiberglassing projects, choosing which resin type to use has two important considerations: compatibility and toxicity. 

Epoxy bonds well when applied to the other resins, but the opposite isn’t true. Polyester and vinylester resins (including polyester gelcoat) form weak bonds when applied to epoxy. CW technical editor Steve D’Antonio notes that epoxy is not compatible with a gelcoat top coat. Epoxy resin is nonflammable and is not UV resistant.

As for toxicity: The vapor issue that turned Jamie off has been mitigated. Today we can choose resin with reduced volatile organic compounds, referred to as low-VOC. This type of resin costs more, stinks less, and is much less toxic to humans and the environment. 

The hardener (also called catalyst and curing agent) that creates an exothermic reaction for polyester and vinylester resin is methyl ethyl ketone peroxide. Commonly called MEKP, this clear liquid is highly toxic and explosive. For this reason, we prefer epoxy resin, with hardeners that are less volatile. Always follow the manufacturer’s safety guidance.

“The majority of industry professionals look to vinylester resin’s near-epoxy-like qualities, at a lower price, easier wet-out, and chopped-strand-mat compatibility, albeit with the unpleasant fumes, when it comes to repairs and achieving tenacious secondary bonds,” D’Antonio adds.

“Vinylester and epoxy are generally accepted as osmotic blister-proof; polyester isn’t.  

Thin layers or coats of epoxy can be used; not so for polyester and vinylester. They require the thickness for proper curing.”

The difference in shelf life is important to consider, especially in the context of cruising. Vinylester and polyester are reliable for about six months, while epoxy is reliable for a year or longer depending on storage conditions.

Factors and outcomes 

Creating the right exothermic reaction for the resin to cure properly is more nuanced than perfect sail trim to a sail tweaker. It’s not as simple as mixing resin and hardener quantities as per the manufacturer’s instructions. For example, instructions might read: For every 1 ounce of resin, add four to eight drops of MEKP. Which is it? Four? Six? Eight? Or instructions might give you a concentration ratio by weight, ranging from 0.5 percent to 2 percent of MEKP-to-resin. 

With polyester and ­vinylester resins, the MEKP quantity fluctuates because of other variables to ensure that the resulting heat isn’t too much or too little to cure properly. The hardener for epoxy is different. The ratio of resin and hardener doesn’t change. That’s why West System epoxy is intuitively named fast, slow and extra-slow cure. West System epoxy has a nice option for smaller fiberglassing jobs: hand pumps with an appropriate, measured amount of resin and hardeners. The benefit is that one pump of resin to one pump of hardener ensures a good mix ratio.

As for those other variables, there are a few to learn.

Working Time: Sometimes referred to as pot life, this is the time between when resin is thoroughly mixed and curing starts (when liquids starts getting viscous). On a hot day or when adding a few additional drops of MEKP for extra kick, you could end up with five minutes of working time for a 10-minute application. Once the mixed resin starts to kick, the application part is over whether you’re finished or not.

Air Temperature: Ambient air and resin/hardener container temperatures affect the exothermic reaction time. Hotter temperatures require less hardener or slower cure epoxy hardener, and the opposite for colder conditions. Containers in direct sun on a hot day will cause a hotter reaction and a shorter pot life, as will narrow, deep containers, rather than wide, shallow containers. Less MEKP or slower-curing epoxy hardener helps, but always start with a small batch to gauge how the ambient temperatures affect cure time.

Volume: The greater the total mixed volume of resin and hardener is, the higher potential heat and working time drops off quickly. Too much heat is dangerous. Jamie recounted a project on Dogwatch when he tried to save time by mixing a larger batch of resin. Big mistake! Quickly, the container got warm, then hot. He knew it wasn’t right and quickly got the bucket off the boat and onto the ground, where it smoked until the reaction finished. Oops. When a larger mix quantity is necessary, use a larger container so that the mixed volume spreads over a larger area. Larger, in this context, meaning wider and shallower. Overcatalyzed resin can do more than heat up; it can spontaneously combust.

Mixing: It’s important to combine the hardener and resin well. A mediocre mix won’t cure. With a stir stick, scrape the container perimeter and bottom. Then rotate the container and keep mixing. For a tiny batch—say, less than 1 cup combined—mix constantly for about 30 seconds. Longer mixing is needed as batch size increases.

Using fibers and fillers

Fibers and fillers are reinforcements that make resin strong, similar to how concrete is so much stronger with the addition of rebar. Glass fibers (where fiberglass gets the name) are sold as woven fibers (cloth), bonded fibers (mat) or stitched fibers (biaxial). The material comes in varying weights and widths. Research to choose the most appropriate for your repair or project. Note that, according to D’Antonio, with few exceptions, fiberglass mat, with a random arrangement of strands held together by a chemical binder, is not compatible with epoxy resin. The binding agent doesn’t dissolve or bond to epoxy.

Some fiberglassing jobs are suited not to fibers but instead to fillers, which are particulate matter mixed into the resin. Fillers are best for projects that need a smooth, faired surface, or when bonding parts together, or to fill voids. To meet this array of applications, fillers vary from dense powders for structural applications to lighter-than-air ­microballoons that make an easy job of sanding to a fair finish. Other fillers include cotton fluff, or one-sixth-inch milled glass. Each has different properties, so research is again needed to know what’s most appropriate for your project. 

In addition to selecting an appropriate filler, mixing that filler-and-resin soup to the right consistency for a given job is important. The mixture might be very runny, to saturate and toughen a wood surface. It could be mayonnaise-­thick so that it won’t sag on a vertical application. Jamie says that some applications are best when combining filler types, such as microballoons (for fairing) and colloidal silica (for a consistency that prevents sagging on a vertical or overheard surface).

In 2019, we replaced Totem’s 37-year-old deck hatches. Unfortunately, the deck cutouts for the new hatches were vastly different. It took creative fiberglassing skills, especially for the corners, to seat them properly. After much pondering, Jamie made a mold from cheap polycarbonate pieces. He used epoxy resin with quarter-inch chopped fiberglass and colloidal silica to form easy-to-make, strong corner pieces.

Preparation

Fiberglass repair is all about the surface being repaired. Is it also fiberglass? Polyester, vinylester and epoxy are compatible with all three types of resin if they are fully cured. Is the surface uncoated or painted? Fiberglass resins do not bond well to plastic, metal, dirty or painted surfaces. Compatible surfaces should be cleaned with acetone (following precautions). On fiberglass surfaces, acetone cleans and also reactivates the surface for better bonding.

Bonding surface area is important. For example, filling an old through-hull presents very little surface area for bonding. Hull flex could pop out a simple plug like the cork from a Champagne bottle. A better way to patch such a hole requires increasing the bonding surface area. This is done by grinding the to-be-repaired edges to a smooth taper that is seven to 12 times wider than the fiberglass thickness being repaired. For a half-inch hull thickness, a smooth taper of 2 to 3 inches around the hole radius should ensure enough surface-area bonding for a strong repair. Similar work to increase bonding surface area is necessary for projects such as repairing a hull fracture.

Voids are another gotcha to consider. These are unbonded pockets between layers of fiberglass. Boats made before vacuum-bagging systems, like Totem, have many small voids from air bubbles or contaminants that prevented the surfaces from bonding. We can’t change those now, but when applying new fiberglass layers, we have to consider how they might affect the project overall. Tight and complex corners, air bubbles, and contaminants can result in voids that weaken overall strength, and can be compensated for in the project design. 

Execution

Whether filling screw holes from a decommissioned deck fitting or repairing a critical part in a remote anchorage, mixed resin and fiber/filler (including coconut coir!) reinforcements make versatile composites with ­easy-to-moderate DIY complexity. It’s not magic, and practice helps. 

Start in small batches, learning how ambient temperature, mix volume and hardener choices affect working time. Two liquids and added reinforcement can steer cruisers to repairable peace, after adversity. 

Safety First

While fiberglass is wondrous in many ways, it’s terrible in others. Working with it safely requires particular care.

Particles are irritants to any exposed skin; inhaled particles can cause permanent lung damage and be a factor in lung cancer. Covering up and using proper protective equipment is important. 

Direct contact with resin can irritate skin, but fumes are the bigger risk. It’s why we choose epoxy over other types; epoxy is less volatile and less toxic. If polyester or vinylester is used, a properly fitting respirator is a must, as well as eye protection.

Acetone is the solvent most of us rely upon during preparation for fiberglass work. Its vapors are also dangerous, and can cause permanent lung damage, as well as liver damage if absorbed through the skin. Non-permeable gloves must be worn. Be aware of and take all necessary ­precautions for fire risk from any possible ­combustible reactions.

Over time, exposure might make an individual highly reactive and unable to work with a substance again. 

Ensure that the space you are in is well-ventilated, or add ventilation. Wear gloves and clothing to reduce contact with glass fibers. Protective eyewear can prevent eye irritation. Use a respirator that’s appropriate to the type of fiberglass particles in your workspace.

CW contributors Behan and Jamie Gifford have progressively maintained their fiberglass Stevens 47, Totem, while sailing around the world. To follow their journey, visit sailingtotem.com

For more on fiberglass repair, check out CW technical editor Steve D’Antonio’s column at cruisingworld.com/story/how-to/fiberglass-repairs

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Oyster Yachts collaborated with Humphreys Yacht Design on this elegant 50-footer, which focuses on couples and other shorthanded crews who are headed for bluewater adventures. An in-mast furling main and electric winches are standard, as are twin wheels in the cockpit, located a bit forward on the clutter-free deck. The 495 has three staterooms below. oysteryachts.com

With more than 15,000 J’s built since 1977, the team at J/Boats is now adding this 45-footer, which has a carbon, double-spreader fractional rig. The boat is built tough with SCRIMP resin-infused molding for the foam-cored hull and deck. Below, French interior designer Isabelle Racoupeau added an elegant touch to the decor. jboats.com

Bridging the gap between high-tech racing and performance cruising, the First 36 is designed to fully plane in a moderate breeze. Or, owners can ditch the racing gear altogether and take the family out cruising aboard the three-stateroom model, which has a galley and a central fridge. Part of the same model line is the First 44, which is available in a performance version with a different deck plan, and options for keels and masts. beneteau.com

Excess Catamarans in France, following up on the launch of the 37-foot Excess 11, has added the 52-foot Excess 14 to its model line. The boat has a low boom, reduced windage thanks to lower freeboard, redesigned hull windows, an aft-set coachroof, a forward stepped mast, a composite bowsprit and an exposed forefoot. Three- and four-stateroom versions are available with an option for a sky lounge. excess-catamarans.com 

With piercing bows and exterior lines drawn by designer Xavier Fäy, the Bali 4.4 has a forward cockpit with dedicated lounging and sunbathing areas, as well as separate interior access. There are living areas amidships and aft, and a helm station with panoramic views on the coachroof, accessible from both sides. bali-catamarans.com

Limited wetted surface and a generous sail area help the Italia 11.98 perform well, even in light air. This boat is designed for shorthanded ease of use. There are three staterooms below (one forward, two aft) and two heads. Owners also can outfit the boat with a full race package. italiayachts.com

New from this French builder of sailing cats is the Aura 51, which has an open living arrangement that connects the salon, galley and cockpit. The flybridge is big enough to accommodate 2,000 watts’ worth of flush-deck solar panels for sustainable ­cruising. The boat is available in four layouts, including a “full maestro” version that dedicates the port hull to an owner’s ­stateroom. fountaine-pajot.com 

The Dutch builder’s first aft cockpit model in the 50-foot range includes options for all-electric propulsion and sustainability. Living areas forward of and abaft the inboard twin helm stations create space for guests to spread out. The three-stateroom accommodations plan leaves space for a tender garage and a submersible swim platform. An integral carbon-fiber A-frame mast configuration has an incorporated hydraulic furler for easier off-wind sailing. contestyachts.com

The Dehler 46SQ strikes a balance between performance racing and relaxation. The ­redesigned cockpit is uncluttered, with fewer plastic parts and more elements stowed out of sight. An integrated footrest allows for extra comfort at the helm, and folds flush to the deck when not in use. There’s a remote-control-­operated swim platform for water access. For race days, owners have membrane sails and carbon rigging. dehler.com

The Dufour 37 is built to handle easy coastal cruising, ocean itineraries and performance sailing. The 37 is available in two- or three-stateroom versions, and the design emphasizes outdoor living, with extra space in the cockpit. The 37’s new hull form is built to deliver a greater power-to-weight ratio, and the mast has been ­elongated for increased sail area. dufour-yachts.com

Elan Yachts worked with Humphreys Yacht Design and the technical team at Gurit to create the 50-foot E6. The team used 3D Vail technology to enhance lightness and stiffness, and to optimize the hull with a T-shaped keel. Performance characteristics are the result of scale-model in-house testing with an Olympic sailing team. This boat is designed to be sailed by an experienced couple, with twin rudders and helms, and with Harken winches positioned for precision trimming and fast, unobstructed movements. elan-yachts.com

The GS40 from Grand Soleil Yachts is designed for speed and responsiveness without sacrificing volume and comfort. Multiple versions are available: performance, which includes four winches and a self-tacking jib; standard, with three staterooms, one head and a technical compartment for added stowage; and a three-stateroom, two-head layout. A 72-footer is also on the way. The builder says it will have an Italian aesthetic. grandsoleil.net

Swedish builder Hallberg-Rassy is premiering a sporty-looking 40-footer designed by Germán Frers. The HR400 has a sizable cockpit, and twin wheels and rudders. Owners can choose a slightly overlapping genoa or self-tacking jib, one or two heads, and a two- or three-stateroom layout below. hallberg-rassy.com 

The first of a new generation of B-Yachts, the Brenta 34 is billed as a luxury racer that can sail fast in all wind conditions, yet remain easy to handle with a crew or singlehanded. Performance comes from the boat’s light weight, minimalistic interior and sleek waterlines. Owners who want to use the B34 for cruising can opt for a removable cockpit table, spray hood, hot shower in the cockpit, and removable swim ladder. b-yachts.com

The Hanse 460 is the first Hanse yacht designed by French design team Berret-Racoupeau. Innovations include a hydrodynamic hull shape, a tall rig for a maximized sail plan, and a standard bowsprit with an integrated anchor arm. Accommodations can include six to 10 berths, with a roomy owner’s stateroom and an upsize galley. hanseyachts.com

Few builders are creating wood performance cruisers these days,  but Maine’s Lyman-Morse yard is. The cold-molded 46-footer is designed by Kiwi Kevin Dibley, and is fashioned from Douglas fir and western red cedar. Double headsails and twin wheels help make the boat easily capable of 10-plus-knot speeds, while the onboard ambience comes in part from Herreshoff-style white ­bulkheads and varnished trim below. lymanmorse.com

Following recent launches of the 60 and 65, Jeanneau now offers the Jeanneau 55, which is a collaboration between Phillipe Briand and Winch Design. Its dual-cockpit deck plan leaves the aft cockpit dedicated to relaxation, with the forward cockpit set up for handling. Below, the owner’s stateroom is forward and occupies about two-thirds of the interior. jeanneauamerica.com

The flybridge on the Lagoon 51 spans 80 percent of the coachroof, helping to create enough space on board for separate sunbathing and dining areas, roomy stern platforms, and more than 3,000 watts of integrated solar panels for greener cruising. The boat is available with three to six staterooms for private cruising or charter. To help with flow when more people are aboard, the salon has improved circulation with the mast set forward, which also increases the volume in the owner’s stateroom. cata-lagoon.com

The DS41 is a sporty design with a slender bow, steeply pitched stem, and convex sheerline. The hull windows and a sweeping roofline blend the deckhouse into the overall aesthetic for a one-level living concept. A high-performance sail plan helps with speed, while the minimalist interior belowdecks is warm and inviting. moodyyachts.com

The 44 Open is the first new Nautitech model in three years, and it focuses on the needs of private owners such as couples, families and other shorthanded crews. Naval architect Marc Lombard drew the slippery hull. The boat has a reversed bow, a boom mounted low above the coachroof, and a sweeping curve to the deck line. nautitechcatamarans.com

The Neel 43 is the smallest yacht in the builder’s lineup, but it’s built to be big on performance. Designed by Marc Lombard, the 43 is intended to be easily operable by a shorthanded crew. The helm station is to starboard with a triple seat for comfort and commanding views. neel-trimarans.com

The X4.3 underwent a serious makeover for 2023, essentially becoming a smaller version of the X5.6. The modifications are ­aplenty, including are designed hull shape with the max beam brought further aft and with soft chines, allowing improved downwind performance and a wider cockpit; a redesigned deck and deck liner; a new sprayhood layout for added protection from weather at sea and improved sightlines at the helm; and larger berths aft, thanks to a slight ­raising of the cockpit floor. x-yachts.com

Designed by Franck Darnet and Marc Lombard, the Privilege 650 is an evolution of the builder’s 640. New features include an adjustable interior layout, more windows and headroom, a redesigned foredeck and sun lounge, and an aft-facing cockpit lounge. The optional carbon rig adds 19.7 inches to the mast and 11.8 inches to the boom, adding 32 square feet to the genoa and 64.5 square feet to the mainsail. privilegecatamaransamerica.com

attention to making the onboard experience feel even roomier. For starters, the Oceanis 34.1 has more volume forward in the owner’s stateroom than the 35.1 it replaces in the builder’s model line. That volume is thanks in part to a flared bow and hard chines that run from stem to stern. On a larger scale, Beneteau’s new flagship, the Oceanis Yacht 60, has the same volume as the brand’s 62-foot predecessor. beneteau.com

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Morning sunshine floods the eastern horizon as Maine’s trademark fog begins to recede. It’s been a push across the Gulf of Maine, but now the delivery miles are astern and a summer season of racing classic yachts is hoving into view faster than Cape Island and the Cuckolds, which collectively guards the southern passage past Squirrel Island and into Boothbay Harbor.

Seagulls cry overhead as harbor seals patrol the shores and play hide-and-seek with the state’s ubiquitous lobster pots. The profile of Kenniston Hill (elevation 285 feet) looms above Boothbay Harbor, and soon the town’s temporary skyline—the rigs of other classic yachts—takes shape. An unspoken excitement settles over the crew as the scent of Maine’s signature conifer forests arrives. 

Classic-yacht racing is a long-standing tradition in Maine that has grown in recent years with more regattas and participating yachts. The on-water competition has become more spirited, and the social aspects have been reinvigorated as new faces arrive with tales of restoration projects and spirit-­of-tradition builds. The yachts might be old, or drawn to an older aesthetic, and the cruising grounds are timeless, but there’s a gravity to racing classic yachts Down East that draws sailors to a place where time just seems to move a little slower. Sailors secure their docking lines and wander into Bar Harbor in search of coffee, fresh blueberry muffins, and the Boothbay Harbor Yacht Club Regatta and Shipyard Cup Classics Challenge’s registration tent. 

While the coming weekend’s challenge will unfurl on the waters off Boothbay, the next few weeks will provide further opportunity for Down East cruising and racing, traveling north to Camden for the Camden Classics Cup, then to Castine for the Castine Classic Yacht Race, and then finally to Brooklin for the Eggemoggin Reach Regatta. 

Thoughts of perfect sheerlines ghosting past rocky islands and towering evergreens hold sway as boaters size up the competition, both for their racecourse potential and for their owners’ attention to historical and seamanlike detail. Both matter, greatly. Everyone looks at their own lovingly restored steeds and remembers the long weekends in the shed with sandpaper and varnish in hand, the meetings with naval architects and boatwrights, and the million details that demanded attention.

There are many smiles. It’s taken significant effort to get here, but this will be a summer of classic-yacht racing to ­remember.

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When I was a kid, my dad and I watched an aircraft carrier break apart. At least, that’s what it looked like on his radar, which employed a cavity magnetron transmitter and a monochrome display. The year was 1988, and we were crossing Muscongus Bay, en route from Port Clyde to East Boothbay, Maine. We were aboard Windancer, my parents’ C&C 37, in classic pea-soup fog. Looking at the radar display, we could see something enormous a handful of miles off our starboard bow. And then suddenly, our “aircraft carrier” dissolved. We rushed on deck and—some tense minutes later—discerned engines and voices through the murk. So much for a Nimitz-class carrier. This was nothing more than a flotilla of small powerboats we called “gnats.” We arrived in East Boothbay safely and in time for dinner, and we still laugh about how that radar’s lack of target separation caused serious, if short-lived, situational-awareness anxiety.

While it’s easy to say that nuclear energy was the decisive technology that helped the Allies win World War II, the truth is that cavity magnetrons and radar-guided anti-aircraft guns played a far bigger role. Flash-forward to the late 1950s, and radar began emerging on commercial and, eventually, recreational vessels. These “pulse-modulated” magnetron radars ­create pulses of radio-frequency (RF) energy that’s transmitted from a rotating directional antenna. This energy travels at the speed of light in a narrow, horizontal band before bouncing off targets and returning to the antenna as an echo.

While effective, magnetron-based radars have some drawbacks. They sometimes struggle to separate closely spaced targets, and analog cavity magnetron transmitters are subject to temperature swings, aging, and manufacturing variables (from one magnetron to the next) that make it impossible to do Doppler processing on returning echoes.

The marine world began adopting solid-­state transmitters in late 2008, and the first recreational Doppler-enabled radars arrived in early 2016. These transmitters generate highly predictable frequencies that enable Doppler ­processing, which lets radar manufacturers color-code radar targets based on their threat level. These radars also deliver far better close-range performance (read: no main bang or blind spots) and weigh less than magnetron-based radars.

Here’s a look at the four best radome-­enclosed radars for recreational sailors. All of these systems use solid-state ­transmitters, and deliver Doppler processing and a host of other features. If you still cruise with an old magnetron-­based radar, consider upgrading. The costs are not insignificant, but the improved radar imagery is worth it.

B&G HALO20, HALO20+ and HALO24 

B&G started employing solid-state radar transmitters in 2008. While these systems generated good short-range imagery, their long-range performance didn’t compare to analog pulse-modulated radars. This changed in early 2015 with the arrival of B&G’s Halo open-array, pulse-compression radar, which gave powerboaters great short- and long-range performance. 

B&G’s latest radome-enclosed, solid-state radars—the HALO20, HALO20+ and HALO24—build on this performance and add Doppler processing (plus MARPA target tracking) in a ­sailing-friendly radome that won’t accidentally ingest running rigging.

As with all radars, greater power and a bigger antenna translate to greater range and better imagery. To this end, the HALO20 operates on 20 watts (maximum consumption) and spins its 17.5-inch antenna (which is fit inside a 20-inch radome) at 24 revolutions per minute to provide 24 nautical miles of range; its big brother, the HALO20+, employs the same antenna, but it spins it at up to 60 rpm (this is dynamic, depending on the range involved) and operates on 29 watts of power for 36 nautical miles of range. Both 20-inch HALO radars come with optional preset user modes that include harbor, offshore, weather, north up and course up. The HALO20+ also comes with a fishing-friendly bird mode and dual-range capabilities. The latter allows a user to split the radar screen in half, with one side running at, say, 10 nautical miles, while the other is set to maximum range. 

The HALO24 is aimed at sailors ­seeking greater range. It employs a 22-inch antenna inside a 24-inch radome that it spins at up to 60 rpm. It operates on 29 watts for a range of 48 nautical miles. The HALO24’s bigger antenna allows it to generate smaller beam widths, which further helps the radar to separate targets onscreen. It has the same preset operating modes as the HALO20+.

All three radome-enclosed HALO radars are built to IPX6 standards, and all play nicely with B&G chart plotters.

Furuno DRS2D-NXT and DRS4D-NXT 

Furuno has long enjoyed a strong reputation for magnetron-based radars, and was the first marine company to unveil a radome-enclosed, Doppler-enabled radar. The DRS4D-NXT could differentiate dangerous and passive targets onscreen using proprietary and Doppler-based features, which operate much like a layer on an electronic chart. Users can turn it on or off, depending on conditions.

Furuno also bundled full ARPA ­capabilities into the system, which allows the radar to acquire and track up to 40 targets automatically. Users can ­manually enter 60 additional targets, which the system then also tracks. 

However, the DRS4D-NXT has a 22- to 22.5-inch antenna inside its 24-inch radome and weighs 16.1 pounds, making it better-suited for larger sailboats. Enter the DRS2D-NXT, which Furuno released this year. This ARPA-enabled system comes bundled in a 19-inch radome, which houses its 17- to 17.5-inch antenna, and weighs 14.3 pounds. It’s an easier fit aboard smaller rides. 

While both systems transmit at 25 watts and spin their antennas at variable speeds for 48 nautical miles of awareness, there are some differences.

As mentioned, radars that transmit tighter RF beam widths generally yield better target separation than systems with wider beams. While both radars have vertical beam widths of 25 degrees, the DRS4D-NXT has a horizontal beam width of 3.9 degrees, while the DRS2D-NXT’s beam is 5.2 degrees. Also, the DRS4D-NXT comes with a bird mode, which is likely more applicable to anglers than sailors.

Otherwise, both radars are similar, and both come with Furuno’s RezBoost beam sharpening, which—when cranked—­reduces the horizontal beam widths of both radars to 2 degrees. Additionally, both systems have Furuno’s Doppler-based target-analyzer and fast-target tracking features. They color-code targets based on their direction of travel relative to your boat, and display course and speed information of user-selected targets. Both radars are compatible with Furuno plotters.

Garmin GMR Fantom 18x and GMR Fantom 24x 

Garmin made headlines in 2016 with its 40-watt Fantom radars. They were available with 4- or 6-foot antennas, and had Garmin’s MotionScope technology. While these radars were impressive in terms of their Doppler capabilities and solid-state transmitters, they were of limited use to most sailors because of their open-array antennas. Garmin solved this problem with the GMR Fantom 18 and GMR Fantom 24 radars in late 2016. They came bundled in a sailing-friendly radome and delivered ranges of 20 feet to 48 nautical miles. More important: Both radars had Garmin’s MotionScope technology and operated on 25 watts of power.

Garmin refreshed these radars in late 2021 with the GMR Fantom 18x and GMR Fantom 24x systems. They have the same ranges but with purportedly better target-
separation capabilities, including in rain or fog. Customers can spec a GMR Fantom 18x to operate at 40 or 50 watts, while all GMR Fantom 24x radars operate on 50 watts. Garmin’s smaller radome-enclosed system employs a 17-inch antenna, and the bigger system has a 23-inch antenna. 

In a departure from the traditional, both radars can be purchased with a white or black radome. Customers seeking a GMR Fantom 18x in black must opt for the 50-watt version. 

Both new radars have Garmin’s MotionScope, and have features such as target size, which allows users to adjust onscreen target resolution for better target separation; echo trails, which generates historical trails of onscreen targets to help increase situational awareness; dual-range mode; MARPA (this requires a separate heading sensor such as Garmin’s nine-axis heading sensor); and dynamic auto gain, which automatically tunes the radar’s gain to best match the environment. Both radars let users overlay radar imagery atop cartography, set guard zones, and use Garmin’s variable range markers and electronic bearing lines to measure distances and bearings to land and other vessels.

Both radars are built to IPX7 standards and are compatible with Garmin-built chart plotters. 

Raymarine Quantum 2 

Raymarine’s original Quantum radar, in 2016, was the world’s first chirp-enabled, solid-state and wireless radar. While the original Quantum lacks Doppler processing, its wireless configuration was a hit with sailors who were less than thrilled to run radar cabling down their mast or to drill deck holes. 

Raymarine backfilled Quantum’s lack of Doppler processing in early 2018 with the Quantum 2 radar. Both ­systems are IPX 6-rated, have peak power outputs of 20 watts, deliver 4.9-degree horizontal beam widths and 20-degree vertical beam widths, and employ 18-inch antennas housed in 21.3-inch radomes that spin at 24 rpm for ranges of 18 feet to 24 nautical miles. Both systems can transmit their radar imagery to compatible Raymarine chart plotters over Wi-Fi, or they can share imagery over a RayNet Ethernet cable.

While the radars come bundled in nearly identical radomes, the similarities stop once the echoes start returning and Quantum 2 begins color-coding targets based on their threat level. Quantum 2 also has Raymarine’s automatic target acquisition and tracking features, which generate data including the other vessel’s speed, course, and closest point of ­approach. Sailors can further bolster their situational awareness by configuring safety zones. Once activated, Quantum 2 tracks targets inside the ­safety zone, and it alerts users via visual and audible alerts if new vessels appear. And Raymarine’s true trails feature lets users study other vessels’ previous returns, which Raymarine refers to as “historical wake.” 

While Quantum 2’s range and peak power outputs are less than some other radars, these radars also consume less juice, which can be beneficial to sailors on strict DC diets.

David Schmidt is CW’s electronics editor.

Vendor Information

B&G from $1,900

Furuno from $2,400

Garmin from $2,000

Raymarine from $1,950

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