Right away, Dr. David Johnson launched into a scenario: “A 42-year-old man is struck in the head by the boom during a jibe. The boat and crew are 100 miles south of Halifax, Nova Scotia, in 12 knots of breeze; it is 1400, and the sky is clear. The helm reports that the patient was knocked out for a few seconds. Patient now complains of a mild headache. Serious or not serious?”

The class glanced around at one another before someone piped up, “Serious?”

“How do you know?” asked Johnson—or DJ, as he likes to be called.

“Well, because of the headache?”

You’re on the right track, DJ said, but you need more information. DJ, an emergency physician, along with co-instructor Jeff Isaac, a physician associate and wilderness EMT, were leading the Offshore Emergency Medicine course at the 2021 Bay Bridge Boat Show in Stevensville, Maryland. They went on to give more details of the scenario and spoke on how different elements can tip the situation one way or the other. A patient’s symptoms and medical history, the location of the boat, and the crew’s preparedness can mean the difference between a challenging situation and a full-blown medical emergency.

As someone who cruises with just my husband and ­daughters, my ­biggest fears could be summed up as medical “what-ifs.”

As someone who typically cruises with just my husband and daughters, my biggest fears could usually be summed up as medical “what-ifs.” What if my husband broke a bone? What if my daughter had an allergic reaction or got an infection? Would I know how to handle it? What should be in our first-aid kit? I knew that I wanted some medical training before going cruising again, and the OEM course seemed ideal. The three-day program is designed for sailors who travel far from medical assistance, and the intensity and scope of content covered made it more relevant than typical wilderness first-aid courses. DJ’s jibe scenario tested our attempts to diagnose a traumatic brain injury—­serious business from the get-go. By 8:30 on Day One, I was glad that I had (mostly) done my assigned reading. I would have been lost otherwise.

I was not alone in my fears and my desire to learn. Norhi Folsom, one of my classmates, lives with her husband and kids in Las Vegas. The family is planning to circumnavigate aboard a Balance 526 catamaran. While waiting for the cat’s expected fall 2022 delivery, they were testing their cruising legs aboard a Lagoon 420 and exploring the US East Coast and the Bahamas. Norhi took the OEM course, she said, because of her uneasiness about her ability to handle an emergency.

 “I’m not a doctor; I’m not a nurse. But I figured I could get some basic knowledge to mitigate a medical situation with some planning and preparation,” Norhi said.

Now in its 25th year, the popular OEM course, run by Wilderness Medical Associates, is offered several times annually. My 20 classmates included a young Coastie and his girlfriend who are planning an open-ended cruise; a family of four who are preparing for extended cruising aboard a catamaran; an EMT earning continuing-­education credits; and a racing crew preparing for the 2022 Newport Bermuda Race. Our experience was an intense three days of classroom and hands-on learning.

When students register for the course, they’re given access to an online classroom portal where they can find the course materials, including the textbook (Wilderness and Rescue Medicine), case studies and a pre-test. Full disclosure: I found the test hard, even with all the materials at hand. It was immediately evident that this was not going to be a typical first-aid class. DJ and Jeff recommend taking first aid and CPR before the OEM course because knowledge of basic skills are assumed and aren’t covered.

While the OEM course is different than a backcountry-­medicine course, both are rooted in the same principles: managing an emergency when one has delayed access to ­medical care, in a hostile environment, with limited equipment. Both DJ and Jeff have extensive experience offshore, along with experience in the deep wilderness and on ski slopes. Every concept they presented was rooted in risk-versus-benefit decision-­making, which leads to a plan of care for the patient. As Jeff put it, “Sailors inherently know that risk is a function of probability and consequence.”

Keeping someone stable, hydrated and comfortable are some of the most integral parts of the game plan.

Day One—which covered what DJ called “the big, bad stuff”—was the most intense. We touched on all the things you hope never happen on your boat, and practiced the process needed to logically deal with these situations. Shock (a failure of the circulatory system), respiratory failure and brain failure are the three biggies. We learned how seemingly small things—a jellyfish sting, seasickness, a headache—can lead to one of the biggies if not taken care of early. It was sobering, to say the least.

The importance of communication was another aspect we practiced. “Have a plan in place when calling the Coast Guard,” Jeff said. “Do you want a check-in schedule? A medical evacuation?” During breakout sessions, we teamed up with classmates—one person played the victim and the other, the responder. Victims were given a scenario to act out, and responders were challenged to form a diagnosis and to communicate the situation. We delivered our assessments succinctly to the class, as if relaying the information to rescuers or to a doctor over a radio or satphone. It wasn’t all doom and gloom. DJ told us that most patients live if they survive the initial trauma. With his experience as an emergency physician, I figured he’d know. 

For patient treatment, we focused on low-risk procedures that solve high-risk problems. Keeping someone stable, hydrated and comfortable is the most integral part of the game plan. Deciding whether to call for rescue or alter course to a closer destination with a medical facility weighs into the risk-versus-benefit analysis. Weather and the capabilities of the crew should always be considered. “Most people will do better with basic care aboard than with a complicated evacuation,” DJ added.

I was looking forward to the second day with equal amounts of dread and excitement. The syllabus called for a deep dive into serious injuries and, being a bit squeamish, I was nervous. Our morning classroom discussion brought home the importance of gathering health information from each crewmember and requesting that all crew have a physical and a dental checkup before heading offshore. Next up, the ­squeamish-inducing stuff: wound care, pain management and musculoskeletal injuries. We quickly learned why having a history for each crewmember is important. Knowing that someone has an allergy to an antibiotic or is on medication can keep a bad situation from getting much worse. 

After lunch, we reconvened around tables loaded with all sorts of medical equipment: blood-pressure cuffs and stethoscopes, pressure dressings and syringes. We practiced wound cleaning on pigs’ feet fresh from a butcher shop, and rehearsed giving injections. DJ and Jeff showed us a slew of techniques and answered a load of questions. It was empowering and overwhelming at the same time. 

By Day Three, I felt like things were finally clicking. Our last day we covered illnesses and what DJ called “weird tropical stuff” (dengue fever, skin infections from coral cuts, and insect bites), and walked through what an ideal medical kit might look like, including which medications. With this course tailored for offshore sailing, DJ and Jeff were able to focus on the types of illnesses and conditions that sailors are most likely to come across: hypothermia, heat exhaustion, dehydration, heat stroke, injuries from lightning, and toxins from marine life. We also went through common maladies such as earaches, diarrhea, respiratory infections and skin rashes, noting that dealing with the small things early and efficiently keeps them from becoming serious. 

RELATED: Safety at Sea: Mental Preparations Contribute to Positive Outcomes

Our discussion of medical kits made me realize how inadequate most kits are for long-distance cruising. “For bluewater passages and remote cruising grounds, you will need a medical toolbox equipped for self-sufficiency and the long haul,” Jeff noted. He recommended we add more Ace bandages to a basic kit, along with waterproof and blister Band-Aids; burn gel and large gel pads for burns; a CPR pocket mask and a nasopharyngeal airway kit; pressure dressings, tourniquet and sterile wound packing for bleeding. Keep in mind before you add something to your medical kit that you need to know how to use it.

“For ­bluewater passages and ­remote cruising grounds, you will need a medical ­toolbox equipped for self-sufficiency.”

As Norhi prepares for her family’s circumnavigation, she said that the medical kit is something that will get plenty of attention. “The course definitely had an impact on my provisioning. There are quite a few items sold in medical kits that are not as helpful or not multifunctional. This course not only pointed those out, but it also gave suggestions on better options and, should space allow, extras. I’m putting together my own medical kit.”

Eric Irwin, who is preparing for the 2022 Newport Bermuda Race, attended the class with fellow crewmember Marcus Wunderlich. Eric is a 30-year Navy veteran with long-distance ocean-racing experience. For Eric, the biggest takeaways from the course were learning what is life-threatening and critical, and what is not, in order to make risky decisions when responding to a medical event, as well as communicating medical status to personnel who are available to support and respond. Attending with Marcus—who, while not a doctor by profession, will serve as their boat’s doctor during the race—was ­beneficial, Eric said, because in the event of a medical emergency, they will have a shared vocabulary from the course, and a set of valuable skills.

For Marcus, his major takeaway was more physical. “I now have more of an understanding of how human life works—perfusion of human tissue by oxygenated blood—and the organs fundamentally involved, and how to preserve the ­functionality of these organs.”

Norhi’s thoughts echoed my own. “My biggest takeaway from the course is understanding that pain and a little blood are not necessarily emergencies, while shock or nervous system failure are emergencies,” she said. Learning a systematic way of surveying a patient, diagnosing and treating the patient, and conveying data to medical professionals are all extremely important, she said, as is staying focused during what can be a chaotic time.

After this course, I’ve come to understand that medical training is not a one-and-done thing, and I plan to take more first-aid courses in the future, particularly before heading off on our next adventure. My personal goal for the course was to have a better understanding of emergency medical care and to build confidence about what I should do if faced with an onboard medical emergency, which I feel I’ve accomplished. Similar to our life raft and EPIRB, though, it’s something I hope I’ll never have to use.

Jennifer Brett is a CW editor-at-large.

For information and to check out the schedule of upcoming classes, visit wildmed.com.

The post In Case of Emergency appeared first on Cruising World.

One of the strangest things that I have to regularly explain to nonsailing friends is why ­engines are often run offshore to generate onboard DC ­electricity. While savvy friends understand that charging needs to happen if one is going to rely on their batteries, those less technologically inclined are sometimes stumped. And rightly so. If sailing is so green, they ask, why do sailors emit CO2 to keep their nav lights on? 

Contemporary sailors, though, have their choice of several alternatives to producing electricity without starting up their diesel engine, starting with solar panels and progressing to hydrogenerators and wind generators. While plenty has been written about solar panels, this ­technology depends on the sun, which is dormant during nighttime hours, and sometimes during the day too, especially on my home Pacific “Northwet” ­waters, as we like to call them. 

By comparison, hydrogenerators and wind generators are also highly effective, sometimes for entire 24-hour ­cycles, and can often satisfy all of a vessel’s DC-power needs. Alternatively, these generators can serve as part of a multipronged energy-producing system aboard yachts with significant DC-power needs to run heating and air conditioning, powered winches, refrigeration and the like. Here, then, is a look at how wind and water generators work, the benefits they provide, and some practical considerations for owners interested in greening up their onboard-power production.

Working with Water

As their moniker implies, ­hydrogenerators are electromechanical machines that ­harness the energy of moving water. Hydrogenerators typically capture this energy as ­alternating current, convert it to direct current, and then send it to a battery for use later. While ­hydroelectric dams are an ­everyday form of ­hydrogeneration ashore, ­marine-facing systems ­typically come in different sizes, and with varying charging capabilities, but most employ an underwater turbine consisting of a propeller or impeller that’s part of an assembly that hangs from a yacht’s transom or is fitted to its undercarriage, directly abaft the keel. 

“In essence, a hydrogenerator consists of an impeller ­designed to extract kinetic ­energy from the water, and an alternator to convert the rotary motion produced to electricity,” Peter Anderson says. He is Eclectic Energy’s managing director. Eclectic’s line of hydrogenerators employs a dive plane beneath the impeller, which allows the system to “fly” through the water at a controlled depth, similar to how a hydrofoil allows a boat to rise above the water at a ­desired height. This approach differs from other designs that resemble an outboard motor. 

“The amount of ­kinetic energy available in a fluid stream—air or water—varies as the cube of its velocity,” Anderson says. “For a water generator, this means even a modest increase in boatspeed produces a substantial increase in power output. Equally, at lower speeds, the amount of energy available falls rapidly, as do outputs.”

Because of the direct ­correlation between a vessel’s speed over water and a hydrogenerator’s ability to produce power, the size of its propeller or impeller matters greatly. Spec the system with too small a prop, and it won’t ­generate much juice; spec too large a spinner, and it will create ­excessive drag and could possibly break if a vessel’s speed surpasses certain thresholds. Because of this, most hydrogenerators come—or can be ordered—with different size impellers. 

With a properly sized system, hydrogenerator-induced drag is minimal, Anderson says. It could cost a 30-footer that’s making 6 knots roughly a 10th (or 1/5 of a knot) of boatspeed; this likely drops to an invisible metric for a 50-footer in similar airs.

Sabrina Huet, communication and sales manager at Watt&Sea, another hydrogenerator manufacturer, echoes this: “Our cruising hydrogenerators produce energy from boatspeeds of 2 or 3 knots up to 20 to 25 knots,” in the case of racing yachts. “It all depends on the propeller size. We offer four propellers with different diameters to accommodate different sailing speeds. The aim is to minimize the drag effect while optimizing the output. To put it in a nutshell: We suggest a bigger diameter for slower boats, and a smaller ­diameter for faster boats.”

As mentioned, as a boat moves through the water, ­hydrogenerators initially ­capture the energy from the spinning propeller as AC power, which is converted to DC. “Most modern generators use alternators,” Anderson says. “AC power is rectified to DC within the housing.” ­Watt&Sea’s systems work in a similar manner. 

As with other technologies described in this article, batteries are sold separately. A sailor can use any kind of battery, they would just have to check if a particular battery or battery bank requires any specific voltages, Huet says. If a battery or bank has needs that are different from Watt&Sea’s factory settings, those parameters can be changed easily, thanks to the system’s integrated mobile application. 

That said, it’s ­important to confirm that a yacht’s ­batteries are in good shape before connecting them to a hydrogenerator. “A ­minimum of 300 amp-hours at 12 volts is ­recommended,” Anderson ­advises. Most cruising yachts have at least 400 amp-hours of battery capacity, with 200 amp-hours that are usable. Batteries should not be routinely discharged below 50 percent, he notes, so it’s sensible to increase battery capacity if space and budget allow.

Both Eclectic Energy and Watt&Sea employ smart ­technology to ensure that their systems don’t create overcharging issues. “A charge ­regulator normally forms part of the ­installation,” ­Anderson says. “This terminates the charge once the batteries are full, which prevents possible damage through ­overcharging.” Once the battery or bank is topped up, the regulator then connects the generator to a power resistor in order to dump additional electrical energy.

Hydrogenerators can make great use of trade-wind conditions, however too much of anything becomes a negative. “Our hydrogenerators can withstand difficult conditions, but it’s essential to lift up a generator when approaching rough conditions, and to secure it with a rope or even ­belowdecks,” Huet says. “It’s also important to think about the lifting and lowering system, such as a hoist, to make the handling easier in both rough and calm seas.” 

“Prudence would suggest water generators be raised out of the water and possibly stowed,” Anderson says of preparing for heavy weather. “However, many owners report operating their Eclectic generators in storm conditions without problems.”

As with all systems, ­installation is an important consideration. 

Watt&Sea recommends hiring professional ­installers. Eclectic Energy, however, is more geared toward do-it-yourselfers. “Our generators are supplied with standard mounting hardware and installation instructions,” Anderson says. “Many owners do install these systems themselves.”

One concern for sailors—especially those who voyage in log- and debris-strewn ­waters such as the Pacific Northwest—is an encounter with an ­unidentified floating object, which could damage the impeller or propeller, or even the entire assembly. Much like during storm conditions, sailors are advised to retract their hydrogenerators based on ­localized conditions.   

The amount of power that a hydrogenerator can produce is an important and ­subjective question. Much hinges on how fast a boat is sailing (or ­motoring), the size of a hydrogenerator system, and the size of its impeller/­propeller. Because of this, Anderson and Huet advise customers to check manufacturer websites for more information about specific models and impeller/­propeller sizes. 

While the drawbacks to ­using a hydrogenerator—aside from turnkey costs, minimal drag, and attention to debris in the water—are minimal for sailors frequently on the move, the upsides are substantial, ­especially if you don’t care for the sound of a diesel engine or generator. “Water generation is the only renewable technology capable of matching the power consumption of a typical cruising yacht on passage,” Anderson says. “This removes the need for daily engine or genset runs to charge up the batteries.”

Counting on Breeze

The concept behind wind generators is equally ­simple, and most manufacturers ­rely on a turbine with blades that are exposed to airflow, which makes them spin. If this sounds to you a lot like an ­inverted (or dry) water generator, you’re spot-on—with a few ­exceptions. 

First, hydrogenerators are under the water’s surface, while wind generators are fitted on deck atop poles or on struts mounted on a mast. ­Second, wind generators are typically larger, employing longer blades, with greater cord widths than would be found on hydrogenerators. Third, since hydrogenerators depend on boatspeed to produce power, their performance is typically more consistent and not affected by small puffs and lulls of the wind. Lastly, the two types of generators typically produce different types of electricity.

 “All of our wind turbines produce DC Power,” says Dan Kruger, president of RDK Products. His company manufacturers wind turbines under the brand name Nature Power Products. “It starts out as high voltage, but through our controller, the system will step down the voltage to correctly charge your 12-volt batteries.”

Nature Power ­Products come with a generator, three carbon-fiber blades, and a charge controller. Customers need to supply their own mounting pole, and ­Kruger notes that most of his ­customers purchase theirs from fence stores. 

As with hydrogenerators, wind generators are ­available in different ­sizes, with ­different ­energy-­producing ­capabilities. Nature ­Power offers 400-, 500- and 2,000-watt systems. ­Kruger says: “These are designed to run most of your smaller ­electronics, televisions, GPS, fans and lights. They aren’t ­designed to power air conditioners unless you build a fairly substantial hybrid system that also includes a battery bank and solar energy.”

As with hydrogenerators, wind generators are compatible with a range of battery technology, including lithium and absorbed glass mat batteries. “A typical marine-grade deep-cycle 12-volt battery is fine for a basic wind-turbine system,” Kruger says. “Many sailors will have a bank of batteries. We also ­manufacture 24- and 48-volt ­wind-turbine systems for larger, more ­complex installations.” 

Determining the right-size wind generator for your sailboat starts with calculating your vessel’s power needs. “There’s no minimum-size ­vessel for a wind turbine to make sense,” Kruger says. “But if you’re getting into larger vessels, such as a Swan 88, you would definitely want to be looking at the Nature Power 2,000-watt system.”

Nature Power Products protect their connected battery or battery banks from overcharging by entering a “float” mode when the system’s controller senses that the storage ­reservoirs are topped off. 

As with windmills, wind generators are most ­effective in a good, steady breeze. The working range for Nature Power’s 400-watt system is 6 to 24 knots of wind, with 24 knots being the optimal windspeed. Kruger says that the goal is to expose the wind generator to steady, laminar flow, not ricocheting gusts. “The higher you mount the wind turbine, the cleaner the wind will be and the more efficiently your system will operate.” 

Too much breeze, he says, can be problematic. “The ­only time you would want to take down the unit is if you feel the storm might jeopardize the actual physical installation,” Kruger says, ­explaining that Nature Power Products are designed to withstand ­serious wind without sustaining ­damage to the turbine, its circuitry, or the connected battery or battery banks. The systems accomplish this by employing its float mode when windspeeds crest certain thresholds. “The system’s ­actual ‘survival’ windspeed is 96 knots,” Kruger says. 

While installing a wind ­generator isn’t a plug-and-play operation, the systems are relatively lightweight and generally require somewhat basic wiring schemes, making them DIY-friendly. Maintenance is also a typically easygoing affair. Kruger suggests ­replacing a system’s turbine blades ­every few years and installing the system’s controller in a dry place near the battery or bank. 

As with all technologies, wind generators have their downsides. Breeze can be an inconsistent actor, and ­air-density changes ­depend on atmospheric pressure and temperature, both of which can complicate a system’s ­daily output. Also, some generators are loud, making the owner unpopular, say, in a crowded anchorage. And while they are capable of ­impressive ­power generation while ­anchored in the trades, downwind runs—typical of trade-wind ­passages—reduce the apparent wind, ­rendering ­generators less productive. Lastly, ­depending on their ­installation, a wind ­generator can possibly interfere with running rigging and sails, or depending on their size, they might cast shadows on a ­vessel’s solar panels. 

Otherwise, wind generators can be a great source of green energy, and are ­commonly bundled with other green ­solutions to create ample ­onboard power.

David Schmidt is CW’s ­electronics editor and frequently reports on other types of gear.

The post Power Sources for Life Off the Grid appeared first on Cruising World.

There’s nothing quite like baking aboard to lend a homeyness to a cruising boat. And when you find yourself in cool climes—as we did heading up the inside passage from the Salish Sea to southeast Alaska aboard Del Viento, our Fuji 40—firing up the oven and filling the cabin with warm smells is a pleasure every time. It was in those cruising grounds that we began experimenting with bread puddings. Whether sweet or savory, variations of bread pudding are found in cuisines worldwide. You can use just about any kind of bread, but French bread or challah is best. Following the traditions of the Southern US, we lean toward the sweet version; we like French bread, and being chocoholics, this recipe is a favorite. The cinnamon adds a complexity that reminds us of Mexican chocolate. Because bread puddings can be served warm or cool, we didn’t stop enjoying them once we moved on to the tropics. In fact, being surrounded by cheap fresh baguettes upon landing in French Polynesia meant we tended to overbuy for our family of four. Day-old bread is ideal for bread pudding, and this recipe was always a popular way to consume the excess (slightly stale) loaves.

Chocolate Bread Pudding

• 1 large, slightly stale French baguette*
• 2 cups whole milk
• ³⁄₄ cup cream (heavy or light)
• 4 eggs
• 8 oz. sweet dark chocolate, coarsely grated or chopped finely 
• 2 tsp. vanilla extract
• 3 Tbsp. granulated sugar
• 2 tsp. unsweetened cocoa powder
• 1 tsp. cinnamon
• 2-3 Tbsp. butter (for ­greasing baking dish)
• Powdered sugar (for dusting)
• Fresh mint (optional)
• Fresh berries (optional)

*About a 16-by-4-inch loaf; you need between 8 and 12 cups of bread cubes. Amount varies depending on consistency of bread.

Serves 6 to 8, depending on portion size.

Cut bread into 1-inch cubes. Set aside. Grate or finely chop chocolate; set aside. In a bowl, whisk together the milk, cream and eggs. Add and whisk in the grated chocolate, vanilla, sugar, unsweetened cocoa powder and cinnamon. Gradually stir in the bread cubes, making sure all pieces are well-coated. You want the mixture to stay a bit soupy; keep adding and stirring to coat pieces until all are covered and there’s still some liquid left. (Stop adding bread if you see that the mixture will get too dry—save the extra and make croutons!) Let sit for at least 30 minutes for the bread to absorb some of the liquid. Grease a medium-size baking dish and spread bread mixture into it. Bake at 350 degrees until the center is set and the edges are bubbly. Check after 30 minutes; if center isn’t set, bake another 5 to 10 minutes, but don’t dry it out! Best served warm, but let cool slightly before cutting pieces. Sift a bit of powdered sugar on top, and garnish with fresh mint and berries, if available. Or serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, if available.

Preparation: At anchor 

Time: 2 hours including cooking time 

Difficulty: Easy

Cook’s Note

This recipe is not compatible with a nutty or seedy wheat bread or sourdough bread, but will work with any white-flour bread if you don’t have French bread or challah.

The post A Chocolate Lover’s Delight appeared first on Cruising World.

For reasons that are mostly unclear, even to me, I’ve always wanted to name a boat Saunter. The problem is, I’d never actually owned a laid-back vessel that did anything of the sort (twitchy J/24s and J/30s most assuredly do not “saunter”). That is, until very recently.

Actually, I’m being a bit disingenuous, because the word popped onto my radar screen and refused to leave many years ago after reading the following quote from noted author, naturalist and outdoorsman John Muir:

“I don’t like the word [hike]…. People ought to saunter in the mountains, not ‘hike’! Do you know the origin of that word saunter? It’s a beautiful word. Away back in the Middle Ages, people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going, they would reply, ‘A la sainte terre’…‘To the Holy Land.’ And so, they became known as ‘sainte-terre-ers’ or ‘saunterers.’ Now, these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not ‘hike’ through them.” 

Bingo, Johnny. The sea is my reverent place, though I would quibble here a bit. Trust me, one does not “saunter” through the wild Southern Ocean or the chilly Northwest Passage; one “hauls ass” as quickly as possible. But here in my mellow home waters of Rhode Island’s Narragansett Bay, with some good friends and a couple of cold ones on a hot summer’s day? Time to saunter, baby. 

My opportunity to name a boat Saunter finally arrived with my purchase, this past summer, of a sedate and stately Pearson Ensign, a 23-foot daysailer built back in the day, right up the bay, in nearby Bristol. Red Dawn—the name on the transom when I purchased her—had a couple of knotty problems. The red gelcoat, which I’m sure was once gleaming, had faded to a rather sad pink in the many intervening decades since she was built. And, she was…red. Nothing against red boats, folks, I just don’t want one myself. The devil wears red, right?

Having made the decision to paint her blue, I decided to go all in and make the name change as well. I mean, Red Dawn would no longer work. There was only one problem, and it was not insignificant. I am a superstitious lad. And everyone knows it’s horrible luck to change the name of a boat!

Well, not everyone. Enter marine writer John Vigor, the author of just the book I was looking for: How to Rename Your Boat. 

Armed with said tome, a pair of self-adhesive vinyl letterings (diylettering.com) and some chilled beverages, early this past summer I rowed out to the Ensign, prepared to conduct Vigor’s step-by-step ceremony. It begins rather eloquently: “In the name of all who sailed aboard this ship in the past, and in the name of all who may sail aboard her in the future, we invoke the ancient gods of the wind and sea to favor us with their blessings today.”

The entire renaming ritual is blessedly quick and consists of five parts: an invocation, an expression of gratitude, a supplication, a rededication and a libation. These must be spoken aloud. I confess that I spun around a few times, there on my mooring, to make sure nobody was looking. Not unreasonably, to some local observers, I have garnered a rather sketchy reputation, and making speeches by myself, to myself, in the middle of Brenton Cove on a quiet morning, seemed like a good idea to keep as private as possible. 

There are actually two ­separate parts to the whole deal: the casting off of the old (the renaming) and the welcoming in of the new (the christening). Vigor says that you can do them both straightaway, back to back. Which I did.

It was easy and felt good to apply the new letters, row a few strokes off, and admire the entire new look. I hopped back aboard, hoisted the main, and proceeded to saunter away what was left of the pretty morning. I can guarantee that it won’t be the last time. 

Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

The post Name Changer appeared first on Cruising World.

The good news was that we were making 7 knots; the bad news was that we surfed at 12 knots down building seas. We were 20 miles to seaward of St. Augustine, Florida. A wan December dawn lit up a storm petrel. We’d zoomed here from Hilton Head in 20 hours. 

Following seas like those overwhelm the autopilot, so I was steering, and every wave brought us up and up for a view of tattered whitecaps, then released us on a luge run that settled us into its frothy trough. The cockpit was soaked from lashes of spray, and the companionway boards were bolted in. An hour earlier, I was on the pilot berth, half-sleeping and half-registering the violence in our motion. My wife, Whitney, came down to say “watch change,” and when she sat beside me, the stern slewed to one side, settled deep in a fluke wave, and: Bang! Splash! Drizzle! Salt water through the companionway, salt water gurgling out the scuppers, salt water pooling heavy in the cockpit…then Gusto rose again on the next wave. 

Pooped! Nature’s power written in salt, wind and worry. A cantankerous wave had broken into us, and outside the crests were just getting bigger. When a wave comes and finds you in your bunk, it feels personal. That’s why I was hand-steering in the dawn, and that’s why I was thinking about Greek mythology.

The gods seemed angry. Atlantic sailors saw more hurricanes, gales and squalls in 2020 than ever before. Between the waves in the cockpit and the wind in the rigging, I got the message. For those of us living aboard small sailboats, the relevant gods are the old ones, the pagan ones, those who make it personal. It’s Poseidon, Aeolus and Triton who drive spray over my dodger or tear the sheet off my genoa; they embody the same elements I negotiate by sail. They also embody the fact that cruising sailors will need to adapt to the environmental changes reshaping the Atlantic.

We left Maine in mid-­October to sail the East Coast to Florida, cross to the Bahamas, explore the Abacos, and then sail south toward the Exumas. That’s a straightforward goal for a sabbatical year. Plenty of blue water, and plenty of safe harbors too, for me, Whitney, and our 44-foot Chuck Paine-designed cutter, Gusto. The surprising thing was that the trip turned into a study on extreme weather, with conditions more severe than forecast, and conditions aboard more difficult than expected. The same old statistics about climate change are just not helpful anymore: hockey-stick graphs, parts per million, carbon sinks. It’s all so familiar that we barely see it anymore. Nonetheless, 2020’s stormy weather offers a pattern we have to decipher, and I think that sailors such as us can bring knowledge beyond the usual datasets and bromides about climate change.

First off, the weather has been tough lately. This year, 2021, got off to a windy start. The previous year was the most active hurricane year on record, and it follows above-average hurricane years in 2016, 2017, 2018 and 2019. That seems like a trend. I’m writing this in the Abacos, where Hurricane Dorian devastated this little cay called Man-O-War and left nearby Marsh Harbour with 70,000 homeless after sustained 185-knot winds and a 23-foot storm surge. That was September 2019, and there are still boats in the trees here, and docks twisted like pretzels. Throughout fall 2020, we found breezy days becoming small-craft advisories, and small-craft days becoming gales, and gales becoming storms we hid from like crabs in shells. 

A climate scientist friend tells me that the ocean holds 80 percent of the planet’s warming, and that when people talk global warming, they should be talking ocean warming. From his perspective, a changing climate is most likely to be expressed in a longer Atlantic hurricane season, more-vigorous tropical depressions, and stronger hurricanes. Coming south that fall, we saw hurricanes spinning south and west of us, and we watched the tropical depressions line up and march toward the US, with a record 12 named storms hitting the mainland. 

What’s going on? A warmer climate is generating rowdier weather that makes life less predictable for cruisers in our little boats. Our cruising comfort is a small problem compared with the wrecked houses around me on Man-O-War Cay—that’s life and death, while cruising is a pursuit that thousands of us enjoy afloat. Still, amid these new conditions, sailors do have an intimate relationship to the forces of sea and sky, and it is this closeness that brings me back to the Greek gods. 

The ancient Greeks personified their gods into imperfect, fascinating beings who got jealous and frustrated and played favorites. Start with Poseidon, of course. The Greeks gave him the sea, while Zeus got the sky. Poseidon figures prominently in the Homer’s Odyssey because Odysseus angers him. The angry sea god wrecks Odysseus’ ship, drowns his companions, and leaves him a castaway for 10 years before washing him ashore. Not a kind and gentle god, Poseidon. Amphitrite is Poseidon’s wife, and to chasten you sailors, she controls huge waves and sea monsters; while to delight you, she made seals and dolphins. Their son, Triton, lives at the bottom of the sea, and he can blow a conch shell to raise or lower the waves that break into your cockpit if you’re not careful. It’s a double-edged sword with pagan deities: When they’re happy, they send you a friendly current or lift you around a cape, but when they feel slighted, these old gods will ruin your day. 

Philosopher Glenn Albrecht calls climate change “the new abnormal,” and he writes, “We have nothing in our culture that enables us to come to grips with the changes that have occurred since the Industrial Revolution.” Albrecht is looking back two centuries; cruising sailors see harsher weather in the past two decades. Here in the resilient-but-battered Abacos, it’s blowing 30 again. The rigging drums on the mast, and I ­wonder if revisiting the old gods can bring me to a better grip on this new abnormal climate. The distant abstractions of climate science don’t register with me as directly as the eccentric, recognizable deities of the pagan ocean.

By reminding myself who these gods are, I know who to talk to when the going gets tough. I also know who to thank for the good times. For instance, the gods smiled on us rounding Cape Hatteras. We sailed toward Diamond Shoals in clouds so dark, the whitecaps seemed bright and the bow was blind to the stern. The forecast was for light winds when we motorsailed out of Cape Charles at sunrise, but sunset gave us 20 knots of breeze, midnight gave us 30, and at 0115, I was on deck checking the preventer on our reefed main. Should I be worried? Mist hid the lighthouse and the buoys, but as we approached the crux, a favorable current grabbed Gusto, eased the seas before us, and swept us between the shoals and the abandoned Texas Tower at 9 knots. It was like old Poseidon smiling when we touched 10 knots rounding that fierce cape, a speck of bubbling buoyancy amid grand forces.

It wasn’t all smiles, though. Two days later, we were anchored in Beaufort, North Carolina, and the forecast northeaster built into a gale with lightning strikes. The current held us sideways to 50-knot gusts that dipped our rail like a ladle—the keeper of the winds, Aeolus, demanding attention. Around us, two boats dragged and one went ashore in a slow-motion funeral, while our dinghy flew like a kite from Gusto’s stern. Poseidon? The god of thunder was on the prowl too, and our hair stood up and the backstay crackled with close strikes. When Zeus blasts close enough to smell the ozone, it’s time to pay attention. 

So, I wonder, have we sailors done anything to insult the natural world? Have we behaved recklessly or selfishly toward Poseidon’s domain? The warming climate is giving us all a harsher climate to navigate. The US Navy is planning accordingly for climate-change impacts, and so should the rest of us.

 Think of the 2020 hurricane season: Sailors watched with surprise as the names ticked deep into the alphabet—from Arthur and Bertha to Isaias and Josephine, and then Teddy and Vicky before we found ourselves in a fraternity party of Greek names Delta and Epsilon, Theta and Iota. There’s so much heat and energy out in the Atlantic these days that cruising sailors need new ways to make sense of this new abnormal. These ancient gods and this weather combine to make climate change comprehensible when my direct experience of it is either too anecdotal to trust or too scientific to make human. On our trip south, we sailed in 30-plus knots more than 20 times. Hell, it’s blowing 30 in the anchorage as I write this! If the forecast gets overwhelmed once or twice, that’s happenstance, but if it gets overwhelmed a dozen times? The gods are telling you something.

The unsympathetic will tell cruisers to “work around it” or “change your plans,” and that’s fair, but the window for passages is already tight. Think of the Bermuda race in early June, and the need to leave New England warm enough to feel your hands, but then turn around and get back ahead of the hurricanes in July. The reverse issue applies in the fall when New England cruisers (and their insurance companies!) wait for the end of hurricane danger but need to get south before cold winter gales batter them. We pushed off the last dock afloat in Falmouth, Maine, on October 18, with sleet in the air. All down the New England coast, mooring balls were out and docks were stored. We spent Halloween watching a snowstorm tear leaves from Connecticut oaks and strain our ground tackle. In short, a longer hurricane season brings cruisers a tight calendar for springtime passages, and then, come October, that same long hurricane season pushes cruisers to the doorway of unruly fall weather and winter. Most everyone we met in Florida talked about the year’s harsh conditions. 

How are we to understand the changes that leave us precious little space to take our small boats and small crews on big passages? Well, Greek mythology is one approach, and I suggest it with a wry smile. Obviously, NOAA is a better resource for planning a passage than your Western Civilization textbook. But pulling back for the longer view, maybe there’s something useful in personifying the sea into a family of interests that I should conciliate instead of provoke. Maybe this climate-­change crisis needs us to make it personal? A little less carbon, a little more green energy, a little less fast food and a little more gardening? Gusto’s cruise south warned me that our Atlantic sailing season is changing, and that sailors will need to adapt to a rowdier reality afloat, with bigger systems, hotter growth zones, tighter windows and pricier insurance. All these can be graphed and detailed, but the direct experience as waves crash over your foredeck is more visceral. To me, that physical connection with the elements is better captured by Poseidon and Triton than by climate science because those humanized gods tell me to take the new abnormal personally—it’s my fault and it’s my problem. So, when the wind moans in the rigging and the waves pile high above the transom, it’s the sea gods who seem angry, and the sea gods make it personal.

Jeffrey McCarthy is a professor at the University of Utah, where he is director of the Environmental Humanities graduate program. He sails Gusto out of Belfast, Maine.

The post The Gods Must Be Angry appeared first on Cruising World.

Larry, a friend I’ve known for 20 years, had just dropped anchor in my harbor in Maine. He was returning from a summer in Greenland, heading back to the Caribbean, and he had a question for me: “You busy this fall?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” he said,“how about helping me sail The Dove down to the Caribbean?”

A few weeks at sea, with Larry, on his Crealock 54 expedition-style sloop? I had to give this invitation some serious thought. That took me all of six seconds. But there was more.

“When we get there, how about ­minding the boat for me while I take off for two months? I need a break. You can invite your kids to join you for Christmas,” he added. “They can help you sail the boat down to Martinique for me.”

And, that’s exactly what we did. With stops along the way. Here’s how it all unfolded.

The Grand Plan

The offshore delivery complete, in mid-December we are safely ensconced with the hook down off Antigua. My finger traces the route along a string of Caribbean islands on the chart as I brief my crew on the upcoming delivery from Antigua to Martinique. “We have four weeks to get Larry’s yacht from here to there,” I tell them. “We’ll leave Antigua in a few days, hop over to Deshaies on Guadeloupe for Christmas, then make our way down to the Saints for a few days. Then on to Portsmouth on Dominica for New Year’s. From there, on to Saint-Pierre on Martinique, and finally, here, Sainte-Anne at the southern end of Martinique. How does that sound? Four islands in four weeks.”

My crew of three includes my daughter, Ren (short for Renaissance), 21, a junior at Maine Maritime Academy; my son, Havana, 19, off to Solent University in the UK to study marine engineering and naval architecture; and Julie, their mother, who has been sailing with me, off and on, for more than 20 years. All three have flown in to share the Christmas holidays and help with the delivery.

“Can we go ashore this time?” Havana asks. Ten years ago, we made a similar trip down to Bequia on our own Bowman 57 ketch, stopping each night just to sleep.

“This time,” I tell him, “we’ll have plenty of time to explore the islands.”

 The water is clear here, in the Pigeon Beach anchorage in Falmouth Harbor. The laundromat is across the street from a farmer’s fruit stand by the dinghy dock, only six minutes away. There’s a small marine store down the road, and a few shops nearby provide bare essentials. The Seabreeze cafe by the mega-yacht dock has Wi-Fi, and they speak English. I could stay here all winter. But after lingering around until a week before Christmas, we have to get going.

After provisioning and taking on water in Jolly Harbour, we motor around to Five Islands Bay for the night. The bay is wide open with a dozen possible anchorages, but it’s the Hermitage Anchorage we head for.

“Go farther in,” Ren shouts from the foredeck. “Get close enough so we can pick up the hotel’s internet.” Behind the beach lies the posh Hermitage Bay resort.

“We’re close enough,” I shout back. “Drop the hook. I’m backing down.” 

“Not yet,” she shouts back. “Over there by that ketch.”  

“Don’t argue with me. Drop the hook.” 

Down it goes, but my daughter is none too happy when she returns to the cockpit. At 21, she already has her second mate’s Coast Guard license. This tension between the two of us does not bode well for the next few weeks.

“I told you. You anchored out too far. See! There’s no Wi-Fi from the hotel.” Ren shoves her iPhone screen in my face. I shrug. Lack of internet does not bother me. I’m from another generation, but for my kids, this is a major inconvenience.

Quickly, things change. There are beaches to explore. Down come the paddleboards. Off they go. These two were brought up on the water—in boats, canoes, kayaks, dinghies, 420s, a Capri 14.4, and for 12 years on our second home, Searcher, our Bowman 57 ketch.

This Hermitage anchorage is one of my favorites. It’s quiet here. Just a few other boats around, four vacant beaches, and the setting sun is spectacular. Jolly Harbour, with all its services, is a 14-minute dinghy ride away. But Wi-Fi there is a bit spotty.

Off to Guadeloupe

“Ren,” I shout, as we finally set forth from Antigua, “can you and Havana get the main up?””

“There’s no wind!” Ren shouts back from the foredeck.

“We still want to raise the main. Now.”

“Why don’t we wait until there’s wind?” Our discussion continues until Ren consents. Small victories. 

It’s 48 nautical miles to the anchorage in Deshaies on the northwestern tip of Guadeloupe. As we emerge from the lee of Antigua, a 12-knot easterly breeze carries us out into the Caribbean Sea, with the 3,000-foot mountains of Guadeloupe visible ahead. This stretch of ocean, between the islands, can be boisterous at times. When the “Christmas winds” are blowing at 30 knots and 10-foot seas are rolling in all the way from Africa, these 40-odd miles can be nasty.

Today, however, they’re a delight. There’s enough wind to sail with main and jib. We are making 6 knots, a slight heel to leeward. The sky is blue, the water bluer, and a few clouds float above the horizon. The family settles down. Julie, below, is fussing with cushions and baskets of fruit. The kids are stretched out in the cockpit doing something I’ve not seen for years. Each is reading a book. No iPhones in sight. I’m grinning. It’s a nice trip. 

I know this harbor, Deshaies, all too well. The bottom is hard and deep. The wind, now calm, can blow something fierce down the mountainsides. There are stories of charter parties ashore for dinner who discover too late that their boat has dragged and drifted out to sea, the French Coast Guard called to tow it back. Then there’s the northerly swell. When a nor’easter is lashing the New England coast back home, the swells reach all the way down here. I was here not so long ago when the swells drove me back to Antigua. All is quiet now.

This is the tropical village every sailor dreams of. Surrounded on three sides by tall cliffs and mountains, this small, one-street town runs along the beach. There are cafes, restaurants, three markets, a boulangerie, a farmer’s fruit stand, even a rental-car agency. There are trails to hike, a cascading river in which to swim, a large botanical garden to explore and one of the longest beaches in the Caribbean, just around the corner.  

 “What do you want for your birthday?” Julie asks Ren the next morning. It’s the 23rd of December—Ren’s 21st birthday—and we are all ashore for breakfast at the local cafe.

 “I want to go scuba diving.” Ren recently passed her deepwater dive test at the Academy and is eager to dive in the warm tropical waters.

“The Cousteau Underwater Park is 8 miles down the coast,” I suggest.

“Can we go?” she asks.

We do. It’s midafternoon when we arrive in the narrow anchorage. When we reach 30 feet of water, I shout to Ren to drop the hook.

“Farther in, Dad,” my daughter ­demands. “Over there.” This goes on for a few minutes.

“Who  is the captain on this boat?” I shout from the helm.

“Dad! Your Coast Guard license expired 10 years ago. If anyone has authority, it’s me.“  She’s got a point; she has a valid license. Reluctantly, she releases the anchor and we are parked. The gang goes ashore and signs in for an afternoon dive trip to the park that surrounds nearby Pigeon Island. I remain aboard for a nice nap.

Just as dinner is ready, after everyone has returned from the dive trip, I notice that the depth sounder reads 60 feet.

“All hands on deck,” I shout, starting the engine.

“Can’t this wait until after dinner?” Julie growls. 

“Nope. Now! The anchor has come free. We are drifting back out to sea.” No time for an argument.

“Ren! Come back here and take the helm. I’ll handle the anchor.” We switch places, and Ren finds us a spot in shallower water. I release the chain as she backs down, watching the chain angle out; when it tightens, I give her a clenched-fist sign. Reaching over the bow, with my foot on the chain, I feel the chain tighten, jump, then set. OK. I feel better. Daughter did well. Now she’s the captain.

Happy Holidays

It’s Christmas morning back in Deshaies. Julie takes these holidays seriously. She’s English. As we all stumble into the main cabin, there on the saloon table is a Christmas tree; well, not a real tree. Julie decorated a Guadeloupe pineapple with a string of battery-operated lights. The table is strewn with presents she’s brought down in her luggage, each now wrapped in brown paper from used shopping bags. Sailors are a resourceful lot.

We leave Deshaies at 0830 three days later, bound for the Saints—a group of small islands 8 nautical miles south of Guadeloupe. As we motor a mile or two offshore, the mountains seem to march along with us. Valleys recede into the interior revealing still, high mountains beyond. Cars move along the coastal road. Life and business goes on ashore.

As we round the southern tip of Guadeloupe, we encounter a 15-knot southeasterly breeze. Right on the nose. As we power into the wind and chop, the Saints turns from dull gray to musty green to a vibrant emerald as we creep closer. It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon when Ren finds us a spot in 30 feet of water. It’s her call now. I lower the anchor and chain as she backs down. The 35-mile trip from Deshaies took us seven hours. 

On December 30, the kids and I are up with the sun and head ashore. Havana wants to photograph the island with the drone, in the morning light. Off he goes. 

“Come on, Dad,” Ren pleads. “Let’s hike up to the fort.” I look up at the steep hill over the village and groan. This early in the morning, we have the village of Le Bourge to ourselves. In two hours, the ferries from Guadeloupe will deposit hordes of tourists. We wander along the main street, lined with colorful shops, boutiques, restaurants and bike shops, all now closed. We walk up into the residential area, houses packed close, built into the hillside. Steeper and steeper, the harbor below opens up, and we can see The Dove on the far side. Above us, we reach the massive Fort Napoleon. It sits, quietly, as it has for 200 years.

As we depart from the Saints later that day, a perfect 15-knot easterly breeze fills in. It’s 20 nautical miles across to Portsmouth, the town and anchorage on the northwest tip of Dominica. It’s 5:20 p.m. when we drop sails and the hook amid another 50 yachts.

“I can do dat, mon. Dis afternoon, you come.” We do.

We are looking for Albert, a local “boat boy.” At 50, he’s one of the leaders of the Portsmouth Association of Yacht Security, a club of helpful locals. Albert shows up the next morning, and we ask him how we can arrange to take a trip into the jungle up the Indian River.

We pile into Albert’s seaworthy 25-foot open boat and head into the jungle. There’s a 50 hp outboard pulled up on the transom, so Albert, seated in the stern, ships two long oars, and off we go, slowly. The Indian River weaves inland for miles, lined on both sides by an impenetrable jungle. Vines meet overhead to create a tunnel. Colorful boats, like Albert’s, also ply the river this afternoon. Albert, seated in the stern, faces forward pushing his oars while maintaining a running commentary. We learn of the vegetation, lizards and birds along the shore. We arrive all too soon at a dock built into the riverbank. We disembark to find a tropical flower garden and a cafe serving bowls of coconut rum punch.

As darkness descends, we glide back down the river. The only sounds we hear are birds and the occasional swish of one of Albert’s oars. We will later all agree, it was a magical experience. We thank Albert for sharing his island and stories of his life on Dominica.

The next morning, on the first day of January 2020, we are off early in a rented jeep into the, well, heart of darkness. We head east, up into the hills, with Ren as navigator. I’m the helmsman. The paved road climbs up into the mountains, along deep gorges, over cascading rivers. Vegetation drapes from craggy ledges, covering whole mountainsides; it climbs trees, hangs from limbs. A rain shower comes and quickly goes. The road descends, winding along the eastern coast, in and out of coves, through small villages, by beaches and past the small airport. There’s a Carib village here somewhere, home to the last remaining native tribe. We find it, down a steep road toward the sea. Pulling over to allow a car coming up, I puncture the left front tire. The air hisses out. We have a flat. I park off the road and the family continues on foot, leaving me to change the tire.

Back on the road. Midafternoon. Ren finds a shortcut through the mountains. All is fine, until the paved road peters out. It turns to dirt, then gravel, with grass growing down the middle. I’m a nervous wreck. There’s no spare tire now. We finally emerge back into civilization. I need a drink.

Christmas Winds

The dinghy is on deck, sail cover off and folded, engine on and anchor up. It’s the second of January. We are underway out of Portsmouth at 0700. Our destination: the anchorage off Saint-Pierre, on Martinique.

As we pass Scotts Head, at the southern tip of Dominica, Martinique comes into view on the horizon and a nice breeze fills in, easterly, 12 to 15. Ren unrolls the jib. I turn off the engine. The boat leans into a 10-degree heel; we’re moving along nicely at 6.5 knots on course for Saint-Pierre. This is uncommonly nice. 

Late afternoon, we anchor on a narrow shelf just off the town below the towering Mount Pelee. This now-dormant volcano blew its top in 1902, and a pyroclastic flow swept down the mountainside, killing 30,000 residents, in seconds flat. The only survivor? A lone prisoner in jail. Today, Saint-Pierre is a quiet residential town, no cruise ships; only a few yachts stop in the anchorage. The sunsets turn the tightly packed cottages along the beach crimson and gold.

There was a nice French bistro here 10 years ago. Is it still here? The family elects to go see. It is, and we tuck in. The food is French—local fish in a white sauce laced with garlic. We are all in good spirits. The family together, perhaps for our last cruise together? Who knows. 

The next morning, the family is ashore early with cameras. Havana and I find a spot from which to fly the drone, Ren wanders the streets with her new iPhone 11.

“Havana,” I instruct, “make sure you get The Dove in the picture as you fly past.”

“Dad. Don’t you have photographs you can find without bothering me?” My son has just given me my marching orders. As did my daughter a few days earlier. I can see he wants his independence. My role as a parent, their teacher, is changing. Time marches on. 

Back aboard, we up-anchor and head to Sainte-Anne, at the southern tip of Martinique.

Dominica’s mountains might be impenetrable and dramatic, but Martinique’s are inviting and productive. Fields of sugar cane, orchards, and farmlands spill down the gentle slopes. We round a headland, turn east, and pass between Diamond Rock and the mainland. Ahead we see a line of anchored sailboats so thick that you can’t see the beach on Sainte-Anne, a small beach town with an open roadstead. There are more than 200 boats anchored here. I counted them.

The end of this little journey is in sight.

But first, there’s the village of Sainte-Anne to explore. The long, ­well-maintained dinghy dock is packed, the sidewalks filled with French tourists, vacationers and a few sailors. The latter all have deep tans and faded shorts. The main street is lined with colorful shops, including a boulangerie, two food stores, and an open-air produce and fish market. There are half a dozen cafes, restaurants and bars along the beach in this small, well-kept village. And there are vacant beaches nearby to explore, clear water in which to swim, and a Club Med nearby. La Marin, one of the Caribbean’s busiest marine centers, is a few miles away, with more services than I’ve seen in any port, anywhere.

Our last morning together. The family loads up the dinghy with duffels and bodies, and I drive them to the dock. A cab is waiting for the hourlong drive to the airport. When I return to The Dove, something is amiss. The wind is blowing like stink. There’s a nasty chop. The rigging whistles, and the whole boat is vibrating. My clan is gone. The Christmas winds have arrived.

David H. Lyman is a seasoned mariner and professional photographer, and, when not roaming the Caribbean, is based in Maine. 

The post A Family Cruises Through Christmas in the Caribbean Islands appeared first on Cruising World.

Not long ago, I ­recommended a ­corrosion-inhibiting product to a client, who replied: “I can’t keep all these sprays, pastes and liquids straight. Can you make a list of all this stuff and where I’m supposed to use it?” What a great idea!

Corrosion Inhibitors

Corrosion is a tremendous threat for metallic components and equipment. Over the years, I’ve experimented with a variety of products, and have ultimately settled on two for most corrosion-prevention tasks. In cases where corrosion resistance and light ­lubrication are beneficial, CRC’s 6-56 works well; it’s a light, oil-like lubricant that coats and penetrates into surfaces that might already be slightly rusted or corroded, such as shift and throttle components, motor-mount adjustment studs, and steering sheave axles. Available in an aerosol or refillable spray bottle, it’s light and can be washed or wiped off, which can be a blessing and a curse.  

For more-durable corrosion protection, I turn to another CRC product called Heavy Duty Corrosion Inhibitor. This aerosol spray goes on as a viscous liquid, which then dries to a waxy, slightly tacky consistency. It has no lubrication properties; however, it has staying power and can’t be washed or wiped off, but it can be removed with mineral spirits. It’s ideally suited for coating any metal that needs corrosion protection, including fasteners, couplings, below-deck windlass motors, gear boxes and components, as well as batteries and other electrical connections.

Conductants and Dielectrics

These two items, both of which are paste or jellylike, are technically opposites, but they can often be used interchangeably. Thomas and Betts Koper Shield is a copper-­loaded grease designed to improve conductivity between surfaces that are clamped together—such as ring and battery terminals—while excluding air and moisture. Because the grease can be conductive, users must be careful not to apply it to the exterior of connections where bridging with other terminals might occur. Superlube’s Silicone Dielectric Grease is an insulator rather than a conductor; however, when placed between contact surfaces, such as a ring terminal and stud, it is squeezed out of all but the actual contact areas, which once again excludes moisture and air. Because it is not conductive, external application and bridging are not an issue. Superlube is also ideally suited for lubrication of O-rings and other rubber parts, including gaskets, water and fuel-deck-fill O-rings.

Lubricants

CRC’s 6-56 has already been mentioned as a lightweight corrosion inhibitor; it’s also an excellent lubricant. And it makes sense to keep on hand as a penetrating oil that can be used to free up rusted mild-steel fasteners, as well as stainless fasteners installed in aluminum substrates. For this application, I’ve used three products, all with good results: PB Blaster, Kroil and Liquid Wrench, in no particular order of effectiveness.

Additionally, while an old-school remedy, common 20- or 30-weight motor oil, dispensed from an oil can, can be used in a variety of applications. I also keep lighter-­weight oil, like transmission or hydraulic oil, in a “needle oiler”: a small bottle with a needlelike tip that can be used to dispense small measures of oil in a precise manner.

RELATED: Monthly Maintenance: Five Common Electrical Failures

The final lubricant worthy of mention is grease. While the aforementioned Superlube product is a grease, it is very light and easily wiped or washed off. A heavier, more viscous, and stickier grease is often needed for windlasses and seacocks. For such applications, I prefer Lubrimatic’s Green Marine Wheel Bearing grease; with its considerable staying power, it’s ideally suited for wet applications.

Thread Sealant

Threads are everywhere, from engines and fuel systems to raw- and potable-water plumbing. Wouldn’t it be great if one product could be used in all of these applications? Fortunately, there is one: LeakLock, made by Highside Chemical. With this product, versatile is an ­understatement, because it’s safe for everything from ­gasoline and diesel to ­potable water and LP gas-threaded plumbing fittings.

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

The post Here’s How to Choose Your Sprays, Pastes and Liquids for Maintenance Work appeared first on Cruising World.

A small miracle happened to me recently. It was a message from the past, and so many memories flashed through my mind. It’s not often that one small thing can bring so much joy. But this unexpected phone call certainly did. 

First, a little backstory. Many years ago, in 1966, there was a young Australian bloke who built a small wooden boat he hoped to sail around the world. This young man of 24 was Andy Wall. He lived in Avalon, Australia, just north of Sydney. The boat design was called a Carmen Class. It was 30 feet long, with 27 inches of freeboard aft, blue gum timber frames and a flush deck, with a tiny dodgerlike doghouse covering the cabin hatch. Andy named his boat Carronade, after the small but powerful cannons used on the British warships of yore.

From the moment construction began, Andy knew that this small boat would be his home and his conveyance to grand adventure. When construction was complete, Andy and his two mates, Des Kearns and Ken Mills, set off from Pittwater, Australia.

To go below deck, one had to bend at the waist and crawl through the small hatch. Once below, there was a mere 5 feet of headroom. Carronade had no toilet, just a sturdy black bucket. She had a small kerosene stove and a tiny 1-cylinder Volvo that had to be hand-cranked to start. She had a pipe berth in the forepeak where all the sails were stowed, a small settee bunk, and a cramped chart table—that was it. There were no tanks, just jerry cans for water and fuel, and a tiller for hand steering. 

In the cockpit, there was a beautiful Sestrel binnacle compass with an artistic fleur-de-lis pointing north. Andy had no clue how to celestial navigate, but he had the good sense to get all the proper equipment: his grandfather’s sextant, a Walker log for dead reckoning, a Zenith Trans-Oceanic radio, a nautical almanac, and the tables and paper charts needed to navigate. Most importantly, he had a little book by Mary Blewitt, Celestial Navigation for Yachtsmen.

Anyone who has tried celestial navigation knows that it ain’t easy. As Carronade and her crew made their way across the rough and rugged Tasman Sea, Andy was not at all sure his sights and novice calculations were accurate. Luckily, the weekly seaplane delivering supplies from Sydney to Lord Howe Island flew overhead just as Andy was second-guessing his exact position. Andy took a quick compass bearing of the plane’s course using the Sestrel compass. Following that course, the boat and crew made their first landfall. Andy had become pretty proficient in his celestial navigation, but it was that plane and that little compass that got them safely to their first landfall. 

Carronade’s route across the Pacific followed a zigzag of islands beckoning to these three lads. From Lord Howe Island to New Zealand, to the Austral Islands south of Tahiti, then French Polynesia (where Ken Mills flew back to Australia and Bob Nance came aboard). Next, Hawaii, San Francisco, the Marquesas, and back to Tahiti again. Their longest passage was from Papeete nonstop to Cape Horn. From there, they headed up the east coast of South America, and then on to the West Indies, the Bahamas and finally to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where I met Andy. 

That little compass saw it all! Andy and I had our honeymoon sailing little Carronade across the Atlantic, stopping in Bermuda and the Azores, and making landfall in Falmouth, England. We spent two years—1972 and 1973—cruising England, Holland and Belgium, and then back home across the Atlantic via Spain and the Canary Islands. 

When Andy and I arrived in Fort Lauderdale, Billy Nance (the brother of Andy’s crew Bob Nance) was standing on our dock waiting to take our lines. He offered to buy Carronade and suggested we build a bigger boat. “I know an Australian who has made a mold of the three-time winner of the Sydney to Hobart Race, Freya. Why don’t you build a bigger boat, start a family, and I will take Carronade back to sea?” 

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And so began the story of Kandarik, our Freya 39, which now sits alongside my dock, full of tales of her own. But, back to the story of our compass. Sadly, after six crossings of the Atlantic, Andy died suddenly in 2008. Twelve years later, in summer 2020, I received a phone call from Skip Granger. He had owned Carronade after Billy Nance, and eventually sold her. I had lost touch with Skip until he called me out of the blue.

“Pam, it’s Skip here. I have Carronade’s original compass in my garage. Would you like it?” 

Would I like it? Yes! That amazing compass guided Andy, his crew, and myself through many adventures and around the globe. I rushed over to Skip’s house, and put the battered, old and weary compass in my car. The binnacle and compass desperately needed refurbishing— I replaced the liquid in the compass, and my friend Cathy put a new coat of paint on the pedestal, varnished the teak spacer, and polished the binnacle back to its original shine.

I don’t know why Skip had the compass after selling Carronade, but I guess he can explain that someday. The important thing is that my son, Jamie, now has this precious legacy of his father.

Pam Wall and her family circumnavigated aboard their 39-foot Freya sloop, Kandarik. Wall is a sailing consultant and speaker who loves teaching and encouraging cruisers. For more, visit pamwall.com.

The post The Compass That Could Tell a Story appeared first on Cruising World.

Storm tactics can be roughly defined as the ways to handle a storm once you’re in it. There are several proven choices, all of which intend to keep either the bow or stern pointing toward the waves. No one tactic will work best for all sailboats in all conditions. As skipper, it will be up to you to consider the best approach for your vessel, procure the right equipment, and practice with it before it’s needed.

Here we look at some active storm options that might work when conditions are still manageable and you want to actively control and steer the boat. Crew fatigue is a serious consideration when using active tactics.

Forereaching

Although not often mentioned as a tactic, it can be highly effective for combating brief squalls or moderate-duration storms. Here’s how to set up your boat for forereaching: Roll the jib away (especially if you have a large roller-furler genoa set); reef the main down to the second or third reef position; and sail on a closehauled course, concentrating on keeping the boat flat. It will be a comfortable ride, everyone will be relatively happy, and you will be making 2 to 3 knots on a close reach. Check your course over ground because increased leeway will cause your track to be much lower. This is a possibly useful tactic to claw off a lee shore. Note that not all boats will be at ease forereaching, so you’d better experiment with it ahead of time. Catamarans in particular will lurch and demonstrate much-increased leeway.

Motorsailing

Sometimes it’s necessary from a time or safety perspective to stow the jib and fire up the iron genny instead. Motorsailing lets you point high and make progress to windward. Motoring with no sails will not work well (or at all, in some cases), particularly in big seas, but a reefed mainsail will provide lateral stability and extra power. Trim the main, head up high enough to control your angle of heel, set the autopilot, and keep a lookout. Fuel consumption makes this a short-term option.

Here’s a tip: Make sure cooling water is pumping through the engine. On some sailboats, the water intake lifts out of the water when heeled. A further difficulty is that the pitching boat might stir sediment off the bottom of the fuel tank, which can, in turn, clog the fuel filter.

Running off and drogues

Sailing under storm jib and a deeply reefed mainsail or storm trysail provides the most control. If you don’t have storm sails, a reefed jib will give you the power to steer and control your boat in the waves. The boat must be steered actively to maintain control because no autopilot will be able to do this.

If excessive speed is a problem and steering becomes difficult, towing a drogue will slow the boat. A retrieval line should be set from the head of the drogue for when it is time to bring it back on board. If you don’t have a drogue, trailing warps might help slow the boat.

In a storm of longer duration, or when conditions become otherwise unmanageable, the situation might call for a skipper to consider passive storm tactics. When you are exhausted and you just want to quiet down the boat and maybe get some rest, there are other boathandling options available, depending on the sea state and the ­equipment you have onboard.

Heave to

Heaving to can be an excellent heavy-weather tactic, though some boats fare better than others. Wouldn’t it be great if during a heavy-weather episode you could just slow everything way down? Imagine a short respite with a reduced amount of motion from the relentless pitching and pounding. A chance to regroup, make a meal, or check over the boat. Well, you can.

Heaving to allows you to “park” in open water. Hove-to trim has the jib trimmed aback (that is, to the wrong side), the reefed main eased, and the helm lashed down to leeward. The easiest way to do this is to trim the jib sheet hard and then tack the boat, leaving the sheet in place. Trimmed this way, the jib pushes the bow down. As the bow turns off the wind, the main fills and the boat moves forward. With the helm lashed down, the rudder turns the boat toward the wind. As the main goes soft, the jib once again takes over, pushing the bow down. The main refills, and the rudder pushes the bow into the wind again.

RELATED: Safety at Sea: Mental Preparations Contribute to Positive Outcomes

Achieving this balance will require some fine-­tuning, depending on the wind strength, your boat design and the sails you have. You might, for example, need to furl the jib most of the way in to match the wind strength. Trimming the main will ensure that the bow is at an angle to the waves, ideally pointing 40 to 60 degrees off. Modern fin-keeled boats do not heave to as well as more-traditional full-keel designs.

When hove to, the boat won’t actually stop. It will lie, as noted, about 40 to 60 degrees off the wind, sailing at 1 or 2 knots, and making leeway (sliding to leeward). Beware of chafe. When hove to, the jib’s clew or sheet will be up against the shroud and might experience wear damage. Monitor this regularly, and change the position of the sheet occasionally. You might not want to heave to for an extended time.

Deploying a sea anchor

A sea anchor is a small parachute deployed on a line off the bow. A sea anchor helps keep the bow pointed up into the waves so the boat won’t end up beam to the seas. Light displacement boats will pitch violently in high seas, and chafe and damage might occur to the bow, so setting up a bridle and leading it aft through a snatch block will allow the boat to lie at an angle to the waves, providing a more comfortable ride. A big concern when using a sea anchor is the load on the rudder as the waves slam the boat backward. Chafe on the sea-anchor bridle is another big factor, so the bridle must be tended regularly.

Remember, if you and your vessel are caught out in heavy-weather conditions, as a skipper, you must show leadership by setting an example, watching over your crew, offering relief and help to those who need it, and giving encouragement. Remember too, discomfort and fear can lead to fatigue, diminished performance, and poor decision-making. Don’t compromise the safety of the boat and crew to escape discomfort.

Few people get to ­experience the full fury of a storm. Advances in weather forecasting, routing and communications greatly improve your odds of avoiding heavy weather at sea, but you’re likely to experience it at some point, so think ahead of time about the tactics and tools available to keep your crew and vessel safe.

Heavy weather might not be pleasant, but it is certainly memorable, and it will make you a better sailor. Take the time to marvel at the forces of nature; realize that the boat is stronger than you think.

Happy sailing, and may all your storms be little ones!

This story is an edited excerpt from the American Sailing Association’s recently released manual, Advanced Cruising & Seamanship, by Bill Gladstone, produced in collaboration with North U. It has been edited for design purposes and style. You can find out more at asa.com.

The post Storm Tactics for Heavy Weather Sailing appeared first on Cruising World.

“Reeves, you are a beacon on the shoals of life,” a man yelled from up the dock. All morning I worked on deck. The weekend had emptied the boatyard, quieting the bustle of lifts and cranes. Today there would be no interruptions from passersby, and I could happily focus on the present task: preparing Moli, my 45-foot aluminum cutter, for her second figure-eight-voyage attempt. Then the voice: “I am thrilled to follow your adventure,” the man said. “You show me places I never wish to go; you have experiences I never wish to have. You are a warning to others: ‘Pass not this way.’”

Such sentiments, I had found, were not uncommon, and even I had to admit that the first figure-eight attempt—a solo circumnavigation of the Americas and Antarctica in one season—had not exactly gone to plan. The plan, in brief, was to sail the Pacific south from my home port of San Francisco, and, after rounding Cape Horn, to proceed on a full east-about trek of the Southern Ocean; after rounding Cape Horn again, the course would proceed up the Atlantic, into the Arctic, and then would transit the Northwest Passage for home. Admittedly, it was a challenging goal.

Mo and I departed for the first time via the Golden Gate Bridge on September 30, 2017, but heavy weather knocked Mo flat west of Cape Horn and then again in the Indian Ocean. The former incident dealt fatal blows to both self-steering devices; the latter broke a window in the pilothouse, drowning most of Mo’s electronics. Both required unscheduled stops for repairs, by which time it was too late in the season to continue. The only logical solution: Sail home and start again.

RELATED: My Seventh Circumnavigation

On July 10, 2018, Mo and I returned under the Golden Gate Bridge, closing the loop on a 253-day 26,453-mile solo circumnavigation, which some had dubbed, and not by way of a compliment, “the longest shakedown cruise in history.” Three months later found me in the boatyard readying Mo for her second attempt when the stranger’s words broke my solitude.

Departure day came on October 1, 2018. Indian summer in San Francisco is warm but windless. Mo motored under full sail out to sea—and with an escort fleet of exactly one vessel. On departure the year before, I had looked to the horizon from under a cloud of foreboding, but now I felt relaxed. Now I knew what lay ahead, and I had a plan.

Our first test of this second attempt came in the Pacific at 49 degrees south, in the form of a Force 8 and 9 northwesterly blow lasting four days. My assessment of the previous year’s ­failure was that I’d not sailed fast enough. From the beginning, I had intended to follow the example of heroes such as Vito Dumas and Bernard Moitessier and keep moving through the worst of blows, but as conditions eased and seas stood up, I made the repeated mistake of staying on the tiny storm jib for too long. Counter to all intuition, speed is safety for a heavy boat in heavy weather because it provides the rudder with needed corrective power when the extremities of motion are making control a precious commodity. Thus, my vow on this second attempt was to keep up speed, to carry more sail—to leave the damned storm jib in its bag.

By day two of this blow, we were surrounded by great blue heavers with long troughs and cascading tops. On a deeply reefed working jib (over twice the sail area I’d carried on previous occasions), Mo rushed along with a steadiness that thrilled me. Several times she surfed straight down a massive wall, throwing a bow wave whose roar rivaled that of the gale. But she never faltered. Standing watch in the security of the pilothouse and amid this orchestrated chaos, I felt my satisfaction growing. Now we had a chance at a full circuit of the south, I thought. Soon I found myself whistling happily with the whine in the rigging. Only later did I recall with embarrassment that whistling in a blow is terribly bad luck, and forthwith, I scrawled instructions on a piece of duct tape fastened to the companionway hatch by way of reminder: “No Whistling Allowed!”

And then it was time for the Cape Horn approach. Out of prudence and heartfelt respect, I had planned this rounding to pass south of Islas Diego Ramirez, a group of rocks 20 miles below the Horn and on the edge of the continental shelf. South of these is open water of true, oceanic depth, but between Diego Ramirez and the Horn, the bottom quickly shelves to as little as 300 feet. Here, seas unmolested by land since New Zealand can pile up dangerously when weather is foul. In this case, however, a low sky brought only a cold and spitting rain. We had a fast wind but an easy sea, and on November 29, 56 days out of San Francisco, Mo and I swung in so close to the famous Cape that we could kiss her on the shins.

By morning, the headland could still be seen as a black smudge on the gray horizon astern. Mo creamed along under twin headsails in a brisk southwesterly, and as the water of the Pacific blended into that of the Atlantic, so my pride at the summit just attained was quickly cooled by thoughts of the challenge ahead.

My Southern Ocean strategy was simple: to stay as far south as I dared. There were two reasons for this. One was that at my target latitude of 47 degrees south, the circumference of the circle from Cape Horn to Cape Horn again was almost 2,000 miles shorter than at the more-typical rounding latitude of 40 degrees south. Secondly, Mo would wallow in fewer calms. The monstrous lows that march endlessly below the capes tend to hoover up everything around them, leaving vast windless spaces in ­between. The farther north of the lows one sails, the longer the calms last; the farther south, the more ­consistent the wind.

As it turned out, a lack of wind would not be a problem during this passage. By early December, we were above the Falklands and had turned to an easterly course when our first major low approached. Its winds built during the day but really came up to force overnight, with the anemometer touching 45 knots and gusting higher. The main had been doused, the boom lashed to its crutch, and the working jib was deeply reefed. The sea continued to build. Near midnight, I was dozing fitfully in my bunk when I felt Mo lift sharply, then there was a heavy slam of green water hitting the cockpit and companionway hatch. The boat rolled well over, and I rolled with her from my bunk and onto the cupboards. Then she righted, and I could hear the tinkling and splashing of water in the pilothouse.

I groaned at the thought that we’d yet again broken something vital. Grabbing a flashlight, I crawled into the ­pilothouse but found no shattered glass. In the cockpit, the dodger’s plastic door had been ripped open and the windvane paddle had been pulled from its socket. We had been badly pooped, but all that streaming wet below was from nothing more than the wave squirting in between the ­companionway hatch’s locked slide. “Keep the water out,” was Eric Hiscock’s advice for those making a Southern Ocean ­passage. As it turns out, this is rather more ­difficult than it sounds.

Two weeks later and halfway to Good Hope, we’d already ridden out three gales, and two more were in the forecast. My log was a succession of “large low arrives tonight”; “winds 35 gusting 45″; “chaotic seas—wind continues to build”; “the ocean is like a boulder garden”; “another low on the way.” By Christmas, we were well past the prime meridian and into the Indian Ocean. So far Mo had averaged a fast 140 miles a day, and the storm jib hadn’t budged from its position lashed onto the rail.

The most dreaded of questions an adventurer can face is why—why pursue such long, lonely, tiresome, risky voyages? At first, such inquiry caught me off guard, and my responses were halting. Wouldn’t anyone, given the opportunity, put at the top of his priorities list a solo sail around the world?

To me the answer is an immediate “yes.” But to others, and when the endless days of discomfort are weighed in—the sleepless nights, meals eaten from a can, the perpetual, clammy damp, hands so raw that the skin sloughs off, the gut-gnawing fear of an approaching storm, the inescapable wrath of a heavy sea, and months of exposure to a remoteness that makes the crew of the space station one’s nearest neighbors—when all that is known, most would choose not to go to sea and regard as crazy those who do.

But here’s the attraction: Sailing the Southern Ocean is like exploring an alien world. Down here, there isn’t the evidence of civilization that one finds in other oceans. Down here, there are no ships on the horizon, no jet contrails in the sky; no plastic trash ever clutters one’s wake. For months on end, there isn’t so much as a lee shore, and the waves, freed from all confinement except gravity, roam like giant buffalo upon a great, blue plain.

Moreover, down here, the animals one encounters live in such a purity of wildness that you could well be their first human encounter. Many days Mo and I were visited by that absolute marvel, the wandering albatross. As big as a suitcase and with a 12-foot wingspan, this bird lives most of its life on the wing and beyond the sight of land. It can glide in any direction in any strength of wind; so adapted is it to this environment that it can even sleep while aloft. When my little ship is struggling to survive, this bird hangs in the air with an effortlessness that defies understanding. There, above that crashing wave, it is poised so still as to seem carved out of the sky.

Or take the stars. Out here, on a clear and moonless night, the heavens shine such that our brother constellations recede into the melee of twinkling and are lost. On such a night, looking upward with binoculars is like dipping one’s hands into a basket of pearls. Look down, and galaxies of phosphorescence spin in your wake.

By January 18, Day 105 out of San Francisco, we were nearing the opposite side of the world and the halfway point in our circuit of the south. After dinner, I noticed that the barometer had dropped from 1,010 to 1,002 mb in a mere four hours. What had been an easy 20-knot westerly soon veered into the north and hardened. At midnight, I dropped the poled-out twin headsails and raised the main. Winds continued to build, and by 0200, the main was down again and lashed to its boom.

By 0400, pressure had reached 998, and brought with it a freight train of wind from the northwest. Now there was just enough light to make out the cement-colored sky pushing down upon the water. Seas were smack on the beam but manageable.

The front hit at 0600 with winds of 40 gusting to 45 and a pelting, horizontal rain. Crests of waves were blown off; the barometer dropped another 2 points. When it passed, the gale settled down to do its business. Long, wide crests of sea broke together and stained the black water with city-block-size patches of cream and ice blue. The barometer kept on sliding. At each two-hour log entry, it was down another 2 points. Four reefs in the working jib, Mo laboring.

At 1400, we reached the bottom of the low, and the barometer flattened out at 989. The wind roared. Mo shuddered in its force. The log read: “Seas massive; some plunge-breaking.” Two hours later: “A crazy, mishmash heavy sea. Pyramidal.” At 1700: “Long gusts to 50. Working jib down to a hanky.” Later that night: “Our first screaming surf down a wave I cannot see.”

To this point, Mo had been sure-footed. Always at the center of the surrounding chaos, her decks seemed as still and solid as Mother Earth. Yes, there were times when she stumbled, fell off a breaker and was thrown over to the windows, but she came back to rights and shook off things so quickly that the fall seemed hardly worth mentioning. Only when I went on deck did the fierceness of the gale become apparent.

On deck, I moved aft to adjust the windvane when I heard a crashing from the blackness astern. But I did not look aft, I looked up—and there a white wall hung for a moment. I leaped for the rail as it consumed the boat. Mo rolled. She was under. Immediate cold down foulies and boots. And then she was up. Cockpit a bathtub. Sheets trailing in the water. The main halyard was wrapped around my leg. Amazingly, there was no damage.

By 0100, I had been working the boat for 20 hours, was achingly cold and beginning to feel undone. Wind had eased significantly, and with its diminishing, so too the sea subsided. The moment had come to start adding back the sail we’d withdrawn so long ago, but this time I did not. I left Mo with but a handkerchief of a jib, tore off my foulies, and hit the sack. I didn’t even set an alarm.

On and on like this goes the Southern Ocean. By February 12, we were below New Zealand; by March 5, we were 5,000 miles due south of San Francisco; and as we descended for the second Cape Horn rounding, Mo and I were weary but battle hardened. This approach proved more tempestuous than the first, but now even dangerously foul weather couldn’t keep us from spying that great rock, that Everest of the watery south. Another gale came on. Mo pointed steadily onward and to within sight of our goal. The seas built. The wind roared. And then all cleared. Cape Horn came out of the abyss—gray, hulking rock not so much barren as raw, and with breakers throwing themselves at her feet. Then we were around, and yet on we raced. On and on and on…

On March 20, 2019—and as part of the figure-eight voyage—Mo and sailor-adventurer Randall Reeves completed a 15,343-mile 110-day circumnavigation of the Southern Ocean but continued north for a first stop in Halifax, Nova Scotia, after 237 days at sea. Coming next month: Mo and Reeves heed the call of the Northwest Passage. For more, check out Reeves’ book-length account of the voyage, available at figure8voyage.com.

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