It’s a typical down-on-the-dock scene in Maine. A handful of old-timers who have cruised this coast for better than a half-century share stories about favorite anchorages, shoreside hikes and precious swimming quarries. For them, the islands of Maine make life worth living, and the chance to sail among them summer after summer has more than justified the annual expense and effort they put into maintaining their sailboats. And then along comes Steve Stone and Amy Tunney, relative newcomers to town. Each is carrying a dry bag and wearing a backpack in preparation for a camp-­cruising voyage down Blue Hill Bay. Once out in the open water, they’ll make a final assessment of the wind forecast over the coming days, and they’ll ease off toward Acadia National Park to port, or toward Merchant Row and Vinalhaven to starboard.

Instead of spending countless hours sanding and painting and caulking their wooden boats as the purists do, Stone simply pulls the cover off their elegant craft, Howdy, slips it off the trailer into the water, and it’s good to go. No big hydraulic trailer necessary, no knuckle-busting engine work, no masts to step with a crane. When the wind blows, he and Tunney sail. When the wind quits, they row. Naturally the old-timers want to know more about how they go about the camp-cruising thing they have going.

Well, first of all, Stone and Tunney chose the right boat and boatbuilder: an Iain Oughtred-designed Caledonia Yawl built by Geoff Kerr. Kerr has built more than 20 boats to this design using marine-grade okoume plywood and epoxy, both of which are light and strong. And because the wood doesn’t shrink and swell like traditional sawn lumber, they can be stored on a trailer in a hot garage or under a tarp and be ready to launch at a moment’s notice without danger of leaking.

Besides this, Caledonias are great sailing boats: stiff in a breeze, easily reefable and surprisingly fast even to windward. A virtual ballerina of a boat at the hands of skilled sailors, these yawls are always in balance as they roll along before a freshening sea breeze on a summer afternoon.

At 19 feet, 6 inches, with a 6-foot-5-inch beam, Caledonia Yawls can carry a lot of gear and still have room for people. Occasionally we have even seen as many as 10 aboard Howdy with Stone and Tunney—plus a couple of dogs—enjoying an evening margarita cruise. With a draft of only 11 inches with the centerboard up and a sturdy keel, Stone can haul their Caledonia up the beach or pull it into deeper water with a haul-off anchoring system.

So how do they find big quantities of summer enjoyment in a small craft?

Besides choosing the right boat to carry them on their sail-camping adventures, Tunney and Stone have amassed gear and equipment to ensure that while they might be camping, they definitely aren’t roughing it. First off, they insisted on comfortable bedding. For this they chose a couple of Therm-a-Rest NeoAir inflatable mattresses. Rolled up, each one measures 4-by-6 inches, so onboard stowage is no problem.

And this was only the beginning. Summer by ­summer, they have added to their gear, all of it a sweet balance of simplicity, portability and comfort. Stone says their go-to website for discovering the best in camping apparatus is outdoorgearlab.com.

Another thing they make sure they do is carry ample fresh water, not only for drinking and cooking, but also for showers. What they take adds up to something like a gallon per day per person, plus fresh water for their hang-in-a-tree sun showers from Hydrapak. Water is heavy and takes up valuable space in the boat, but to stay fresh and clean on a five-night trip seems well worth it to them. As the water gets used, the bags roll up to the size of a tennis ball and stow away.

There’s only one real menace along the Maine coast, but it’s so reliable, you can set your clock to its irritation: mosquitoes. The only defense is to wall them off; set up the tent early and then dive in as soon as the first mosquito appears. Naturally they bring along bug dope, but they resist a total DEET soak-down if at all possible. Their other defense is to avoid islands with intense mosquito problems: islands with standing fresh water or adjacent salt marshes. Setting up camp on the windward side of an island also helps. And camp-cruisers generally stay clear of islands with rocky beaches. They make for hard landings, and swarms of biting flies often lurk beneath the stones. Once when Tunney and Stone veered off course to an unscouted island too late in the day to find an alternate site, Stone recalls that his partner came under a ferocious attack of these biting flies as she scouted out potential tent spots ashore while he rowed along the cobblestone beach waiting for her signal to land and unload. Seeing her slapping and cursing as she strode through the high grass, he pulled ashore and threw her a can of bug spray. Vigorously scrubbing chemicals into her thick hair and coming up with a total grin at the situation, this otherwise chemical-averse woman showed him that camping-wise, she was signed up for the long haul.

RELATED: A Celebration of Boats in Maine

Besides a tent and comfortable bedding, they carry headlamps, a good Whisperlite white-gas stove, super-insulated soft coolers to keep food fresh and ice cubes at the ready for the daily margarita, a grate for campfire grilling, and a horse-feed-style rubber bucket with a rope handle. The bucket, they say, is good for chores and fire safety. Anything needing to stay dry goes in large dry bags. True, it’s a lot to lug, but that’s what it takes to make their life comfortable—a priority of their own choosing.

For food, Tunney does the planning. She puts together meals before they go, such as a vegetable hash with chicken, frozen pizza from their favorite pizzeria that they grill by the slice over a charcoal fire, or veggie burgers. What the meals have in common is that they are easy to transport and simple to prepare.

But what ties it all together is the beauty and accessibility of the Maine coast. Not only are there countless islands to camp on within easy reach along the midcoast, the islands are generally strung out in a way that makes four- to five-day trips work for them.

When summer weekends arrive, they cross-reference wind and weather apps on their phones to get a feel for upcoming conditions. No matter what they have laid out in theory, it’s the weather that will shape their actual trip. This means the starting point isn’t usually chosen until the day before the launch, and the specific route they end up taking through the islands develops as they go. They always have a rough plan, usually with a specific island in mind for the evening, and Stone draws upon his old flight training to keep one eye on the weather for storms as well as a stream of bailout islands and coves as “emergency landing strips” along the way.

A key part of the Down East camp-sailing planning process is finding a safe place to bring the boat ashore or anchor it off with a haul-out system. Given the 9- to 12-foot tides, using an anchor and line and hauling the boat out past the low-tide line often means anchoring the boat 100 or more feet from shore. Getting things right is essential to a good night’s sleep. The last thing campers want is to find themselves wading out in the middle of the night if bad weather blows up.

Like sailing itself, sail-camping is a learn-as-you-go experience. And both Stone and Tunney have found it to be an economical and enjoyable way to experience one of the most beautiful, safe and accessible coastlines in the world. In summer, winds are generally manageable and predicted with great accuracy on phone apps and National Weather Service VHF-radio broadcasts. Navigation, once a challenge, has been made simple by GPS-enabled smartphones and other portable devices. Although they prefer charts and a compass, they use Navionics on their iPhones as a backup. A great many, perhaps even a majority of Maine islands, are located in waters protected from the open sea.

The reward for all that’s involved in small-boat adventures? “Cruising without an engine, with only oar and sail power, releases the tension from sticking to some plan,” Stone says. “If we follow the wind and currents each day, there’s no hard plan that requires sticking to. We often speak of ‘going with the flow’ and being forced to be in the moment. Without an engine, self-reliance becomes a necessity, and self-reliance usually brings peace and independence.”

Ultimately it is this peace and independence, enmeshed as it is in the challenges of exploring the natural world of Maine’s ­beautiful islands, that make Tunney and Stone love their ­getaways so deeply and brings them ever closer as a couple.

Bill Mayher is a writer and sailor who hails from Brooklin, Maine. He and Steve Stone are co-founders of marine video site ­ offcenterharbor.com.

Get to Know the Islands

To better familiarize themselves with the geography of potential camping spots, Amy Tunney and Steve Stone often take time to scope out potential islands to camp on, dipping into coves and up creeks to see what might work on a future voyage. Luckily a great many potential camping islands are under the auspices of either the Maine Island Trail Association or the Maine Coast Heritage Trust.

MITA has arranged permission from over 200 island owners to allow access to the association’s members. Many allow overnight camping. In exchange, MITA runs spring and fall cleanup programs and generally keeps a close eye on things. Accordingly, island owners have come to value their relationship with MITA, and the number of islands designated for camping has increased over the years. For beach cruisers, the best reason to join the association might be to get a copy of its guidebook and be able to access its app by smartphone. The book makes for great bedside reading and dreaming in the offseason, while the phone app is particularly useful during the cruise itself.

Both the book and the app are arranged geographically and give a convenient regional overview. Additionally, there is a chart of each MITA island that points out landing places, informs campers about various regulations that might apply, and shows the locations of campsites. MITA is vehement about the latter. The last thing they want is campers roaming around on an island with hatchet and bow saw, whacking out additional campsites. If the guide indicates one tent site on a given island, that’s it—one campsite. Faced with such limitations, camp cruisers are advised to get going early to their next landfall so they can be sure to get what they want, particularly on summer weekends.

The Maine Coast Heritage Trust, according to its mission statement, “conserves and stewards Maine’s coastal land and islands for their renowned scenic beauty, ecological value, outdoor recreational opportunities, and contribution to community [well-being].” So far the trust has conserved 154,150 acres, protected 320 islands and established some 93 preserves featuring 93 miles of trails. Without question, the coast would look far different without both the efforts of the trust and the generosity of coastal land owners who have donated land in order to keep it the way it was when they found it.

The post Sailing and Camping Along Down East Maine appeared first on Cruising World.

The first ankle biter struck while we were a couple of miles offshore, sailing past the twin lighthouses on Thatcher Island, off Rockport, Massachusetts. One moment, shipmates Herb McCormick and Tom Famulari and I were all chill, enjoying a lazy reach along Cape Ann. The next, we were boarded by a horde of flies with fangs. We swatted with ball caps, slapped with rolls of paper, but they kept on coming in an attack that raged until sunset—and resumed at dawn on the other side of the Gulf of Maine.

Who knew battling bugs would the hardest part of a Down East passage? The actual sailing? Pure delight: All it took were 25 hours and a southerly breeze for us to be snug on a mooring in pretty Tenants Harbor, Maine, with a fine sunrise in our wake, a refreshing beverage in hand, and more than a month’s worth of Penobscot Bay adventures about to begin with family and friends.

With a life moored in southern New England, my winter thoughts the past few years had often turned to a summer cruise along the Maine coast. But for a whole variety of reasons, time, distance and logistics repeatedly ruled it out. But then, out of the blue, the stars aligned this past July, and with minimal advance planning, the trip was on.

Our departure point was Nahant, Massachusetts, a small seaside town north of Boston where Tom and I live, and where my wife, Sue, and I had our Sabre 34, Jackalope, hanging on a mooring. Herb, who is Cruising World’s executive editor, and I had just finished putting out the annual charter issue, so we had a free spell to grab a good-weather window, which, as luck would have it, opened wide just two days after the issue shipped.

It’s roughly 125 nautical miles from Nahant to Tenants Harbor, or about a day’s run for Jackalope in most conditions. So while Herb drove to meet us, I grabbed a few provisions, loaded them up, and by Saturday morning at 11, we were good to go.

We motorsailed the first few miles until a sea breeze filled in off Gloucester. Late in the afternoon, with flies nipping and Cape Ann disappearing astern, we watched a steady stream of whale-­watching boats parade past on their way to and from the waters surrounding Jeffreys Ledge. Soon, they too were out of sight, and by dusk, we were well offshore, enjoying a stunning sunset, surrounded by nothing but open water and occasional patches of buoys and fishing gear.

To make things easy, we stood two-hour tricks at the wheel through the night. Just before dawn, I came up from a nap below to find Herb on the helm and Jackalope surrounded by shark fins that curiously seemed to be waving at us. They, along with a blazing sunrise, were a memorable way to begin the first day in Maine.

We were perhaps 10 or so miles from a waypoint we’d set off the southern end of Monhegan Island, and it wasn’t long before we heard the beefy rumble of diesel engines and spotted the glowing deck lights of fishing boats. Maybe that was what woke the flies, or perhaps it was the warmth of the day returning. In either case, soon Tom the Slayer was back at it, dispensing vengeance in a now-bloodied cockpit.

Past Monhegan, the mainland began to come into focus: bold granite shorelines topped by evergreens. First came the outer islands—Allen and Burnt and Mosquito—and then the coast, with cottages dotting the shore. By noon, we had Southern Island in sight, and then we were past it, making the turn down the channel into Tenants. As luck would have it, several salty-looking Friendship sloops were visiting, having just finished their annual rendezvous.

RELATED: Changes on the Gulf of Maine

Later in the day, after a nap and a bracing swim in the 61-degree water, we dinghied ashore to Tenants Harbor Boat Yard. In the guest center up the hill, I couldn’t help but wonder what prompted the management to post a sign politely asking visitors not to shower with their dogs. At any rate, we didn’t. Instead, we made the best of the remaining daylight and took an extended inflatable tour to check out the lobster boats, work skiffs, all manner of sailboats and visiting sloops swinging on moorings. Later, we enjoyed a tasty dinner of kielbasa and beans, topped off by a blazing redish sunset and star-filled sky.

The Rockland area, with Tenants Harbor nearby, is a convenient place to set up camp or juggle crew when cruising this part of the Maine coast. By car or bus, the city is about three hours from Boston, and there is regular ferry service out to the islands. Once a fishing town, the harbor today is teeming with residential and transient moorings. Ashore, there are well-stocked grocery stores, chandleries, several full-service marinas, shops, museums and restaurants. But better yet, Rockland sits at the southwestern end of Penobscot Bay, long a sailor’s playground filled with countless islands, coves and harbors waiting to be explored. During late July and August, weekend classic-yacht and full-on-racing regattas attract an array of yachts and their motherships, which move from one venue to another in an endless parade of sail.

With Jackalope’s delivery complete, Tom and Herb headed home, Sue and the dog arrived, and I shifted into vacation mode for a couple of weeks. First on the agenda: a few days sailing with my brother, Dave, and his wife, Peggy, who live just down the road from Tenants and on whose mooring we were squatters.

With the boat ­provisioned, refueled and tanks filled with water, we got a late-­morning start two days later. The breeze was light as we motored up Muscle Ridge Channel, a lobster- pot-studded waterway between the mainland and a series of off-lying islands. By Rockland, we set sail and rode a southerly sea breeze east to the entrance of the Fox Island Thorofare.

The Thorofare is a busy, meandering channel that runs between North Haven and the larger Vinalhaven to the south. With the wind behind us, it was an easy run, with plenty of time to gawk at the sprawling “cottages” along either shore. Even on a midweek afternoon, there was plenty of boat traffic to keep us company. Maine is Vacationland, after all.

In North Haven, we found an empty transient mooring near the ferry dock. It turned out to be a ringside seat to an endless stream of schooners, sloops, runabouts and, of course, lobster boats, which roared past, rocking ­everything with their wakes.

A work colleague and his wife have a summer home a couple of blocks from the waterfront, so eventually we dinghied ashore and went to find them. But not before a visit to Brown’s Boatyard, where we paid our $25 rental fee for the night. Brown’s is the sort of yard you’d expect to find in a working harbor. Its rambling red buildings are filled with boat parts, machinery and projects in various stages of repair. For a sailor, the weathered wharf and yard were a visual tapestry to behold.

From there, we walked a rambling route through the village to find our friends, enjoyed a cocktail on their porch that overlooks the Thorofare, then walked back into town for pizza at Calderwell Hall. The place was packed, and for the record, the food was delicious.

The next morning, we used the dog as an excuse to take a long walk along the one road that heads north out of town, and then we continued on through the Thorofare to East Penobscot Bay. It was another light-air day, but we were in no hurry and were content to reach across to Merchant Row, an island-speckled body of water between Stonington and Isle Au Haut. Even with a chart plotter, iNavX on my phone, and paper charts, it was easy to get quickly disorientated and lose track of just which rocky outcropping we were passing. Throw in a few thousand lobster pots to snag, and well, it was a navigational experience that kept everyone focused. We continued east into Jericho Bay, then swung north and eventually circled back toward Stonington through the Deer Island Thorofare.

Our plan was to spend the night in town, but of course, plans change. Instead, we met up with a friend of Peggy’s—who was sailing nearby—and dropped the hook alongside in a well-protected anchorage off Camp Island. It had been several hours since we were last ashore, and my ­attention—as well as the dog’s—was immediately drawn to a nearby rocky islet with the welcoming name of Hell’s Half Acre. Before we could get there though, a schooner dropped anchor and delivered its guests ashore. No matter, there were plenty more deserted granite knobs nearby to explore.

In the morning, the sea was glassy-calm as we motored toward the southern end of Eggemoggin Reach. That’s when we, or I should say I, snagged the first lobster pot. All of a sudden, there was a loud thunk, thunk, thunk on the hull and the diesel died. Luckily, I’d brought along a wetsuit, so I was able to dress for the occasion. In the water, the current tugged the boat and stretched the pot warp tight, so all it took was a slice with the knife and we were free. But then we began drifting along at a pretty good clip, and there were several wraps of rope still knotted around the prop shaft. The crew managed to grab a passing pot, which we used as a temporary anchor while I sawed away at the remaining line. Eventually, Dave donned the wetsuit and finished off the job while I caught my breath and kept a wary eye on the lobstermen working traps nearby. I wondered out loud what the protocol might be for meeting the missing buoy’s owner in such a situation.

The rest of the day more than made up for that inconvenient start. We emerged from the Deer Island Thorofare as the breeze filled in across Jericho Bay. Our timing was perfect, and we watched dozens of small sailboats cross our path in the Small Reach Regatta, put on by the Traditional Small Craft Association. The annual raid-style multiday event begins and ends in Brooklin, home to the Wooden Boat School and the Brooklin Boat Yard.

With a 10-knot breeze behind us, we had a long run up the Reach, jibing between Deer Isle to port and the mainland. To starboard, a couple of large schooners ghosted along the shore. Our destination was Bucks Harbor, where we picked up a mooring for the night and took full advantage of the marina’s outdoor showers.

Ironically, Buck’s Harbor Marina is now owned by a couple with the last name of Buck. Jon works in the medical field, but during summer, he manages to spend most of his time at the marina along with his wife, Jessica, and their hardworking kids. Together, they keep the place spotless and have even found time to launch a small fleet of charter boats.

Bucks Harbor, it turns out, would be as far afield as we’d go in our wanderings. Our shipmates had to get back for work, so in the morning, we sailed across the north end of Deer Island and headed for home by way of Islesboro, the long island that bisects this part of Penobscot Bay. A lively wind picked up from the south, and we were closehauled all the way back past North Haven. As we neared the southern tip of Islesboro, our timing once again proved perfect, even if our luck wasn’t. We found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of the Camden Classic Cup Regatta. Yawls and ketches and schooners, all under billowing clouds of sail, blew past us toward the windward mark just as we managed to snag our second lobster buoy. It was a scramble to get the sails down in the 20-knot breeze, and even after we got the line cut, it was too rough to think about going under the boat to pull what remained from the prop shaft. Instead, we unfurled the jib to get underway and avoid the rocks to leeward. But now, the fleet was upon us once again with spinnakers flying. They, of course, were on starboard tack, and we were closehauled on port. And yes, we had a few interesting crossings as we headed off in search of calmer waters.

Back in Tenants Harbor, I took a day to catch up on work, and our daughter, Lily, joined us. Now maniacal about avoiding lobster traps, we sailed back up Muscle Ridge Channel and caught the opening day of the Lobster Festival in Rockland. The waterfront was abuzz in anticipation of the coronation that evening of the Maine Sea Goddess.

From there, we headed back to North Haven to visit Pulpit Harbor, where we anchored with a tremendous view of the Camden Hills to the west. By the time the sun set, I was running out of superlatives to describe the surroundings.

Much of the rest of August, I had to work. Still, we found time for dinghy rides and daysails, and enjoyed quiet nights on the boat at the mooring. Then toward the end of the month, Dave and I made one last three-day visit to investigate the anchorages on the east side of Vinalhaven. Anchored in Seal Bay, we took the dinghy to explore long fingers of water cut into the granite shoreline. We motored deep into Winter Harbor to get a closer look at the towering granite cliffs that line it. And we spent a final afternoon and night on a mooring back at Brown’s Boatyard in North Haven.

But days were getting shorter and the weather cooler. It was time for this excellent summer adventure to come to an end. Sue and I had already decided to leave the boat in Maine for the winter rather than sailing back south, and had found a yard where we could haul out sometime later in the fall. We were hooked, and we knew it.

But as Dave and I beat our way south toward Tenants Harbor in the morning, I pondered my fall schdule and checked my phone to find the National Hurricane Center tracking multiple disturbances, any one of which might spin its way up the coast. It had already been a season filled with abrupt changes in plans, so why not the endgame too? A quick call to Spruce Head Marine sealed the deal. We’d leave the boat on one of their moorings, and they’d take care of the rest. A simple solution meant no need to worry. Turns out, aside from lobster pots and flies, staying in Maine was just as easy as getting there.

Mark Pillsbury is CW’s editor.

The post Cruising Maine, by Chance appeared first on Cruising World.

I roll off the cockpit settee, pop my head over the dodger and look into the night. Twenty degrees off our starboard bow, I do see it: three white lights in a vertical line, then a red light below and to the left of the others.

“I’ve been watching him for a while,” Hank says. “His bearing hasn’t changed.”

My first reaction is to call for an ­exaggerated turn to port. As I try to shake off sleep, an exam question flickers from some dim recess.

You are approaching another vessel at night. You can see both red and green sidelights and, above the level of the sidelights, three white lights in a vertical line. The vessel may be

a. not under command
b. towing a tow more than 200 meters astern
c. trawling
d. underway and dredging

My heart races before I call for the course change; another question runs through my mind.

You are aboard the give-way vessel in a crossing situation. Which of the following should you NOT do in obeying the Navigation Rules?

a. cross ahead of the stand-on vessel
b. make a large course change to starboard
c. slow your vessel
d. back your vessel

Adrenaline wallops me. “Turn 90 ­degrees to starboard,” I say.

For the next minute or so, the tug moves safely across our port side, and soon we both see the faint red sidelight of its barge some hundreds of yards behind. I think of the hawser connecting them, lethal and invisible, then sit chatting with Hank for a few minutes before lying back down for another 20-minute nap. (For the record, the correct answers are B and A.)

Hands-On Sailors

I’ve joined Shawn Brown and Hank Schmidt as their instructor for a pair of courses — Coastal Navigation and Coastal Passage Making — two intermediate steps in a tiered curriculum from novice to expert that’s created and administered by the United States Sailing Association, or US Sailing. Shawn is an airplane pilot who’s recently left a tech startup and is now looking to buy a 50-something-foot ketch to live and cruise aboard. Hank (no relation to the Hank Schmitt who organizes cruising rallies under the Offshore Passage Opportunities name) is a New York City emergency-room physician who hopes to start crewing on ocean-sailing trips from the U.S. East Coast to the Caribbean. Both would like to charter sailboats in different places around the world. If they can successfully perform the hands-on tasks laid out in each course and pass the written exams, they’ll receive US Sailing certificates that demonstrate to charter companies and skippers that they’ve attained a rigorous level of ­proficiency in these disciplines.

For this trip, we’re sailing Matilda, a newish Hanse 505 managed by New England Sailing Center in Newport, Rhode Island. The Coastal Passage Making curriculum includes night passages, so we plot a track that will take us from Narragansett Bay out to Shelter Island at the eastern end of Long Island, then across Block Island Sound to Martha’s Vineyard, before returning to Newport — a triangle of some 200 miles over five days, including two overnighters.

After stowing provisions and getting familiar with the boat’s systems, we work through this question together:

The Hanse 505 is fitted with a Volvo D2 diesel engine and 75 gallons of fuel. If she cruises at 6.5 knots and burns 1.75 gallons per hour at 2,200 rpm, what is *Matilda‘s safe cruising range under power?*

a. 75 miles
b. 175 miles
c. 275 miles
d. 375 miles

It takes two steps to answer the question. We know that the engine burns 1.75 gallons per hour and that Matilda will travel a distance of 6.5 miles in one hour. Our first step is to figure out how far we’ll travel on a gallon of fuel. Dividing 6.5 miles by 1.75 gallons gives the answer: 3.71 miles per gallon.

Next, we need to know how far our tank of fuel will carry us. Multiplying 75 gallons by 3.71 miles per gallon gives a result of 278 miles. Answer C, 275 miles, is mathematically possible but not a safe cruising range. Applying a safety factor of 25 percent leaves us with a range of 208 miles. The answer B, 175 miles, leaves us a safety factor closer to a third of a tank. B is the best answer to this question. In practical terms, this means that even if the wind shuts off all week, we could still complete our itinerary without refueling.

We spend our first afternoon sailing in Narragansett Bay, calculating time-speed-distance problems and plotting course-to-steer vectors through the tidal current as we reach over the top of Conanicut Island, then tack down the West Passage to Dutch Harbor. Shawn and Hank study the chart and select a spot near the mouth of Great Creek that shows 14 feet of depth at mean low water and is marked with an “M” for its mud bottom. Calculating for 7-to-1 scope and taking into account the tidal range and our 5 feet of freeboard, they set the hook, then put out 160 feet of rode. We grill chicken, share a few laughs and turn in early.

Our trip’s first night passage begins at 0200.

From Lubber to Salt, Step by Step

US Sailing, which has existed in one form or another for more than 120 years, describes itself as “the national governing body for the sport of sailing.” In the 1980s, it got into the business of teaching sailing, with an initial focus on kids and small boats. In the 1990s, it began developing courses for adult sailors in bigger boats — “keelboats,” as opposed to dinghies, and cruising in addition to racing. Similar instructional programs are available that lead to American Sailing Association certification (see “ASA Courses and Certifications,” at the end of the article).

Two years ago, US Sailing reorganized itself to simplify its several missions. Now there’s a dedicated Youth department, which focuses on teaching kids to sail small boats through local sailing schools, yacht clubs and community sailing centers. Its Youth network includes some 1,500 instructors. Other US Sailing departments support sailboat racing up to the Olympic level, providing rules, coaching, measurements and other tools to create a level competitive playing field.

The courses Shawn and Hank are taking fall under US Sailing’s Adult department. Since January 2017, that division has been led by Betsy Alison, a champion in several senses of the word. Five-time winner of the Women’s Keelboat Championships, five-time Rolex Yachtswoman of the Year and 2011 National Sailing Hall of Fame inductee, her competitive record speaks for itself. But in a broader sense, Betsy has long been a champion of providing people access to the water, especially folks with clear barriers. In 2015, she won the ISAF World Sailing President’s Development Award for her work as head coach of the US Paralympic Sailing Program.

In her new role, Betsy’s mission has broadened. “We just want to get butts in boats,” she told me last winter. “We want people to try sailing and have a hands-on experiential learning opportunity that hopefully sparks their interest and makes them want to continue.”

For Betsy and her department, that ­mission starts with a program called First Sail. First Sail sessions typically run two hours and cost between $35 and $100 per person; after that, many clubs or schools offer discounts on future lessons. “We have First Sail locations that are not US Sailing keelboat schools or yacht clubs,” Betsy said.  ”And we don’t mind whether someone is using ASA instructors or volunteer instructors or whatnot. It’s the first entry point in my department, and it’s for people who have never tried sailing before.”

The next step for folks who want to learn more is US Sailing’s Adult Keelboat program — and this is the track Shawn and Hank are following. The US Sailing website includes a list of accredited schools that offer certification. With about 75 schools on the list, that network is smaller than what you’ll find with US Sailing’s Youth program (1,500 instructors) or the American Sailing Association (roughly 300 schools and clubs).

The Adult Cruising Track lays out a progressive set of standardized stepping stones to lead novices toward sailing expertise:

• Basic Keelboat
• Basic Cruising
• Bareboat Cruising
• Cruising Catamaran Endorsement
• Coastal Navigation
• Coastal Passage Making
• Celestial Navigation
• Offshore Passage Making

In addition to these, US Sailing offers other targeted programs, including Safety at Sea courses and a host of online instruction. “If you look at the millennial generation,” Betsy said, “they don’t want to own things. They want to go to a community sailing program or to a shared-boat club and lease or charter a boat and enjoy it without having to make the big financial investment in it. So this year we’ve started expanding our small keelboat program.” For such people, certifications are their ticket to renting boats. So, US Sailing expanded its program last year to include Performance Keelboat. “It’s an opportunity to teach people to sail their boats better and faster without being related to racing.” It’s also unrelated to the more systems-heavy cruising track.

Another new course comes under the heading of US Powerboating. “What sets us apart from some of the other ­powerboat-instruction providers is that our programs are all focused around ­hands-on, experiential learning,” Betsy said. “So you learn how to pivot-turn; you learn how to dock and undock, and all the little nuances that you don’t get if you sit online for your boater’s education card.”

Bringing It All Home

The full reality of that hands-on, experiential instruction hits us at 0130, when wake-up alarms start ringing through Matilda‘s cabin. After that initial jolt, only the clatter of the anchor chain breaks the midnight silence as we hoist the main and sail off our anchor engineless. A gentle southerly and the ebbing current take us quietly out past the Dutch Harbor mooring field and back toward West Passage.

“See that red light that’s flashing twice then once every six seconds?” I say to Shawn. “Keep that just off our starboard bow.” This is the preferred-channel buoy “DI” at the south end of Dutch Island — red on top, green on the bottom, with a composite group-flash light pattern at night. We talk about how boats traveling north up the West Passage treat this navigation aid as a red mark if they intend to continue up the main channel but as a green mark if they’re going up the secondary channel into Dutch Harbor. When Shawn and Hank take their exam at the end of the week, they’ll remember this moment; at least five questions deal with aids to navigation, and more than one of those asks about preferred-channel buoys.

With sunrise off Point Judith comes the New England fog — the “smoky sou’wester,” as advection fog is known in these parts, recognizing the strange pairing of zero visibility with a ripping breeze. What should we do?

Shawn combs through the Navigation Rules to find out. Subpart D covers  “Sound and Light Signals.” Rule 35 treats  “Sound Signals in Restricted Visibility.”

That’s us.

“In or near an area of restricted visibility, whether by day or night,” he reads, “a ­power-driven vessel making way through the water shall sound at intervals of not more than two minutes, one prolonged blast.” Elsewhere we read that a prolonged blast sounds for four to six seconds.

Sure enough, we can hear one of those off our port beam — and it’s getting louder.

But that signal is for power-driven vessels, and we’re sailing with our engine off. What about us?

“A vessel not under command; a vessel ­restricted in her ability to maneuver, whether underway or at anchor; a sailing vessel; a vessel engaged in fishing, whether underway or at anchor; and a vessel engaged in towing or pushing another vessel shall … sound at intervals of not more than two minutes, three blasts in succession, namely, one prolonged followed by two short blasts.”

And so for the next three-quarters of an hour till the fog clears, we take turns blowing the air horn — one prolonged, two short blasts, every two minutes. The sound of the other boat moves aft, but we never catch sight of it.

Through the morning and the early afternoon, we devise a watch schedule to make up for last night’s short nap, and we set up a detailed log of our progress. All day we motor sail a little south of west toward Gardiners Point, keeping a close eye on the weather. The NOAA forecast calls for a powerful front arriving later and bringing gale-force winds through the night. We call up National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s graphic marine weather charts and compare the surface analysis with the 12-, 24- and 48-hour forecasts. We talk about the isobars, those lines of equal barometric pressure on the map, and how tighter isobars indicate greater wind velocities. We talk about the changing sky, and what the progress from cirrus to stratus to cumulus foretells. Later that night, safely anchored in Shelter Island’s Coecles Harbor, the shrieks through the rigging and the boat’s snappy pitch send home the message that what we’re learning here isn’t just theoretical.

The gale doesn’t quite blow itself out till early afternoon, so we use the next day for coursework at anchor: tide problems using the rule of twelfths, set-and-drift plots, safety procedures in cases of fire or crew overboard. We use the time to plot a ­current-corrected course back across Block Island Sound to Martha’s Vineyard. After a swim and a late lunch, we up anchor and set off in time to round Gardiners Point by sunset and begin our second overnight passage.

By the time we return to Newport after five days out, the exam questions for the Coastal Passage Making certification seem a little less daunting — and a little more real.

The greater the pressure difference between a high- and low-pressure center, the:

a. cooler the temperature will be
b. drier the air mass will be
c. warmer the temperature will be
d. greater the force of the wind will be

Fog formed by moisture-laden air moving across a cold portion of Earth’s surface and condensing is called:

a. sea fog
b. radiation fog
c. advection fog
d. frontal fog

A lighted preferred-channel buoy will show a:

a. Morse (A) white light
b. composite group flashing light
c. yellow light
d. fixed red light

To pass the course and gain their ­certification, Shawn and Hank need to answer at least 80 percent of these questions correctly (the answers to the questions above are D, C and B, respectively). That’s 64 out of 80. But after this week, all that theory from the textbook has been fleshed out with a boatload of indelible memories. All that said, this story has a happy ending: They passed.

Plotting the Effect of Current

Step 1: We’ll use a universal plotting sheet to work out our current vectors. The plotting sheet is marked with units for distance and angle. We’ll use it to draw vectors, lines that represent both angle and distance. To solve problems for tidal current, the trick is to create a plot based on one hour of travel. That way our speed (knots) equals our distance (miles), and the length of each vector directly represents our speed. In this problem, we’re steering a course of 020 true and making 5 knots through the water. Using dividers with a pencil tip on one end, measure off 5 miles on the distance scale and make an arc near our course. Next, using the compass rose, line up parallel rules from the plotting sheet’s center mark through the 020 mark on the compass rose. Draw a line from the center to our pencil arc; this vector represents our course and boat speed. Above the line, label it “C 020 T.” The “C” reminds us that this is our course, uncorrected for current; the “T” reminds us that this is a true course, corrected for compass error. Below the line, label it “S 5.0”; the “S” reminds us that this is our boat speed (through the water, not over the ground).

Step 2: Now we’ll draw a second vector representing the current’s set (direction) and drift (speed). Using NOAA’s Tides & Currents tables, we’ve determined that the current is setting us at 082 true at a speed of 2.9 knots, so we can start by marking off a distance of 2.9 miles with the dividers. From the head of our course/speed vector, scribe an arc near 082. Set the parallel rules at the center of the plotting sheet and at 082 on the compass rose, then walk them to the head of the course/speed vector. Draw a line that intersects our second arc. Label these “SET 082 T” and “S 2.9.”

Step 3: Using parallel rules, draw the vector from the center of the plotting sheet to the head of the set/drift vector. Read the angle off the compass rose, then measure the distance with the dividers. This vector shows that our actual track is 042 true and our speed over the ground is 6.8 knots. Label this vector “TR 042 T” and “SOG 6.8.” We’ve solved for current. A plot on the chart based on this exercise would be called an “estimated position” — more accurate than a simple dead-reckoned ­position but still not as accurate as a positive fix.

ASA Courses and Certifications

Founded in 1983, the American Sailing Association has developed programs for sailing instruction that include textbooks and online courses, as well as classroom and on-the-water instruction. The ASA counts among its membership some 300 sailing schools and yacht clubs, as well as charter companies and professional sailing instructors. Its entry-level textbook, Sailing Made Easy, gets my vote for the best learn-to-sail book for novices. The ASA has developed standards for a series of progressive sailing certifications, including:

• ASA 101: Basic Keelboat Sailing
• ASA 103: Basic Coastal Cruising
• ASA 104: Bareboat Cruising
• ASA 105: Coastal Navigation
• ASA 106: Advanced Coastal Cruising
• ASA 107: Celestial Navigation
• ASA 108: Offshore Passage Making
• ASA 110: Basic Small Boat Sailing
• ASA 114: Cruising Catamaran

In addition to these broad standards, the ASA has also developed endorsements for more specialized skills:

• ASA 117: Basic Celestial Endorsement
• ASA 118: Docking Endorsement
• ASA 119: Marine Weather Endorsement
• ASA 120: Radar Endorsement

Be sure to check out ASA’s online courses too.

CW editor at large Tim Murphy holds a 100-ton Master’s license and has taught sailing for many years. He’s preparing a 1988 Passport 40, Billy Pilgrim, for long-distance voyaging.

The post A Learn-to-Sail Adventure appeared first on Cruising World.

The line of wind at the edge of the harbor as we dodged lobster pots on our way out of Camden, Maine, looked like it had been painted on the water with black ink. Immediately, we were in 20 to 30 knots on the nose.

Sea Dragon, my ride for the just-beginning roughly 735-nautical-mile passage to Bermuda, was made for these conditions, and worse. The 72-foot steel expedition yacht had been built for the around-the-world Global Challenge race, and is now run by the adventure charter outfit Pangaea Exploration. “She really boogies upwind in 25 to 30 knots,” skipper Eric Loss told me. I didn’t doubt it. When I first saw Sea Dragon on the dock, I thought, What a beast. This boat can handle some abuse. The extensive safety briefings before we set out only deepened the impression.

We were a crew of seven, which made Sea Dragon, which has berths for 16, feel quite roomy. And we were in good hands. Our captain did a solo circumnavigation after college and had been sailing Sea Dragon for the past four years. First mate and medic Shanley McEntee also had extensive offshore experience, including skippering Sea Dragon for Pangaea’s annual all-female expeditions. Deckhand Tom McMahon was aboard Sea Dragon while on “vacation” from his normal job — teaching people to sail as an International Yacht and Maritime Training instructor in Croatia. The rest of us were active passengers: along for the ride and hoping to pick up some skills between Maine and Bermuda while standing watches and participating in all shipboard activities. Pei Huang, a college mate with the captain at Bowdoin, had once joined him for a charter vacation in the Caribbean. Pei’s wife, Lauren Keenan, grew up around boats and sailed in college. This was the third expedition aboard Sea Dragon for retired English professor Steve Lansky, and he was hoping to gain some sea stories to weave into a climate-change-based science-fiction novel he was writing in which the lead characters sail to Cuba. And then there was me, a lifelong sailor who had recently spent more time tickling a keyboard than tying bowlines. I was excited to get back out to sea.

We raised the main with a double reef, and then the yankee jib. As soon as the sails were trimmed I could see what Eric had meant by “boogie.” At the helm, I could feel the power as we punched through the considerable swell. But for all the fun of going fast — 10 to 12 knots, most of the time — it was not a comfortable ride. The mid-October wind was cold, and Penobscot Bay was bumpy. The forecast was for it to stay that way for a couple of days, followed by some light air, followed by a tropical something that we hoped wouldn’t actually materialize. I had started taking Stugeron the day before, just in case.

Pei was the first victim of the disorganized motion, followed shortly by Lauren. A bit later Eric came up the companionway and announced, “I’m feeling a bit pukey,” in the same chipper voice he might have used to say, “Today is my birthday!” He then turned to the leeward rail, threw up and added, “Well, that’s better,” before hosing down the side deck and ducking back below. He later told me it was the first time he’d been seasick in his four years aboard Sea Dragon. We were all miserable.

Shanley heated tomato soup and handed up mugs for dinner so no one would have to eat below. It was a good move because we were blasting and banging along at a pretty good clip. If we kept it up, we would cover half the distance to Bermuda in just two days. Could we handle two whole days of this? I mentally calculated how long I could stay on deck before I’d need to go below to use the head. If I threw up, was it possible I could go longer without having to pee?

Just as darkness fell, we lunged off a wave and Steve was thrown from his seat on the windward side of the cockpit and landed hard on the leeward settee. “Tacking!” Shanley yelled and immediately hove to.

What happened next were the steps you always hear about in sail-training courses. Shanley handed me the wheel and did an initial check with Steve to assess the severity of his condition. Eric came up and helped get Steve below so they could get him out of his layers to check out his ribs and back, which were causing him pain. Tom came on deck to keep me company. Shanley got on the satphone with the on-call doctor from Medical Support Offshore Limited, a shoreside service that Pangaea Exploration subscribes to. Together with the doctor on the phone and input from Steve, the decision was made to turn back to Camden. We’d only been sailing half the day and would be back at the dock around midnight.

Noone ever wants to turn back to port, but Eric, Shanley and Tom made the prudent choice. When we left Camden, seven had seemed like a good number of crew, but with so many of us seasick, some to the point of ­incapacitation, I was struck by how quickly we felt shorthanded. And given the uncertainty of Steve’s condition — was it possible he had broken a rib? — there was really no discussion needed.

I’ll admit I was relieved to hear the news. Despite my watch ending a few hours before, I had been avoiding going below to sleep because I didn’t think I’d be able to hold down my few bites of dinner. I was worried about Steve, but more so daunted by the conditions.

And then we were flying along with the wind and waves on our port quarter, heading back to Camden. The four hours it took — half the time we’d spent banging uphill — were the kind of sailing I daydream about. It felt like a different ocean, a different planet from what we’d been in all afternoon. The full supermoon occasionally peeked through the clouds and lit up the sky and sparkled off the water. By the time we were back in the bay, the clouds had cleared enough that we didn’t need to use lights to dodge lobster pots.

Ashore, Eric and Shanley took Steve to the hospital to get checked out. Knowing that my family would be watching the boat’s tracker online, I went up to the marina’s customer lounge to send them an update. I already had an email waiting for me. “Looks like you’re making good time, back to Maine,” my dad wrote. My mom had called my husband, Nate, to alert him we’d stopped and then turned back. Nate looked at the track and conjectured that it must not be a major emergency since we hadn’t pulled into Matinicus Island, the closest land to our turnaround spot. I shot off a quick note that we were safe, and then passed out in my bunk.

I awoke to find everyone back at the boat. Steve was bruised and sore, but luckily nothing was broken. We talked over our options and decided to do a coastal cruise to Rhode Island. Our weather window to Bermuda had closed, with a dubious-looking depression forming in our path. We spent the day regrouping, hiking and exploring Camden. When we met back up for dinner everyone was feeling human again and excited for our tour of New England — even Steve, who was clearly hurting but putting on one hell of a brave face. The general plan was to sail south, stopping for the night in Portland, Maine; Gloucester and Woods Hole, Massachusetts; and then either Newport or Block Island, Rhode Island.

We were happy to find the wind on our beam at about 16 knots when we made our way back out of Camden on Tuesday morning. Weaving, once again, through lobster pots, we passed a slew of small, pine-covered islands that we all agreed “looked very Maine.” Midday, the fog rolled in thick and we agreed that the weather was also “very Maine.” We caught a pot under sail, and Eric had to dive in to free us; after that, we kept three people on pot watch at all times. It was peaceful being up at the bow, peering into the soupy air.

I went below to make dinner as we neared Cliff Island, near Portland, our anchorage for the night. I was grateful for the warmth of the galley after getting soaked by the fog. It was cozy eating around Sea Dragon‘s saloon table and talking sailing.

We had brilliant sailing in 15 to 20 knots on Wednesday under yankee jib, staysail and main with a single reef. The seas were moderate: better than they had been on our first day out, but I still didn’t want to hang out below too long. For the first time all week, we had bright sun, and the boost in morale was noticeable.

It was hot as we struck the sails at the mouth of the harbor in Gloucester. Everyone stripped down out of their layers to T-shirts and tank tops. Shanley had arranged for us to tie alongside a barge at the marine railway, and we had beautiful light as we squared everything away.

A previous mate from Sea Dragon, Andy Rogan, now works for a whale-research group called Ocean Alliance (whale.org), and we walked over to see its offices in the old Gloucester paint factory. They’re doing some really cool things with SnotBots, drones with petri dishes that fly over spouting whales. It was incredible to hear how they could collect DNA from the whales without ever touching them.

We found a restaurant that was having a half-price offseason special, and were amazed at how strong beer seemed after the dehydrating effects of a long day in the sun. On our way back to the boat, we got a bit of a jolt when we realized just how far the tide had gone out. The route down to the barge entailed a rickety, rusted ladder of questionable integrity. I can only imagine what was going through Steve’s mind, sore as he was. Luckily, we all made it down without mishaps.

– – –

Eleanor Merrill is Cruising World’s Managing Editor. Click here for Part 2 of this story.

The post Coastal Boogie, Part 1 appeared first on Cruising World.

Click here for Part 1 of this story.

Thursday our southerly route had us on a beam reach in small but sloppy seas and 18 knots of wind. When we made it to the Cape Cod Canal, Pei, whose stomach had still not fully settled, was particularly excited to reach flat water.

Entering Buzzard’s Bay from the canal, the breeze piped up to the mid-20s with gusts in the low 30s, but we were out of the ocean swells. I’ve heard people talk about champagne sailing, and for the short dash from the canal to Woods Hole, just under an hour, I got to experience it. Close-reaching in 23 knots, we were gliding across the water doing 11. It was absolutely beautiful! Pei was at the wheel, with Eric coaching him on what to do with the channel markers and how to find the right amount of heel. I found a new favorite spot to wedge myself, to leeward of the instrument panel just behind the traveler and forward of the aft cockpit.

Then, just like that, we were dropping sails to anchor in Hadley Harbor, across the channel from Woods Hole. It was still blowing in the 20s, so we decided not to try to launch the dinghy or go for a swim. Now in our fifth night aboard Sea Dragon, we finally felt like we were in the groove of living and working as a crew. At dinner, the mood was congenial, the banter, lively. Today, I thought. Today is why I love sailing.

Friday we were expecting to wake up to rain but the squalls had gone through overnight and it was sunny, clear and the wind had died to almost nothing. Shanley, Eric, Pei, Lauren and I jumped in. The water was brisk for the pre-breakfast dip, but not nearly as cold as we had all psyched ourselves up for. We got out, lathered with a bit of Dr. Bronner’s soap and then jumped back in. It felt colder the second time! We rinsed with the freshwater hose and drip-dried in the cockpit while finishing coffees and teas. Steve made an incredible round of tangerine-and-mango smoothies.

Conditions for our passage to Block Island on Friday were calm, so we rigged up the ship’s manta trawl on a bridle to tow behind the boat. Eric told us about the science Pangaea Exploration conducts. The bulk of the research the ship has done involves collecting water samples and trawling for micro- and nano-plastics in the North Pacific, North Atlantic, South Atlantic and South Pacific gyres. He told us that plastic debris is swept by the currents into the major low-pressure areas of the oceans, and these areas therefore have a greater density of plastic than elsewhere. Over time, the plastic floating in the water column (most commonly within about a foot of the surface) is degraded by UV rays from the sun and breaks down into smaller and smaller pieces.

Shanley, who studied environmental science and policy in college, said that the trash found in the North Atlantic is primarily fishing gear — buoys, nets and fenders — while in the North Pacific it’s mostly domestic waste: refrigerators, food wrappers and shoes. The manta trawl that Sea Dragon tows is a funnel-shaped net that has a really fine mesh at the end to collect plastic fragments. She showed us glass tubes filled with plastic debris they had collected on some of their voyages.

Since we wouldn’t be sending samples from this particular trawl to a lab for analysis, we towed the gear from Sea Dragon‘s stern, but for precise readings the trawl is usually rigged on the end of a spinnaker pole to escape the turbulence of the boat’s wake. Even though we weren’t transiting one of the great oceanic gyres, our half-hour trawl gathered a handful of visible white, green and blue plastic bits, along with several jellyfish and a few pieces of seaweed.

Approaching Block Island, Shanley called the harbor master, who advised we head for New Harbor, also known as Great Salt Pond, because it would be better protected than Old Harbor from the gale we were anticipating. At 1700, the weather was getting more serious, with heavy rain, poor visibility and increasing gusts. We struck the main and added extra sail ties, and bagged up the staysail and stowed it below before we tied up to the dock in New Harbor at 1730. We found ourselves next to a crew filming a teen thriller on a fishing boat. Ours were the only two boats in the harbor.

The crew rigged extra dock lines, fenders and chafe gear because the barometer had dropped 11 millibars over the previous night and then another 12 during the day. Wind was on its way!

Weather kept us pinned on Block Island for a day. At dawn the harbor was deserted except for the teen-thriller crew, who were drinking whiskey and jumping off the dock. They had wrapped up filming sometime in the early hours and had been celebrating since. They reappeared a few hours later, looking like the dead and begging for seasickness medications for their ferry ride home.

The wind built throughout the day as we explored town, the island’s petting zoo and the library. We played a rousing game of darts at the Yellow Kittens bar and then braved the blustery 20-minute walk back to the boat. Pei had bought a game called In a Pickle for 25 cents at the library, and we played it over dinner.

Sunday morning, we got up with the intention of leaving around lunchtime to take advantage of the high tide. A few of us walked out to the breakwater to check the conditions and were greeted by gnarly chop and wind still in the 20s. The lowest sounder reading we’d seen on our way into the harbor had been a little over 3 feet under the 11-foot-deep keel; these swells were definitely more than 3 feet. Sea Dragon wouldn’t be going anywhere on the noon tide.

Upon returning to the boat, Eric relayed the conditions and the decision to stay put for another day. The delay cost us three crewmembers, whom we hugged goodbye as they left for the ferry.

Eric, Shanley, Tom and I spent one more day hiking around Block Island, and watched the sunset with hot toddies on the porch of the Spring House hotel.

A walk to the breakwater Monday morning revealed good enough conditions for us to make the jump over to Newport. The wind had dropped to the high teens, and the swell had calmed considerably. Bearing off toward Narragansett Bay as we rounded the northern end of the island, we were making over 8 knots under jib alone. Did I mention this boat was fast? We were on a mooring in Newport by noon.

So, we didn’t make it to Bermuda. But we had a fantastic coastal cruise. All in all, it had been one hell of a boogie.

Pangaea Exploration runs expeditions focused on marine exploration, education and conservation aboard Sea Dragon, a Challenge 72, all over the world. Sailors can book individual legs, or groups can sign up for specialized voyages focused on scientific research, filmmaking or sail training. Sea Dragon is a versatile platform for scientists and has often been used for studying marine debris, collecting water samples and conducting wide-ranging dive missions. Upcoming trips include an exploration of northwestern Africa, a transatlantic from the Canaries to the Caribbean, and some extended voyaging into the heart of the Pacific. Find out more at panexplore.com.

– – –

Eleanor Merrill is CW‘s managing editor.

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The 27th annual Penobscot Bay Gam is taking shape! Plan now to join us for the second year in our new location in Rockland Harbor, Maine on Friday and Saturday, July 28th-29th. Again this year our shoreside host is the Maine Sail, Power & Steam Museum, (www.sailpowersteammuseum.org). Captain Jim Sharp and his facility will provide the use of dinghy docks, heads and an event tent, and a fascinating, fun marine museum to tour as well!

The Gam schedule includes the traditional Friday afternoon dinghy raft-up on the host boat, (VHF Channels 16 and 68), as well as the shoreside gathering, potluck and featured speakers Dick & Moira Benzel from s/v Equinox, beginning about 11a.m. Saturday.

Equinox and the Bentzel’s have cruised extensively throughout the North Atlantic, Europe, the Caribbean and as far west as Panama over the last 15 years, and have just completed a visit to that new cruiser’s Mecca – Cuba! They’ll be offering their thoughts and experiences from that country for the first time since returning to the US. Don’t miss it!

Come by boat, or come by car, but please join us! FMI: sionnaketch32@gmail.com or by phone at 207-450-1933.

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When I first started building Ganymede, our Cape George 31, in our California backyard almost 10 years ago, it was with a sense of urgency. My wife, Danielle, and I wanted to get back to sea, of course, but we wanted especially to do so before anything could happen that would prevent it. I need not have worried, since the way to accomplish anything is to really want it and to pursue it with singleness of purpose, which is what we did.

If we had wanted excuses to not go cruising, we could have found them aplenty: a nine-month-old child in diapers, the apparent folly of cramming five people on a 31-foot boat, the fact that we had less than $5,000 in the world. There will always be ready excuses for those who need them; for the determined, however, there will always also be a way, even if things turn out far differently than could have been foreseen.

I only mention this now as a contrast to the relative ease with which we gave up full-time cruising, after having reached and explored coastlines running from northern California to Panama and the Canadian Maritimes.

We had a choice before us as we followed the fall colors down the Hudson River on our way south from a big summer cruise that began in Newport, Rhode Island, taking us around Newfoundland, along the coast of Quebec, and up the St. Lawrence River. We could carry along southward in and out of the Intracoastal Waterway, for a winter in the Bahamas and the Virgin Islands, or we could hook a left at the Battery in New York Harbor, transit Long Island Sound, and be back in Newport in time to settle in for a cozy winter under a shrink-wrap canopy.

We had enough money, certainly, to carry on south. Though we didn’t have enough for opulence, we have set out on bigger trips with less in our wallets. But something made us turn left instead, despite knowing that we were blowing off what was probably a last golden chance at an easy Caribbean cruise. Certainly, after the rigors of fighting our way up the St. Lawrence against contrary currents and strong fall winds, to amble down the ICW would be a walk in the park, and if need be, St. Thomas has work in season for seafaring folk. Perhaps it was that we were no longer looking for an easy cruise, or maybe all the hard cruising we’d just done had made us want a decent rest. I do know that if continuing south was what we had really wanted, we would have done it, even though the boat was getting palpably too small for our family of five.

What we really wanted, I realized, and therefore what we did, was to return to Newport, straight back into the same marina we’d sailed out of early in the spring, and begin the long process of settling in. Though it would be nearly a year before we could afford to move off the boat, we began storing things ashore to make more room on board — first in a heap of waterproof plastic bins stacked on the dock, and then, later, in a rented storage unit.

One of the ineffable benefits of living on land (or at least near it and in one place) is the ability to have things. Nice things. Many things. Useful, pretty, nostalgic, breakable things. As much as some people get down on the ownership of stuff, as much as they say that your possessions will own you, there’s a usefulness in having the luxury to accumulate.

For more than four years, we had rigorously denied ourselves any but the bare necessities that would fit into the boat. Many a time I passed over a great deal at a used bookstore for lack of room to keep even one more volume, and many another time I’d made do with a scanty supply of tools because I couldn’t carry every single proper one. Extra clothes had to be kept to a bare minimum, and kitchen gear carefully selected for versatility.

With a storage unit onshore, all that changed. Every occasional-use necessity left the boat (fenders, storm sails and hawser, extra oars, hoses), and suddenly Ganymede had elbowroom! Things could be set down! The locker behind the closet, long inaccessible, was full of stuff we’d thought was lost! Beyond that, I could now own a chop saw for cutting firewood; keep leftover paint, resin and chemicals ashore; and, when Danielle brought back from a visit to California all the stuff we hadn’t been able to give away, throw out or sell when we left, why, there was room for all that too.

Even so, by the end of another summer of living on a mooring, it was evident that our days of seafaring as a family on Ganymede were over. It would have been a matter of wanting it to an unhealthy degree to continue living aboard as the girls increased in size, dunnage and appetite. If that hadn’t been enough, they began needing more privacy, and the head was in great demand as they grew too tall to easily change inside their tiny aft cabin. And so, one year ago as I write this, we moved into a rented apartment.

Of course, it took a while to get used to. At first I kept a flashlight by my bed, forgetting that lights were just a switch away. Danielle had to remind me that we had a shower right in the house, and that it didn’t cost $2 a pop to clean up at the marina. Washing up was no longer a two-hour event, and the dishes could be left to dry without being stumbled over.

Even better was a washer and dryer in the basement, and a small garage all my own in which to do all the projects you simply can’t do in the cockpit or on a dock. The girls have shown an interest in gardening that I had no idea existed, and all their various crafts and jigsaw puzzles now need not be done in one sitting and stowed before supper.

We’re still living small by normal standards: The apartment has two bedrooms and one bath, and as yet we have only one car. But the family is attacking shore-based life with the same gusto with which we explored the wilds of Newfoundland and the shallows of San Blas.

It’s not necessarily better, but surprisingly, it also isn’t worse. It’s what’s right for us now, just like cruising was the thing to do while we still could. Of course we miss the cruising lifestyle, and spend winter evenings designing the schooner that will fit us all and have two heads — the one we’d like to build someday — but the comfort, ease and convenience of life ashore, surrounded by everything we need, is feeling pretty good.

To everything there is a season, and the passing of one time of life is less to be regretted than remembered, like a golden aria whose glory still remains after the radio has been switched off. Will we ever get to cruise again? It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that we did cruise, with all our hearts, as best we could, and it was wonderful beyond all expectation.

— Ben Zartman, Bristol, Rhode Island

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With their gaff rigs and generous beam, a fleet of racing catboats dresses the stage every Tuesday evening during the summer on Narragansett Bay’s West Passage.

On Tuesday summer nights in Wickford, Rhode Island, the cats come out to play. The racing is spirited and lively, and the barbecue and camaraderie that follows at Pleasant Street Wharf, fleet headquarters, is all part of the evening. The racing fleet consists mostly of Mashall 18s and 22s, with occasional sightings of beetle cats and other designs reported.

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Navtours, known for its monohull and catamarans available for charter at its bases in the Bahamas at Georgetown, Great Exuma and Nassau is also offering boats on Lake Champlain. The base located in Plattsburgh, New York during the summer will offer sailing charters of up to 40 feet on the lake.

For More information, contact Navtours on their website at www.navtours.com

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15-foot wooden tender, in three separate pieces, sitting on a seaweed-covered launch ramp. That’s how George and Lindsey Hill started their morning one day last October, preparing for their favorite regatta of the year. The couple bolted their home-built nesting dinghy together as kids skipped rocks across Massachusetts’ Westport River. Forty-eight other craft, all equally as unique as the Hills’ classy, varnished pulling boat with its lug rig, began to appear on the sandy riverbank. This was the Hills’ seventh time at the Archipelago Rally, held annually across Rhode Island and last fall in Massachusetts. For those in southern New England who love just messing about in boats, this late-season event induces giddiness.

“I never had a lesson. I just played around in boats,” says George, who spends the summers racing the famed 12-Meter Weatherly for his company, America’s Cup Charters in Newport, Rhode Island. “This is like so much of my youth. Rowing into breaking waves, swamping the thing, doing stupid stuff and learning from it on the water.”

Like many of the sailors who have been attending the rally over its 10-year history, George looks forward to this thrown-together event each fall so he can have his own relaxed racing experience. Started in 2006 by seven ex-college sailors looking to extend their season, the rally has taken on a life of its own, with well over 100 sailors on the water each year.

The concept is simple: Bring anything with a sail, and a “Portsmouth Yardstick” rating is given along with a start time for the pursuit-style race. The slowest boats start first, from the beach, in hopes of everyone finishing around the same time. A BBQ awaits finishers, and awards include a coveted last-place trophy and the Pine Needle Award, given to the craft with the most amount of yard debris remaining on the boat from storage.

In 2015, the quaint Spindle Rock Club hosted the rally. Many boats in the contest are summer tenders; this year, craft ranged from a diminutive Cape Cod Frosty to a Polynesian sailing canoe. A family of four aboard their Hobie 16 won after many years of trying. With children accounting for more than half the ralliers, it was no surprise to see kids passing their parents in the cool, swirling river waters.

“We’re trying to provide a fun on-the-water experience,” says Tracy Hayley Smith, who crammed into a Beetle Cat with five kids and an old friend. “Towing the Opti, flipping it, having raft-ups with friends in the summer, that’s the base line, and the rally is just an extension of that.” Hayley Smith and her crew never finished, but the children licked happily through a bag of Tootsie Pops. Like George Hill, she is a competitive sailor. But the rally is the only regatta where that tendency gets shut off. “The ratings are impossible,” she says. “Just roll with it. Sail as far as you can and enjoy it.”

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