One of the most attractive aspects of a cruising lifestyle is independence. However, with that independence comes self-reliance. If you have a fire, you can’t call the fire department. If you get hungry, you can’t call for a pizza delivery.

While it helps with boating to be a mechanical and electrical expert, it is by no means a necessity to cruise safely and enjoyably. However, you must be able to perform certain tasks, including the replacement of fan belts, fuel filters and impellers (and raw-water pumps). You must also be able to bleed air from the fuel system.

Fan-belt service was covered in a recent column, so let’s have a look at raw-water pumps. These pumps use a flexible rubber impeller to move seawater through the heat exchanger, where the seawater absorbs heat from the engine’s coolant. From there, the water moves to the exhaust mixing elbow, where it cools the hot exhaust gases, and then goes overboard.  

This is important: Without cooling water, the exhaust hose and muffler will overheat, often faster than the engine itself. If you suffer an overheat, be sure to inspect the exhaust hose and fiberglass or plastic mufflers for damage.

I’m a firm believer in ­preventive maintenance, and it is my strong recommendation that impellers be replaced annually or every 600 hours, whichever comes first. In fact, because some of the blades are always compressed—and because deformed, disused or lightly used impellers can suffer more-frequent failure than those in regular service—this preventive maintenance is something that I consider a requirement. Impellers are relatively inexpensive, and replacing them virtually ensures that, short of a clogged intake, you will never have a ­premature impeller failure.

When replacing impellers, resist the temptation to pry out the old impeller using a screwdriver. Most pump bodies are made from relatively soft brass and are easily damaged. Typically, you’ll damage the ­cover-plate sealing surface, which in turn leads to air or water leaks. Instead, use an impeller puller or a plastic pry bar.  

Once the impeller is removed, inspect it for lost blades. If any are missing, you’ll have to go looking for them “downstream.” In most cases, they’ll be stuck at the inlet side of the heat exchanger.

Then, look carefully at the pump’s cam. This is a crescent-­shaped device over which the impeller blades ride and are deformed, which in turn creates the pumping action. The cam too is made from brass, so it will wear away (and ­dezincify) over time. If it wears enough, pump capacity can be reduced or stopped altogether. Often, the wear is noticeable only when comparing the old cam with a new one, so it’s a good idea to have a replacement on hand.  

Use caution when replacing the cam. The securing screw is small and easy to drop into the bilge. Also be sure to retain and reuse, or replace, the sealing washer.

The cover plate should also be inspected at this time. While discoloration on the side that bears against the impeller is normal, any discernible wear, if you can feel a ridge, is too much. The plate should be replaced. 

Plates without embossed writing on the outside face can often be reversed to double their life. Like the cam, if the cover plate wears too much, the impeller seal will be compromised; it might lose suction and stop pumping. 

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

The post Replacing Impellers and Raw-water Pumps Onboard appeared first on Cruising World.

My husband, Jeff, and I were relaxing in the cockpit of Outrider, our Westsail 42, in San Carlos, Mexico, when we suddenly found ourselves talking about Greece. We were traveling happily down memory lane, reminiscing about a summer we’d spent years ago, backpacking through the Greek islands. The taste of the meal we’d just eaten at a favorite beachside restaurant in Mexico, La Palapa Griega, had brought memories flooding back. Soon, the talk turned to food. 

Years ago, we’d arrived in Santorini, Greece, sleep-­deprived, frazzled and hungry. Wandering off the beaten path, we’d found a quiet taverna, where we sampled pastitsio for the first time. Often called Greek lasagna, this baked, meaty casserole—layers of spiced ground beef, long tubular pasta, and a rich and creamy white-sauce topping—completely revived us. The taste of that delicious first bite has stayed with us for years.

Back home again in California, as we resumed full-time work and life aboard, I tried to re-create the dish, without success. My efforts were a little bland and dry.  

Fast forward to Mexico, where (now retired) we spend every winter aboard. As full-time liveaboards for 30-odd years, the decision to sail our home south, to live our dream of cruising Mexico and the Sea of Cortez, also meant we were in a hurricane zone with scorching summers—a situation not exactly conducive to year-round living aboard. Neither of us relished the idea of living like moles belowdecks, air conditioning running, unable to venture outside during hot daylight hours. Ultimately, we decided to cruise during the cooler months and leave Outrider in capable hands, either on the hard or in a secure slip in Mexico, each summer while we headed back north.

To avoid paying double rent (a marina slip in Mexico and an apartment in the United States) we offered our services as summertime pet and house sitters to our travel-loving US friends up north. It worked. Now, though we do house-sit occasionally, we have a “liveaboard” camper van; each summer, we head north to land-cruise, camping and exploring new places every year. 

Back aboard Outrider that evening, by the time the reminiscing wound down, we’d worked up a serious pastitsio jones. We made a plan: We’d return to the restaurant in a day or two, to sample their Greek lasagna. 

Unfortunately, Lady Luck had other ideas. Later that evening, we heard what sounded like fire alarms in the distance, followed by an ominous dark plume of smoke wafting out over the ocean. It appeared that something rather big was ablaze, but majestic Tetakawi Mountain blocked our view. 

The next day, we found out the casualty was our beloved La Palapa Griega. We wouldn’t be eating their pastitsio anytime soon. 

So, I retrieved my recipe stash from a drawer, found the well-worn notes from my earlier attempts, and got busy on my Greek pasta bake. Jeff took one bite and tactfully reminded me that nothing magical had occurred over the years; the recipe was still a bit bland and dry. But, unlike before, I now had all the time in the world to tweak the recipe. 

The proper pasta for this dish—thick, hollow ­spaghetti—is hard to find outside Greece, so I went for penne. It’s hollow and about the same diameter, just shorter. I experimented with sauce-to-meat ratios and different spices. After one more trial that didn’t quite work, the third time, like that first bite years ago in Santorini, hit the sweet spot. Flavorful, aromatic and moist, it truly was a taste of times past.

Editor’s Note: Mott reports that as of September 2022, La Palapa Griega is up and running.

Meaty Greek Lasagna, serves 6 to 8

• 10-12 oz. raw penne pasta (about 3-3 1/2 cups)
• 4 Tbsp. olive oil
• 1 cup Parmesan, grated 
• 13/4 lb. ground beef
• 1 small to medium onion, chopped
• 1 24-oz. jar tomato sauce
• 1/2 tsp. salt
• 1/4 tsp. pepper
• 1/2 tsp. cinnamon
• 1/2 tsp. ground cloves

White Sauce

• 1/4 cup butter
• 1/4 cup flour
• 2 cups milk, room temperature
• 1/2 cup additional Parmesan, grated finely
• 2 egg yolks, room temperature 
• Salt and pepper, to taste

Cook penne al dente according to package instructions. Drain and toss with 2 tablespoons olive oil and a little Parmesan; set aside. 

In a large pan, briefly sauté beef in remaining 2 tablespoons oil. Add onions, and cook till soft and meat is browned. Do not drain fat. Stir in tomato sauce, salt, pepper, cinnamon and ground cloves. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer 20 minutes. 

Grease a 9-by-13 ovenproof baking pan. Spread half of the pasta evenly on the bottom of the pan. Spread the meat sauce over the pasta in an even layer. Sprinkle with Parmesan. Spread remaining pasta on top.

Make the white sauce: In a saucepan over low heat, melt butter and slowly shake in flour a bit at a time, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon or wire whisk. Very gradually add room-temperature milk a little at a time, stirring constantly to prevent lumps. When all milk is added, continue to heat and stir until sauce begins to thicken. (This can take 10 to 20 minutes.) Add 1/4 cup Parmesan, and continue stirring. When sauce is thickened and creamy, it’s ready. Remove from heat, and let cool slightly. 

Lightly beat room-temperature egg yolks in a small bowl. Take a small amount of sauce and add it to the eggs, whisking rapidly. Pour egg mix into sauce in pan, and stir vigorously to blend. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Pour sauce evenly over pasta layers. Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 30 minutes. Briefly remove from oven, top with remaining 1/4 cup Parmesan, tent loosely with foil, and bake an additional 10 to 15 minutes, or until top is golden brown and meat sauce is bubbling at the edges. Let sit 10 to 20 minutes before cutting into square pieces to serve. 

Prep time: 2 hours

Difficulty: Medium

Can be made: at anchor

Cook’s Notes

To cut down on the prep time, you can use a good packaged mix for the white sauce. Leftover lasagna keeps well in the fridge for two days. Or freeze in individual portions, and reheat to eat. If anything, it gets even better.

What’s Cooking?

Do you have a favorite boat recipe? Send it to us for possible use in Sailor & Galley. Tell us why it’s a favorite, and add a short description of your boat and where you cruise. Send it, along with a high-quality digital photo of yourself aboard your boat, to sailorandgalley@cruisingworld.com

The post Sailor & Galley: A Taste of Times Past appeared first on Cruising World.

Have you got your pants on?” Charlie shouts through a side hatch and into the galley of the 49-foot Westerly Selkie.

Nick wanders over to collect the delicious, crispy French baguettes that Charlie has brought over from Lucky Girl, which is anchored alongside. 

“Thanks, Capt. Charlie. I’ll make sure to put some pants on and come on over for some of that fresh-ground coffee,” Nick tells him.

The four children aboard Selkie tear apart the bread. Crumbs fall everywhere, and tummies fill comfortably as the boats gently sway at ­anchor in the Caribbean waters of Antigua.

“Buddy boats are truly the best when food delivery is included,” Nick whispers. 

Fifteen months later, we all still wake to baguette deliveries from one boat to the other, and the endlessly repeating question about whether people are wearing pants on either boat at any given time. Like a catamaran that has been split in two, our monohulls have crossed oceans as a team. We have made it from the Atlantic to the Pacific as buddy boats.  

How we do it

Cruising is about seeing spectacular new places, experiencing different cultures, and meeting interesting people—but it’s not a holiday. It’s a lifestyle. You could sustain a few weeks, maybe even a few months, with just your own crew and transient friends, but it doesn’t take long before you miss real, long-term human connections. You yearn for people you don’t have to try to impress, people you can invite to a dinner of leftovers and half a bottle of wine.

We became those things to each other starting in Barbuda on a pristine, ­crystal-clear day. Kids were on paddleboards, being dragged by a dinghy, spilling laughter into the waves. Maggie was rowing around the anchorage to meet the adults—cocktails in hand—when she spotted the Scottish flag on Helen’s boat. Maggie shouted to the man aboard, “You’re from Scotland?” 

“Yes,” he replied. 
“We’re going to be friends!” she answered.
Helen’s liveaboard family had just finished a year in Scotland. 
“Are you Nick’s wife from Selkie?” 
“Yes.”  
“You’re right,” he replied. “We are going to be friends.” 

And just like that, our buddy-boat relationship was forged. Later that night, we strengthened our bond with a beach bonfire, marshmallows and reminiscences of Scotland. As it turns out, our husbands mesh well, and our kids mix like a delicious smoothie. We, the wives, are the blender. Our plans, our boats, our education, our cooking, our support of each other—we keep these buddy boats moving with the kind of support that fills the sails like the wind you can’t see. 

Like a catamaran that has been split in two, our monohulls have crossed oceans as a team.

When we have a moment not corralling the kids for school or an adventure, we have conversation. Our husbands play us a song on a guitar or look to the logistics of the next crossing. We hug, because life is not easy, and when that happens, we are recharged. We are two families who know life as survival and exploration, and who take comfort in having company amid the darkness and mystery of the ocean. 

For instance, there was the time when Lucky Girl lost sight of Selkie on Day Two of our Pacific crossing. A call on the SSB, on Day Nine, brought us back together in spirit until, a half-hour later, we could see each other’s lights on the horizon. The Milky Way trailed through the night sky as we reconnected, enchanted to be back together.

Seeing a friendly light on the horizon on a night watch on a long passage is not just reassuring—it can be lifesaving in an emergency. Two boats sailing together also have the advantage of double the spare parts and tools (and provisions—someone always needs an egg for baking). We have double the thinking power for troubleshooting practical problems, and double the people power for doing a job. One of our husbands is an engineer, so he helps with mechanical and technical problems. The other runs his own business, so he’s great on the management of personal relations from country to country. The husbands are always crawling in and out of each other’s engine rooms and anchor lockers. The wives are swapping books for education and ideas for adventures. 

Of course, two boats also means double the waiting time for spare parts or jobs to be finished, or adjusting schedules to fit with obligations such as visitors, work commitments or online education.

And illness can present challenges. When Lucky Girl’s incoming crew got COVID-19, both boats had to wait to keep cruising. Then, the virus hit Selkie too. Both boats waited again. Finally, when everyone was feeling better, we did plenty of ­provisioning to make up for time lost. 

We’ve also needed to make compromises to suit our different family rules, such as screen-time allowances, but we also can work together to motivate our children. With different school schedules and holidays (Selkie is American; Lucky Girl is British), we’ve found adjustments that are beneficial for all, such as adding in “sail camp” as a summer course, more field trips, or study of a local language that doesn’t contain the normal demands of a typical school day at sea. These small changes are easily worth the effort. 

And, we’ve had other buddy boats in addition to each other. Lucky Girl sailed as a group of four in 2021, and it worked well for a few months. Selkie stayed with five boats, before and after crossing the Atlantic Ocean from 2020 into 2021, and it was loads of fun. 

But while big groups can be exciting, planning becomes complicated. With big groups, our recommendation is to sail with generalities—meaning roundabout whereabouts and casual encounters. 

It’s also important to remember the little things. Buddy boating can be filled with shared coffee grinds and espresso presents, kid tea parties on a double-rafted bow, matching T-shirts from matching outings, double paddleboards for double the children, double the participants for board-game ­competitions, extra scuba crew for lost items on the bottom of the sea, more presents for holidays and birthdays, more singing voices for celebrations or howling at the moon, double the comfort when a day goes wrong, more memories to share and enjoy, extra hiking crew to divide and conquer, double the crew to admire sea lions and tortoises, double the snorkelers to notice a shark, double the teams for a scavenger hunt, double the crew for crafts and pizza, more eyes and thoughts for sloth searches and museum visits, double the contemplation on land excursions, more fake laughs for bad jokes, double the toys, more hands for bonfire-­making, double the finger turns for complicated puzzles, lots more toes for sand digging, double the friends for dancing, and an extra person to keep you smiling. 

Buddy-boat tips and advice

Our tips for good buddy-boat relations are pretty simple. For starters, we recommend looking for an instant connection. For us, it was a shared love of Scotland. We got along from the very start.

You also need similar captains. Ours happen to be ­hardworking, exercising-­loving, project-fixing ­adventurers. And, of course, it helps if you and your own friend are similar. As wives, we share the utmost kindness and empathy, cookery and mischief, mothering and teaching, and constant love of exploration. We also have kids in similar situations: Selkie has two teens and two kids younger than 10, while Lucky Girl has two more younger than 10. The teens help, and the younger kids rush to get their schoolwork done to see one another.

Similar itineraries are also a must. We met in the Caribbean after both crossing the Atlantic Ocean and having already made plans for hurricane season. Selkie went to the Dominican Republic and Guatemala, and Lucky Girl went to the ABC islands. We agreed to meet up again in Panama, crossed the canal tied together, and then crossed the Pacific together. We are currently exploring the Pacific islands and planning on time off in New Zealand together. None of us have fixed ideas about where to go, and we all know that it is more important that we go together. Routes and itineraries can be adjusted. 

We also enjoy the same types of side activities. We like renting cars and zooming to archaeological sites. We enjoy scuba, snorkeling and free-
diving together. Though our husbands agree about their hatred of beaches, we and the children play in the waves and build in the sand. We grocery shop together and have chili cook-offs. We find fun local excursions that include pools or hikes. Recently, we both bought small, inflatable ­catamarans called MiniCats, by Guppy, to race in bays for fun.

We are all willing to make changes. When one boat has visitors on board, has a date set to take a break onshore at a rental apartment, or is dealing with illness or injury, the other boat slows down or speeds up. If a mechanism breaks, the other boat helps or waits for the parts to be delivered. We get and give mutual support, because as sailing families, we know what the other is going through. Honesty helps as well. 

Whenever possible, we raft up. Hands down, rafting is the best way to float in a bay (even if you damage a solar panel or bash a bit with swell). And we have similar budget allowances for repairs, land activities and eating out. We prefer to keep accounts and give allowances for wee splurges here and there.

Relationships don’t just ­happen. There’s work involved. Selkie and Lucky Girl know that we do better together, so we work for that, but we also know when it is OK to go our separate ways for a bit and catch up again later. For example, if one boat has visitors on a sightseeing schedule, they move faster. If Selkie’s set of teens is keen to keep up with other teen-boat kids, we separate for a bit.

We often hear families aboard other boats lamenting the lack of other kids to sail with, and we wonder why they are sticking so rigidly to their itineraries rather than making the effort to stay with the family boats they do find. 

After all, when we’re all done cruising, we’re sure it’s the people we will remember rather than the places. So, despite some potential challenges, if you have the same basic expectations, timelines and budgets, we think buddy boating, like all good long-term relationships, is more than worth the effort.

Two boats really become one. When you feel that click, don’t let go.

The post Finding Your People appeared first on Cruising World.

He was a sailor. She couldn’t swim. He had a dream. She embraced it. “I told him that I would go off with him for two years—in my mind, thinking, maybe I’ll make it a year.” 

Six years later, with thousands of miles under their keel, more than a dozen countries between Vermont and the Amazon, and a logbook of crossings, cultures, mishaps, and adventures, schoolteachers Kay Johnson and Richard Schattman had written a master class in cruising.

“Our goal, initially, was to go to the eastern Caribbean, sail as far as Grenada, spend hurricane season there, then turn around and come back,” Schattman told me. 

That would have been the classic cruise for East Coast sailors. But then, one night while sitting in the cockpit in Grenada, a friend asked if they wanted to join him and go to Suriname.

“We just sort of looked at each other and went, ‘OK!’ That was how that decision got made,” he says with a laugh. “And then, of course, the question was: Exactly where is Suriname?”

As cruisers go, Johnson and Schattman were exceptionally well-equipped and prepared. What set them apart was a willingness to divert from rhumb lines they’d drawn on charts, and the time and wherewithal to do it. 

Sometimes, bad weather got in the way. A couple of times, there were major breakdowns. Once, as on that Grenada evening, Schattman says with a chuckle, “Liquor was involved.” 

On another night in that same anchorage, he asked Johnson to marry him. Prickly Bay’s lat/lon is inscribed on their wedding rings.

As I read through their blog and interviewed them in Vermont, two sets of memories entwined: the boat, the sailing and the voyage for him; for her, the next interesting place and “this community of people that is out there on boats traveling. Our paths would keep crossing. We made lifelong friends. That was part of the reason that it was easy to just keep going.”

Schattman grew up in New Rochelle, New York. His dad always had a ­sailboat, and he learned on Blue Jays and Lightnings on Long Island Sound. He became a special-­education preschool teacher, working with children with severe disabilities. After earning his doctorate, he spent 34 years as a school principal and instructor at the University of Vermont. His first “big” boat was a used 1981 Cape Dory 36, which he sailed on Lake Champlain and along the New England coast. 

In 2008, eyeing retirement, he got his captain’s license and paid $222,000 for the 25-year-old Little Harbor 44 Atalanta—named for the Greek mythological warrior woman—a center-cockpit sloop designed and owned once by Ted Hood. It weighed 32,500 pounds, with a 5-foot draft and a centerboard within an integrated keel that would allow him to get into shallow Caribbean water. During a four-year refit in Bristol, Rhode Island, he added a ­generator to power a heat pump and charge batteries, and a 14-gallon-per-hour Spectra watermaker—a decision the couple estimates avoided carting 40,000 gallon jugs from shore.

Johnson grew up on the Rosebud Indian Reservation in South Dakota, where her dad worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs and the tribe. A road trip brought her to Vermont, where she taught information technology for 25 years, raised two children, and, in a second marriage, found herself with a man who wanted to live on a boat and travel.

“I didn’t know anything about sailing or boating or the water,” she says. “I had sort of spent my life trying to stay within my comfort zone. I got to where I really enjoyed night passages, which was a big leap for me, because my first night on watch, I wouldn’t even let Richard go down below.” Later, watching fellow cruisers snorkeling over reefs, she donned a life jacket, tried the sport, and learned to swim.

With their cairn terrier Murray aboard, the pair crisscrossed the Caribbean, with stops down the eastern chain of islands, Trinidad and Belize, and longer stays in Guatemala’s Rio Dulce, Mexico’s Yucatan and—rare for a US boat—the Suriname jungle in the Amazon.

“It was spectacularly beautiful. Surrounded by howler monkeys and toucans and parrots—it’s just a very foreign environment,” he says of Suriname. With English cruisers who had invited them, they rented a car for $5 a day, saw the ruins of the first synagogue in the Western Hemisphere, the French Guiana prison where Papillon was held, and the World Heritage city and capital Paramaribo. By dugout canoe, they saw waterfalls “that you had to get permission from tribal chiefs to see. We just had all these amazing experiences in a place where there are no Americans.”

The couple was able to finance their six-year cruise by selling their house and tapping into investments and retirement funds. Along the way, they replaced the engine, rebuilt a rudder bent in a storm, resurfaced the hull, and then, with grandkids calling, came home in 2020 and sold Atalanta for $207,000.

“The thing I noticed most was that everybody was on a budget,” Schattman says. “Atalanta was a nicer boat than average. Most cruisers were on a 35-foot whatever, a decent but average boat.”

Cruising, Johnson discovered, was not just about sailing at 6 knots. “If we got to a place where we stayed a week or months, your experience becomes about the cultures and languages and food, and figuring out the ways that we’re all alike and different. That, for me, was the adventure.”  

Editor’s Note: If you’ve been a CW reader for very long, you might recall our Classic Plastic column—a nod to older boats with timeless appeal. We’re bringing it back by popular demand under a new title, This Ol’ Boat. The fit-and-finish may have changed a bit, but the passion remains the same. In this new iteration, we aim to celebrate these classic old boats and the owners who love them, both of whose stories seem only to get better with age.

The post Six Years Sailing on a Classic Boat appeared first on Cruising World.

As a red-haired, fair-skinned kid growing up sailing dinghies in Southern California, I have extensive experience with sunburn. And, after helping put my dermatologist’s kids through Harvard, I now resemble Lawrence of Arabia on my bareboat outings.  

Do you tell your friends you don’t worry about sunburn because you have a good base tan? That you wear a baseball cap to shade your face? That you put on SPF 15 sunblock when you’re on the water?  

You, dear reader, are a prime candidate for skin cancer.

According to Tom Cutter, a former emergency-room ­doctor and a dedicated bareboater (and also ­red-haired), “There is no such thing as a base tan.” Whether you’re sprawled on deck in the islands or just ­sitting outside a coffee shop sipping a triple latte, the sun will damage your skin. You might not notice it now, but sun damage is cumulative, which is why construction crews and lifeguards often have skin that resembles beef jerky.  

There are two areas we’ll ­focus on here to defeat devil sun. First, how to prevent sunburn, and second, what to do once you get it (yes, you will).

Sunburn is the same first- or second-degree burn you’d get from a hot pan or flame. Blood vessels dilate, and cell damage occurs. Generally, a sunburn appears two to five hours after exposure, with maximum effect in about 24 hours. First degree is redness (erythema) with pain, depending on the exposure. Even a mild sunburn has side effects, including itching, nausea and fever.  

Second degree means clear blisters as the burn extends deeper, the skin turns white under pressure, and local infection is a possibility.

Your best protection against sunburn is to stay out of the sun. But, of course, we go bareboating to savor the sunny days and warm waters. So, find ways to protect your skin, and that means hats and clothing. A baseball cap is an open invitation to skin cancer, because it leaves the sides of your face and your ears unprotected. Best choice? A wide-brimmed floppy hat. A number of these on the sailing market won’t make you look like a dork.  

Next, you’ll want tightly woven, long-sleeved shirts and long pants, but we all know that isn’t going to happen. You might at least consider the long-sleeved vented shirts aimed at fishermen. Those shirts are cool and protective. When snorkeling, Cutter says, “absolutely wear a T-shirt to save your back.”

The next step in protection is a physical sunscreen such as zinc oxide, which acts as an opaque barrier to the ultraviolet rays. These sunscreens are ideal for highly exposed areas such as the nose, lips and tips of your ears, but only if you reapply regularly.

Chemical sunblocks, though mostly transparent, are rated by SPF (sun protection factor), which is a multiplier of your sunburn time. If you normally burn in 10 minutes without protection, then an SPF 15 sunscreen should keep you from burning for 150 minutes. Note that the SPF measures only ultraviolet-B rays; there is no current measure of UVA protection.

Dermatologist Edit Olasz Harken (of the sailing gear Harken family) says: “Skipping areas is very common. About 10 to 20 percent of body ­surface can remain unprotected.” She notes, in particular, that “the skin around the eye is the most common area that is missed.”

Tip: The American Academy of Dermatologists recommends a minimum of SPF 35. I recommend SPF 50, unless you want Christmas cards from your dermatologist. And, because you might be in the water or taking spray, a sunscreen must last through at least 40 minutes of swimming (or 80 minutes of sweating) to be labeled “water-resistant.”

Don’t forget your eye protection either, because the overexposure of your eyes to bright sunlight has both short- and long-term effects. Your eyes will react to an overdose of UV rays with intense pain, redness, swelling and teariness, just as mountaineers’ snow blindness is caused by reflected sunlight. Ongoing eye exposure can lead to cataracts and damage to the retina. The solution is to wear sunglasses that filter out all UV rays and that have wraparound side panels to protect the cornea.

OK, so you got a sunburn. Unfortunately, time is the best cure for a sunburn, and you should minimize your sun exposure while healing ­because your skin will be overly sensitive.

To treat the symptoms of pain, apply cool compresses for 15 to 20 minutes regularly. Topical steroids (such as 1 ­percent hydrocortisone cream) can relieve the pain and swelling, and soothing lotions containing aloe vera are also helpful. Dermatologists are divided on the use of commercial “-caine” products (such as Solarcaine) that claim to relieve sunburn pain, but many users say the numbing effects are essential.

Take anti-inflammatory medications such as ibuprofen, and follow the label ­instructions carefully, especially with children. Acetaminophen and aspirin will also reduce the pain of sunburn.

Blisters should not be opened because they contain the natural body serum that is a protective layer. Opening a blister slows the healing and is a route for infection. If blisters break on their own, apply an antibacterial cream with a bandage.

Drink plenty of fluids because sunburn changes your metabolism and causes fluid loss through the skin, leading to dehydration.

The best cure for sunburn is to protect yourself beforehand. If you practice “safe sun,” you can still enjoy bareboating to the fullest. 

Chris Caswell is editor and publisher of chartersavvy.com.

The post Code Red appeared first on Cruising World.

I didn’t see the wave coming that tossed me to the end of my tether; I was too busy trying to secure a headsail on the thrashing foredeck of my dad’s old J/44. We had recently peeled from a heavy J1 to a high-cut J3, and my job was to ensure that the big jib made it into its blue North Sails bag and not into “The Race,” that often-choppy slot of water separating New York’s Long Island Sound from Rhode Island’s Block Island Sound. We were roughly 60 percent of the way through the 2005 Block Island Race, and our helmsman was clearly tired as he stuffed our bow directly into an oncoming square wave. 

That’s when my sea boots left the deck. I landed atop my buddy, someplace near the port shrouds. I was happy that I hadn’t cracked my head on anything stainless steel or ­fiberglass. My buddy was happy that I was still on the boat. Two minutes later, we were back in the business district, sorting out the sail.

Yes, I finished my watch as wet as a rat in a drain ditch, but there’s no question that my tether, which was clipped to a foredeck padeye, saved my bacon. Thankfully, my PFD didn’t deploy unnecessarily, and I gained confidence in the system. 

Many years have slipped astern since that Block Island Race, but the basics of personal flotation devices are the same, as is the safety they afford. 

PFDs come in five types. Type I is for cruising, racing and fishing offshore, and for use by commercial ships, or when boating alone, or in stormy conditions. It can be inherently buoyant or inflatable (or a hybrid of the two), and provides a minimum of 22 pounds of flotation. 

Type II typically refers to the chunky orange-foam affairs with at least 15.5 pounds of positive flotation, but the type can also encompass some inflatable vests. It is best for daysailing in small boats. Type III is for activities such as sailing regattas, dinghy races, water-skiing, fishing, canoeing and kayaking, and provides at least 22.5 pounds of positive buoyancy. Type IV, with 16.5 pounds of buoyancy, is a throwable device such as a horseshoe buoy.  

Then there’s Type V, which has 15.5 to 22.5 pounds of buoyancy, is inflatable or hybrid inflatable and inherently buoyant, and is designated as a “special-use device” for activities such as inshore and offshore sailing. 

This article will consider eight Type V PFDs. Their designs may differ, but they all rely on an empty air bladder, a filled and sealed carbon dioxide cartridge, and a release mechanism. Some employ water-­soluble discs or capsules that trigger the spring-loaded firing pin that pierces the carbon dioxide cartridge, while others have a hydrostatic mechanism that fires when the vest is submerged in a few ­inches of water (water pressure on the hydrostatic sensor serves as the tipping point). While both types work well, hydrostatic systems are less likely to fire accidentally if exposed to huge amounts of on-deck water.

 Additionally, Type V PFDs all have a manual-release rip cord and an oral inflation tube in case the built-in systems fail, or if the air bladder needs topping off later. In all cases, it’s important to read the manufacturer’s care and use instructions, and to replace key components per the manufacturer’s guidelines.

I evaluated these PFDs by considering their features, wearing them with sailing gear, and floating in them at my local pool. Here’s what I found.

Mustang Survival MIT 100 Automatic Inflatable PFD

This PFD has more going on than initially meets the eye. Most PFDs employ an inner air bladder protected by an exterior jacket that breaks away when the jacket inflates. This US Coast Guard-approved PFD instead has Mustang Survival’s Membrane Inflatable Technology and the company’s clever “one-fold design.” The combo means the PFD’s air bladder is physically housed inside a protective jacket. When the jacket deploys, two Velcro strips rip away, revealing the jacketed and inflated bladder. This same design makes the MIT 100 the easiest PFD in this article to repack: Just bleed the air, rearm the carbon dioxide cartridge and trigger mechanism, and fold over two flaps. While the MIT 100 doesn’t have a tether hardpoint, its lower price point could make it a good choice for inshore cruising or blue-sky daysailing. The PFD’s waist belt is easily adjustable for guests, and an inspection window lets you evaluate the firing mechanism’s status. In the water, this PFD is comfortable, but there isn’t much behind-the-neck head support.

Mustang Survival HIT Hydrostatic Inflatable PFD With Sailing Harness

This is an affordable PFD with a full sailing harness, a hydrostatic trigger mechanism, and US Coast Guard approval. Its air bladder comes bundled in a sturdy jacket built from 500-denier Cordura, and it sports a neoprene-lined collar. A beefy harness with two equally beefy stainless-steel D-rings allows for attaching a tether. There’s an inspection window for checking the trigger mechanism’s status, a strobe-light holder, and Mustang’s SecureZip breakaway jacket-­closure system. The PFD’s Hammar-built hydrostatic sensor needs to be submerged to a depth of at least 4 inches to fire its carbon dioxide cartridge (read: no accidental deployments). Once inflated, the PFD delivers 38 pounds of buoyancy, and its high-visibility air bladder and even higher-visibility SOLAS-level reflective tape help ensure that you’ll be seen. The PFD also has a tidy-size zippered pocket. One consideration, however, is that rearming this PFD is more involved (Mustang’s instruction video runs 12 minutes, 30 seconds), but it’s a worthwhile trade-off. In the water, with the crotch strap attached, this PFD did a great job of orienting me face up and providing head support.

Mustang Survival EP 38 Ocean Racing Hydrostatic Inflatable Vest

As its moniker suggests, this PFD is made to take you from offshore racing on wet, fast boats to adventure cruising in wet climes. The US Coast Guard-approved PFD has a Hammar-built hydrostatic inflation mechanism, a sturdy sailing harness with an easily adjusted (even when wearing gloves) waist belt, a soft-loop tether-attachment point, and a small, integral backpack-style pod that houses the vest’s shoulder straps, spray hood, and removable crotch straps. While the backpack pod feels a bit bulky, its contents are a treasure trove when floating. This pullover-style PFD also has a low-profile design that allows for unencumbered athletic movement, and a zippered pocket that can house emergency essentials such as lights or electronics. There’s also a stitched-in lifting loop for emergency MOB retrievals. The vest’s hydrostatic mechanism is prominently situated on the front, behind a three-­dimensional inspection window, for a ­military-esque aesthetic. The EP 38 felt great to float in, especially once I ­deployed the crotch strap and spray hood.

Onyx A/M-24 and A/M-24 All Clear

Consider these PFDs if you’re seeking a basic Type V PFD and don’t need a tether attachment. Both are US Coast Guard-approved, employ lozenge-style automatic firing mechanisms, and can be used in automatic or manual mode, or converted to manually operated PFDs (which can be useful aboard wet boats, so long as the MOB is conscious and able to pull the manual-inflation rip cord). Both vests also have a Velcro-enclosure system, high-­visibility inflation chambers, and wide neoprene necklines that felt comfortable when worn with a T-shirt, and that added padding when worn with a jacket. 

While the two PFDs are similar in design and features, there are some differences. The A/M 24 is no-frills, with a side-release waist buckle and a plastic D-ring attachment that’s not for use with a tether, but it is useful for attaching a handheld VHF radio (see CW, August 2022) or an emergency beacon. The A/M 24’s firing mechanism is hidden in the Velcro-enclosed outer jacket, meaning a user must unpeel several inches of hooks and loops to ensure that the jacket is properly armed. 

The A/M-24 All Clear has some ­upgrades, most notably a plastic ­inspection window on the jacketed front that gives an at-a-glance status report of the firing mechanism. Additionally, the A/M-24 All Clear has a zippered front enclosure, a beefier nylon waist belt, and a smaller-profile D-ring attachment (also not for use with a tether).

Neither of these PFDs has crotch straps, and this absence was noticeable when floating. In our test pool, the ­A/M-24 All Clear failed to trigger ­automatically for almost two minutes.

Onyx A/M-33 All Clear With Harness

If you’re ready to go offshore, this PFD could be right for you. The US Coast Guard-approved vest has a sailing harness with dual soft loops (port and starboard) for attaching a tether, a beefy nylon waist belt with sturdy stainless-steel adjusters, a high-visibility inflation chamber, a breakaway zipper enclosure, and a  window for at-a-glance status on the vest’s firing mechanism. The vest’s back has shoulder-strap padding that doubles as ultraviolet protection, and also adds a bit of cushioning when leaning back in the cockpit or lounging on deck. 

This PFD also sports a zippered front closure (with an elasticized zipper garage to ensure that the vest stays put) and a thin neoprene neckline for extra comfort. As with its little brothers, the A/M-33 All Clear can be operated in automatic/­manual or fully manual modes, but it differs by delivering 35 pounds of buoyancy once fully inflated. This extra lift was immediately noticeable when floating; there’s no crotch strap, but its absence wasn’t an issue.

Spinlock Deckvest LITE+

Lightweight, low-profile, unencumbering—this PFD’s design (when packed) is wide at the neck, allowing about 165 degrees of head rotation without chin contact. The bit that does contact your neck is neoprene-covered for comfort. This is a side-entry PFD that arrives in automatic/manual mode, but it can be converted to manual-only with a kit. The LITE+ has a single crotch strap with a hidden receptacle clip, and it comes with loops for attaching Spinlock’s optional Chest Pack, which is handy for storing emergency essentials. 

The PFD also has Spinlock’s clever breakaway zipper system, a soft-loop attachment point and—when deployed—an emergency haul loop. The LITE+ can be upgraded with Spinlock’s Pylon Light, which is a water-activated flashing LED; Lume-On patches to illuminate the inflated bladder; and a spray hood. Customers also can purchase the LITE+ with an integrated Ocean Signal MOB1 AIS beacon. The LITE+ is approved to CE and ISO standards. In the water, the Deckvest LITE+ provided good head ­support and face-up orientation, ­especially once the crotch strap was properly deployed. 

Spinlock Deckvest 6D HRS

There’s a lot to like about this innovative PFD. It’s built to CE and ISO standards. Once inflated, it delivers 170 newtons of ­positive buoyancy. It can be ordered with 275 newtons, but this adds bulk. The PFD has Spinlock’s Pro Sensor Elite firing mechanism, which activates only when ­water flows upward into its cap, so there are no wave or rain deployments. It also has Spinlock’s Harness Release System, which has a load-releasable tether hardpoint. If the MOB is getting dragged, she pulls a rip cord and immediately separates from her tether. 

Once in the water, the automatic/­manual vest opens to reveal a spray hood, emergency haul loop, Spinlock Pylon 360 light, and Spinlock Lume-On air-bladder light. A crotch strap resides in a small pouch on the back of the PFD’s harness. Additionally, there’s a user-friendly waist-belt buckle, an inspection window for the firing mechanism, and compatibility with Ocean Signal’s MOB1 AIS beacon. The Deckvest 6D was one of the most comfortable PFDs to float in, and its design made accessing the spray hood a snap.

The post Type V Inflatable PFDs appeared first on Cruising World.

Sailing rallies come in a lot of shapes and sizes. They’re a smart way to try long-distance cruising or a transoceanic passage with a group, to check out a new destination with people who know it well, and to meet some like-minded sailors who share your cruising goals. 

You don’t have to be an America’s Cup-level sailor to join a rally. Just the opposite: Many people join rallies as a way to improve their skills while having fun. You can be an entry-­level sailor and participate in all kinds of rallies. You can use your engine whenever you want a little extra oomph. You can bring the kids and the family dog along as crew. 

Being part of a rally is a way to become a part of a sailing community, only without the pressure of a timed race. You’ll very likely find yourself learning helpful tips and tricks to improve your cruising experience as you make lifelong friends.

Rallies happen at all times of year, on both US coasts as well as all around the world. Here’s a look at some rallies you might want to try if you’re thinking about getting involved with a rally for the first time.

Salty Dawg and NARC Rallies

The Salty Dawg Sailing Association is a nonprofit organization whose rallies focus on the United States and Caribbean. These rallies are open to all sailors, with some experience requirements. The group prides itself on offering preparation help, as well as weather briefings, a daily forecast, personalized routing guidance, and more. 

Salty Dawg’s Homeward Bound rally starts in Antigua in late April, headed for the US Virgin Islands, the Bahamas and, finally, Virginia on the US East Coast. The group’s Caribbean Rally makes the opposite journey every fall, starting in Virginia and heading south. 

In fall 2022, the Salty Dawg folks started working with Hank Schmitt and the NARC Rally, which has sailed from Newport, Rhode Island, to Saint-Martin via Bermuda since 2000. There are talks to combine the two rallies in the future, including sailors who want to start or end in New England, as well as those who want to start or end in the Chesapeake Bay.

Additional Salty Dawg rallies include the summertime Maritime Rally from Massachusetts to Maine and Nova Scotia, and the Downeast Rally, focusing on Maine.

The ARC Rally

The World Cruising Club organizes the ARC trans-Atlantic rally from Gran Canaria in Spain’s Canary Islands some 2,700 nautical miles to St. Lucia in the Caribbean. This rally welcomes cruising couples, families, and boats at least 27 feet length overall with at least two people on board. Departure is in late November, and the crossing takes most boats 18 to 21 days. The ARC offers two additional start dates and routes: The ARC Plus is a two-stage trans-Atlantic rally that departs in early November from Gran Canaria, with a stopover in Cabo Verde and a final destination of Grenada. The ARC January follows the longer, traditional route to St. Lucia, with a January departure.

WCC also organizes the west-to-east ARC Europe rally, leaving the Caribbean or US East Coast every May, with a stop in Bermuda and the Azores, as well as the seven-stage ARC Portugal, which sails south across the Bay of Biscay from Plymouth, UK, to Bayonne, France, and then on to Portugal, and continues south along the Portuguese coast.

If you really want to go for the gusto, there’s also the World Arc, a 26,000-nautical-mile circumnavigation leaving from St. Lucia and Australia. 

Panama Posse 

The Panama Posse sails between Southern California and Annapolis, Maryland, by way of the Panama Canal. It’s a go-at-your-own-pace, 5,500-nautical-mile rally, with stops that can include Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, Jamaica, Belize, Cuba and the Florida Keys.

Singlehanded sailors are welcome to participate in this rally, and some boats include families and pets on board. A list of participating boats is on the website; many are in the 30- to 50-foot range of length overall.

The Baja Ha-Ha

Held in late October and November, the Baja Ha-Ha is a rally from San Diego to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. It’s a 750-­nautical-mile journey, with two planned stops: in Bahia Tortuga and Bahia Santa Marina. Organizers make the schedule in a way that gives even the slowest boats about a day and a half of rest at each stop.

Boats that can participate in this rally must be at least 27 feet length overall, and be designed, built and maintained for open-ocean sailing. Organizers will also make exceptions for some smaller boats on a case-by-case basis, and powerboats can join as well. Each boat must have at least two sailors on board. 

Coho Ho Ho

The Coho Ho Ho is a rally from Seattle to San Francisco on the US West Coast. It departs at the end of August and makes it to California in early to mid-September. From there, some Coho Ho Ho participants join up with the Baja Ha-Ha rally and continue on down to Mexico. 

This is a smaller rally with about a dozen participants, and it occasionally includes powerboats along with sailboats. –Kim Kavin

Rally Shots?

We’d love to see your rally photos. On Instagram, tag us @cruisingworldmag or email us at editor@cruisingworld.com.

Newport to Bermuda

When Hank Schmidt of Offshore Passage Opportunities told me about a couple who had bought a slightly used Southerly 535 and were planning to sail it in the 2021 North American Rally to the Caribbean, known as the NARC rally, I needed very little convincing to join them and their professional skipper as crew.

Southerly built only two of the 535s before Discovery Yachts acquired the brand. This boat was Hull No. 1, berthed in Boston, where I stepped aboard for one night and got to know the boat well ahead of the rally. My first recommendation to the husband: Add a second anchor on the bow.

“Once in the Caribbean, you’ll be at anchor most of the time,” I said. “Put two anchors on the bow. You’ll feel better.” 

We looked at the steering system, engine, main reefing and furling systems, and retractable keel mechanism. This Southerly had in-boom furling and a Solent stay, a prerequisite for any offshore voyage (that, or an inner stay on which to hoist a storm jib).

It was a well-thought-out and nicely designed yacht that they had christened Schatz Sea, which they tell me means “my ­beloved” in Germany, where the wife is from. 

A few weeks later, they sailed Schatz Sea down to Newport, Rhode Island, in late October, ahead of the NARC rally the following month. As they entered the bay, things began to come apart. The starboard helm wheel disconnected from the rudder linkage; the bow thruster failed; the boom furling system jammed; and the mainsail ripped. Fortunately, the port helm still worked, so they got the boat safely into a slip at Newport Yachting Center Marina, where the NARC fleet was ­gathering. I joined them there as repairs were underway. Soon, our ­professional skipper also arrived.

While we were getting ready, so were the crews on 21 boats other boats. Seventeen were leaving from Newport, with another four departing Chesapeake Bay, all set to converge on Bermuda as their first stop. The fleet included five Swans, two Caliber 40s, an Amel, a Discovery 55, a Southerly 534, one Oyster, a Passport 43, a 50-year-old Hinckley 48 and one catamaran. The Newport crew totaled 75 people, some 22 of them making their first offshore voyage as crew. A few of the boats had made the trip a dozen times since the NARC began in 2000.

Off We Go

Bermuda is 640 miles southeast of Newport. At 6 knots, that’s 4 days, 12 hours. At 7 knots, it’s 3 days, 16 hours. A piece of cake, right? 

No. It seldom is.

Because hurricane season usually ends in late October, there are only a few three-day weather windows for leaving Newport. Weather Routers Inc. was predicting Friday afternoon that “this could be the easiest crossing you’ve had in years. Conditions on Sunday morning will be unpleasant, after a big storm on Saturday, but improving. Winds south-southwest, 10 to 15 early. By midmorning, as you get farther offshore, they will increase 15 to 20. Seas 5 to 7 feet, building farther offshore. The tendency will be for those winds to become more southwest, then west-southwest by the evening.

“You’ll have to contend with residual south-southeasterly swells, 8 to 10 feet, left over from Saturday’s storm,” the forecast continued. “The period is long, 8 seconds, but these will diminish over the day. The winds will continue to shift into the west, northwest and north, then drop. Monday, winds should be northwest, 14 to 18 knots. The southeast swells will be replaced by southwesterly swells, but on the beam.”

Although the start was delayed Saturday, with the predicted storm raging outside, we were all optimistic as we backed Schatz Sea out of its slip Sunday morning at 8:15. We motored out of Newport with a dozen other NARC boats, to be met by a brisk south-southwest wind blowing 15 knots up the bay. The sky was filled with yesterday’s storm clouds—an ominous start—but off to the west, behind us, was a hint of open sky. 

We hoisted half the main, unrolled the working jib on the ­inner Solent stay, turned off the engine, and made a left at Brenton Reef onto a southeast course. We then chased the storm clouds out into the Atlantic.

By noon, it was still cold on deck, but the sun was out. The wind, forward of the beam, was blowing 20 knots. The boat was heeled over, making 7 knots, climbing up and over yesterday’s southeast swells, only to plunge down into the troughs. 

It was then, I realized, that I had failed to take my seasickness medication. Off watch, I lay on the couch in the main cabin, looking out the windows at the horizon. I was still sick when I went to the cockpit at 2 a.m., but I was able to perform my watch. The wind had gone into the north, 15 knots. The ­southeast swells were unnoticeable. Around 4 a.m., I felt better.

By Monday morning, we’d traveled 190 miles, averaging nearly 8 knots. The day was sunny, winds northerly 12 knots. White, puffy clouds ahead told us that the Gulf Stream was near. We entered it around 2 o’clock that afternoon, 30 hours out of Newport.

The Gulf Stream

I’d downloaded the Gulf Stream chart from Windy before we left Newport and picked out a possible entry point. It’s a phenomenon to contend with: a narrow, fast-flowing current of warm, tropical water that comes up through the Florida Straits, glances off Cape Hatteras’ shoal, and heads east out into the Atlantic, eventually warming the shores of Ireland and England. The Gulf Stream is a moving river of water, a conveyor belt. You can use it, but you can’t avoid it. 

We were fortunate to have the Gulf Stream take a southeast meander, right on our rhumb line to Bermuda. All we needed to do was hop on as it turned southeast and ride it for 10 hours, exiting it when it turned north again. We’d pick up a 3- to 4-knot kick.

The wind turned light, over the stern, as we entered the Gulf Stream. We rigged the pole with the genoa so that we could run wing on wing for a few hours. The Stream was now pushing us along at 9 knots. 

Making Landfall

By Wednesday morning, our third full day at sea, we were less than 100 miles to Bermuda, with a projected arrival of 4 a.m. Thursday. The wind had clocked into the east, so we sailed for the afternoon. By dusk, the wind was southeast, 10 knots, 15 knots over the deck. In came the sails, and on went the motor. The southeast breeze kicked up a chop, and Schatz Sea ­shouldered into it, her flat bow pounding. 

I couldn’t sleep below, so I joined everyone else in the cockpit as the loom of Bermuda’s lights raised above the horizon. We headed through the narrow Town Cut into St. George’s Harbour at 3 a.m. and anchored in the Powder Hole, positioned to clear customs and immigration later that day. We were 3 days, 18 hours out of Newport. 

The weather forecaster was right. It was the fastest voyage I’d made in 20 years. –David H, Lyman

Read more of David Lyman’s stories of sailing in the Caribbean at dhlyman.com

The post Rally Time appeared first on Cruising World.

I had always imagined, looking at world globes and navigational charts, that the surface of the earth would somehow feel different the farther north you went. That perhaps gravity would pull you at a slanted angle, or that the horizon would look narrower as the longitude lines drew closer together. I imagined one would get shortness of breath or vertigo as the polar regions were approached. 

Not surprisingly, as far as those things go, everything seems the same even several hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle. The horizon is as expansive as ever, water stays level in a glass, and my head is not swimming from lack of oxygen.

What is different, though—shockingly, disconcertingly different—is the perpetual daylight. Long before Polar Sun, the Stevens 47 we’re cruising in Greenland, reached the Arctic Circle, we had left the night behind. The last darkness we saw was when we left Flowers Cove, in northern Newfoundland, at 2 a.m. to catch the downtide to Mary’s Harbour in Labrador. After that, with the bows pointed north into the Labrador Sea, though the sun would briefly set, the twilight endured until it rose again just a little to the right of where it had gone down.

It was good that it should be so because there are icebergs about in late June in the Davis Strait, and though we didn’t see many, the ones we did see made us grateful for the light and a sharp lookout. There was little else to look out for, though. Between putting Labrador astern and fetching Greenland ahead five days later, we saw only one coastal ship between each place. It was a surprisingly benign passage at first, given what I’d been led to expect about the Davis Strait. For three calm and pleasant days, we alternated between the engine and the “whomper”—a huge, yellow ­asymmetrical spinnaker—and ­congratulated ourselves on our luck.

As luck will, it ran out two days from Nuuk, the capital of Greenland. From just north of the aptly named Cape Desolation, we were treated to a strong following breeze with some confused cross swells that slammed the boat onto its beam ends every so often, and made heavy weather for the Hydrovane self-steering unit. It was a finicky business, tuning the vane, the deeply reefed sails and the helm so that everything would work together, but when we finally had it sorted, Polar Sun scooted along at 8 and 9 knots for hours on end without us touching either the wheel or the sheets. It was a good thing too because one of our number was down for the count, hugging a gently sloshing bucket of vomit in his bunk. The rest of us felt lucky if we could boil a kettle in the violently slamming boat to make ramen or coffee in a thermos without burning ourselves.

Even in the inner harbor of Nuuk, the wind was shrieking along the quays, making the boats tug restlessly at their warps. As is the custom in these parts, one that we got used to only with time, we rafted up to the first convenient tugboat and turned in. When you think about it, rafting up, especially to something big, is far preferable to grinding up and down a grubby commercial bulkhead with 15-foot tides giving your spring lines and fenders a workout. Better to let them deal with the headache of the inside tie, and ride up and down tied comfortably short. 

Besides, it’s a great way to make new friends. Farther north, in Ilulissat, we wound up in a six-deep raft-up, which made for quite the jolly social scene as everyone crawled over each other’s boats to get to and from the fish wharf.

I had expected Greenland to be much like northern Newfoundland and Labrador in the way of food and groceries, which is to say more packaged food than fresh, and more burger-and-fry joints than other sorts of restaurants. And once again, my imagination was incorrect. Being still heavily Danish, the grocery stores are crammed with European as well as Greenlandic foods, and best of all are the ubiquitous bakeries full of fresh bread and pastries. While the restaurant prices might raise the eyebrow of the cruiser accustomed to street tacos in Mexico or pupusas in El Salvador, the food is quite good, and we tried musk ox and reindeer and whale, as well as codfish and halibut. There is a bent toward the gourmet in the preparation and presentation that initially struck me as out of place in what should have been rough-hewn fishing towns, but that was just me projecting preconceived notions again.

I had no notions or ideas about what to expect of the coast between Nuuk and Disko Bay, nor could I have imagined the snow-girdled mountains that rise straight from 100-fathom fjords to 3,000-foot peaks. And not just once, mind you, but everywhere you look, for days and days as you cruise north. There is an inshore passage that begins about 50 miles north of Nuuk, and treads a winding, sheltered path behind coastal islands and through narrow, winding tickles scarcely twice the beam of the boat. This route crosses many fjords, and you can pick one at random and explore—up, up, along water ever more aquamarine, until at the head, the glacier can be seen, pressing a wall of ice toward the water and sending frozen chunks out along the silty glacial stream.

We alternated between anchoring in remote coves and tying up to commercial docks in villages. It’s luxurious, with perpetual daylight, not having to hurry to get somewhere before dark or to get up before dawn to catch a fair tide. But it’s terrible for the sleep schedule, and your daily rhythms go all sideways. Breakfast at noon? Why not, if the next boat in the Sisimiut raft-up was partying till 3 a.m. and heffalumping back and forth across your deck in clunky sea boots. Coffee at midnight? Why not, if you’re still in brash ice, three hours from Aasiaat, and calving icebergs have strawed your path with growlers and bergy bits. We eventually found it preferable to arrive and tie up after working hours—there was less bustle in the harbor, and whomever we rafted to was unlikely to be about to cast off and leave.

Aasiaat is on the southern shore of Disko Bay, the center of Greenland’s tourism industry. At the back end of the bay, a river of ice 30 miles long empties its bergs into open water. From there they fan out, drifting slowly with wind and tide so that, as far as the eye could reach, as we sailed north toward Disko Island, huge mountains of ice floated in solemn silence on water 200 fathoms deep. After stops at the secluded Whale Fish Islands and in Godhavn, we finally reached the real prize of Disko Bay.

Situated at the very mouth of the fjord from which all the bergs issue, Ilulissat is guarded by a barrier of floating ice chunks that looks impenetrable when approaching from seaward. This band of concentrated ice was 5 miles wide when we crossed it, and extended for dozens of miles both north and south. Bergs of all sizes floated amid myriad smaller pieces, but an intricate path could be woven between them, avoiding all but the smallest brash. Even when the way ahead looked shut, if you carried on, there was always an opening. 

All adventure has some risk, and if we were going to sail into the Northwest Passage, ice was one danger we were going to have to get used to.

 Back in the States, people had shown us diagrams of the closest safe approach to ice, which had proved ludicrous already in the narrow tickles south of Aasiaat, and were now simply laughable as we passed an arm’s length from hundreds of bergs of all shapes and sizes. Was it safe?  Who knows—it’s a long shot whether a berg will calf or roll in quiet water while you’re next door—but what choice did we have? All adventure has some risk, and if we were going to sail to Baffin Island and from there into the Northwest Passage, ice was one danger we were going to have to get used to.

We couldn’t have chosen a better place to acclimatize to ice than Ilulissat. More days than not, smaller bergs come bumbling into the harbor with the tide, and often, as they drifted back out, we had to direct them away from the boats with some special ice poles I had made. They were mostly harmless in the calm water of the harbor, but a passing wake would set the smaller ones knocking on the hull and have us out with the ice poles again.

Chasing Icebergs in Greenland

Beyond Ilulissat and Disko Bay, the coast of Greenland stretches northward, ever more remote and frozen, and is visited only rarely by cruising sailors. Farther yet, it becomes a land where both sea and air are freezing all year long, and even icebreakers with supplies for the handful of settlements are seasonal and occasional at best.  

I’ll cruise that direction someday, perhaps, but for this trip, our northing in Greenland was done, and Polar Sun’s path lay to westward across Baffin Bay, and from there into the winding paths of the Arctic Archipelago. 

While his wife conspires to turn him into a chicken rancher, Ben Zartman runs away to sea whenever he can. When not delivering sailboats, he runs a rigging business out of his garage, splicing line for local racing fleets.

The post The Air Up There: Cruising Greenland appeared first on Cruising World.

The captain of the 55-foot Holman sailing yacht was crouched down and leaning over me with great anxiety. “Are you OK?” he asked. “Dad, are you OK?”

I was, indeed, OK, which was as much a surprise to me as anyone else, given that I had hurtled across the galley like an unstrapped astronaut at liftoff. The boat had pitched, I hadn’t been paying attention, and I had gone flying so fast that I would have just kept going if not for a cabinet that stopped my midair trajectory. 

My ego was bruised—“Pain, Dad, is a great teacher,” he said—but I was fine, which is more than I could say for the cabinet door. And that, in itself, was really saying something, because the boat dated to 1985 while I dated to 1939.

Yes, my friends had told me that I was “loco” to sign on as crew at age 78 for a 2,850-nautical-mile passage from San Diego to the Panama Canal. It wasn’t the first time that my son, Christian Pschorr, who is service and program director for Hylas Yachts, had asked me to join him on a passage, but for the past few years, I had refused. Days and nights of getting pounded by bad ­weather, I feared, might leave me unable to hold up my end of the responsibilities. I didn’t want to let down the rest of the team.

It’s not that I was unfamiliar with boating, or with tough physical challenges. At age 22, when I graduated from the University of Pennsylvania as an ROTC Marine option, I was a commissioned US Marine Corps officer. The philosophy back then was to break the recruits physically and mentally, then build us back up and teach us that we were capable of doing far more than we imagined. And, in my 30s and 40s, I’d spent plenty of time as crew on my uncle’s 45-foot steel-hull ketch, cruising from New York’s Long Island Sound up to Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket in Massachusetts. I also owned an 18-foot Mako. I loved to fish off that boat.

So, I had the right background, albeit no recent experience on the water. I agreed to join Christian this time because the Holman was his boat, one he had just bought and wanted to move to its new home port. No deadline would force us to push our schedule in bad weather as we cruised in a straight shot from San Diego to the Panama Canal. 

This time, I thought, I ain’t getting any younger. I’ve never done a bluewater passage. I’d like to try it.

My close friend Mike Johnson, an international award-­winning sailor and adventurer, became my mentor and coach. He urged me to step up my usual workouts at the gym, so I enlisted a personal trainer, who increased my treadmill and elliptical speeds until I was doing intermittent jogging and running. The trainer also helped me build strength with free weights and on machines where I used my legs to push. There were pushups and situps, just like at Quantico a half-century ago.

I heeded more good advice from Mike, who he told me: “You’ll always be the father. Christian, he’s your son, but he’s the captain. So keep your mouth shut. Be quiet and do your job.”

From the moment I stepped on board, that’s what I tried to do—an admittedly difficult task for someone with my bullish disposition. Our fellow crew were a married couple, Nathan Zahrt and Vivian Vuong, who had sailed with Christian before. Nathan was close to qualifying for his US Coast Guard captain’s license, and Vivian was a professional photographer as well as a great cook. My job was to follow orders and research everything we’d need to know about taking a boat through the Panama Canal—a job Christian was smart to give me, because I could do it well, building up yet more confidence before we set off. 

As we left the dock on May 9, I felt good, but nervous about my first overnight watch from 0300 to 0600. After everyone else was asleep below, I had to rely on myself to settle down. Finally, I thought, quit babying yourself. You have a job to do. I did it—and everything went just fine. There was simply no room for fear.

A few days out of San Diego, our engine failed. It had run well during the boat’s sea trials, but it wouldn’t cooperate now. That malfunction meant we not only had to make an unscheduled repair stop, but we also had to hand-steer for long periods of time because we couldn’t charge the boat’s batteries if there was insufficient sunlight for the solar panels. No battery power, among other things, left us without the autopilot.

With the autopilot on, I was able to adjust and hold the boat’s course, but without the autopilot, I found it a lot harder to maintain our course, heading, and speed with all the water high above and all around us. I kept saying to myself, I will not use bad language. My friend Mike had told me: No swearing on the boat. So, I said to myself, Expletives deleted.

Instead, I focused on doing whatever Christian ordered me to do, and I gained a new appreciation for why so many of his Hylas clients and students had complimented him as a teacher over the years. I got to see my son as other people see him, and I was more impressed than ever.

For instance, there was a time when I was steering through the vast harbor of Panama City—doing six hours straight at the wheel—and a huge rock loomed ahead. Christian said, sharply, “Dad, you’re luffing.”

Now, I know better than to argue with the captain. But I replied that I was altering course slightly to avoid hitting the rock.

“Lose our headway, and we will hit the rock,” he said. “Hold your course, and do exactly what I say.”

He was right. “Aye, sir,” I said, suggesting that he explain everything to me in simple terms, as if I were his Boston terrier. 

I always knew he was just footsteps away in case I needed him. I had done a lot of studying to learn about lights at night on boats, but once we were at sea, a lot of the lights seemed to be the same color. The first couple of times I saw them from the wheel, I was nervous because I couldn’t identify the vessels around us. I could see their courses, sort of, but I took comfort in Christian’s rule for the whole crew, which was to get him on deck immediately if there were any doubts. 

For the most part, I just had to get over myself and try. Only once did I feel real panic. It was blowing like all the Furies of Hell, and I couldn’t see with all the water coming into my face. Christian went forward, and I lost sight of him. I thought he’d gone over the side.

This was my beloved son. I was in a momentary state of terror, calling, whistling and yelling his name. 

Finally, he reappeared. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I told him.

“Dad,” he replied, “I’m not up there sightseeing.”

Enough said. 

I found new levels of my own confidence—albeit with a dash of mutiny. One of Christian’s rules was that when we were on deck at night, we were not to leave the cockpit. We were tethered to a metal eye by the wheel. Well, one night, I could hear something flapping up forward. I got tired of the damn flapping. I knew the rule about staying in the cockpit, but I unhooked, attached myself to the jackline that ran bow to stern, and went forward to secure the piece of sail. I then took a big, deep breath and went back to the cockpit, where I snapped back into the metal eye.

Nobody was the wiser. I did tell Christian after we were home again, and he was not pleased. But I got away with it, and I felt useful. 

There was also a lot of fun. Christian is a vegan, and Vivian is a great cook, but on my night in the galley, I got to make sushi from freshly caught fish. We had a red-footed booby perch happily on the pulpit one day, soon joined by others that sat on our bow railing and spinnaker pole, jostling for their favorite positions. One afternoon, I looked up just in time to see a huge manta ray leap out of the water. The majesty was breathtaking.

There was one night under beautiful, starry skies when I was doing a great job at the wheel. The boat was planing with sparkling phosphorescence in the bow waves and wake. I couldn’t help but start to sing in a bad impression of the Beatles: “Lucy in the sea with diamonds…” 

Shortly after that, I saw the Southern Cross for the first time since years ago, when I had been on a hunting safari in Namibia. It was a glorious sailing night. You sure can’t do those kinds of things unless you take a chance and step aboard.

My run-in (or, should we say, fly-in) with the galley cabinet was not the only harrowing experience either. Both the Gulf of Tehuantepec and Punta Mala—just outside the Gulf of Panama—can have sudden, strong winds that extend 100 miles into the Pacific. I felt like I could see the gods smirking as they pounded us for days and nights. We had quite a few evenings of absolutely fierce lightning. I had never heard thunder like that booming stentorian basso profundo. Not since the monsoons of Okinawa, Japan, during my 13-month tour with the 3rd Marine Division, had I encountered such torrential rain. And we were truly alone out there—so much so that Christian, at one point, told Vivian to call out on the VHF radio, just to see if anyone answered. Nobody did. You know that cliche about how small we are? Well, we are.

It was during one of those storms that I took my header across the galley, but that moment was just one among many that were overwhelmingly positive. When we cruised into Panama City’s harbor under sail, amid all the ships anchored and underway, I was at the helm. Christian sat in the cockpit, calling out headings to me, while Nathan and Vivian stood as lookouts.   

Suddenly, a huge container ship loomed, brightly lit from stem to stern. “Dad,” Christian said, “when she clears our bow, fall in behind her. Follow in her wake until I give you the new heading.”

I prayed that the wind would not die. I had to keep the sails full and maintain course. High above, I watched as the stern of the more than 1,000-foot-long container ship passed us. 

From there, Christian wanted me to take our boat in, but I relinquished the wheel to Nathan, not wanting to push my luck. It was midnight on June 10 when, after a month at sea, we tied up at the pier. We had made it with no injuries to the crew and no damage to the boat. And I had accomplished my goals. I had stared down Neptune in his angry moments without flinching. 

As I write this, I am now 83, and I don’t think I could trust myself to handle the physical or mental rigors again. But I’m very glad I made that trip with my son at age 78.

It was a highlight of my life. 

The post Leaving My Comfort Zone appeared first on Cruising World.

Way back when, in the early 1980s, I landed an ­editorial assistant’s job at this very magazine. I was at the outset of my own journey not only as a journalist, but also as an offshore sailor. As such, a helpful colleague handed me a book called Sea Quest: Global Blue-Water Adventuring in Small Craft, written by Charles A. Borden and published in 1967. “Read this,” he said. “It’ll explain a lot.”

Man, he wasn’t kidding. I didn’t just read it; I devoured it. Borden, a long-range voyager himself, produced a remarkable, highly researched work that somehow managed to combine the history of seagoing craft and the magic of bluewater sailing with intimate profiles of dozens of sailors and their boats. One of them was a handsome, strapping dude (in his accompanying photo, he’s a dead ringer for actor Ed Harris) named Peter Tangvald.

Of Tangvald’s boat, Borden writes, “Dorothea I [is] a 32-foot cutter with no motor, no electricity, no transmitter, no cockpit, no head, no skin fittings—a true wanderer with no home port [that] completed a five-year voyage around the world at Brixham, England, in 1964.” And here’s Borden’s take on the skipper: “A former loner, an original, and a competent individual, Tangvald is as good an example as Slocum of the innate independence of the devoted small-ship sailor.” Well then. 

But in the mid-1960s, Tangvald was just getting started. And in the years to come, he would leave not only countless miles in his wake, but also plenty of havoc. Twice he went to sea with young wives who never again set foot ashore. Were Tangvald’s accounts of their disappearances truthful or—gulp—as it was often rumored, was the “former loner” the one responsible for their absence?

Oh, and one other thing: Tangvald sired a son, the complex subject of a remarkable new biography by marine journalist (and former CW senior editor) Charles J. Doane entitled The Boy Who Fell to Shore: The Extraordinary Life and Mysterious Disappearance of Thomas Thor Tangvald. The title brings to mind the 1976 science-fiction movie The Man Who Fell to Earth, in which David Bowie plays an alien who crash-lands on Earth and discovers unexpected success and debilitating despair in his new and strange surroundings. It’s an apt comparison, for Thomas Tangvald very much suffered the same fate. 

Hopefully without giving too much away, I can reveal that Thomas’ disastrous crash landing was not from space, but rather on the reefs off Bonaire at age 15 while being towed south from Puerto Rico on a leaky sailboat by his father on another compromised vessel—a ridiculous episode that was somehow even more bizarre and half-baked than it sounds. Neither his father nor his sister, Carmen, survived, but half-naked Thomas was able to scramble onto his surfboard and somehow managed to make it to safety. 

It’s the opening scene in Doane’s riveting narrative. Now, Thomas, orphaned and in shock, was the one just getting started. So too is the author. 

It turns out that Peter Tangvald made one sound decision in his later years: With a faltering heart, he enlisted his old sailing mate Edward Allcard and his wife, Clare, to take care of his children in the event that anything happened to him. And when Thomas fell to shore, the Allcards indeed took him under their wing. Clare, in particular, became an insightful primary source for the incredible tale that follows. (As his way of giving back for all the assistance he received, Doane is donating proceeds from the sale of the book to the young family Thomas left behind.) 

Like father, like son, in more ways than one. Indeed, like his eccentric old man, Thomas was a talented and tenacious sailor with the desire and ability to sail far on the simplest of vessels, not unlike the ones he was raised on. Furthermore, like Peter, he left behind confusion and heartache, and far more questions than answers. 

It’s a legacy nobody wishes for, a “sea quest” that went very, very wrong. It also makes for a story that’s hard to put down. 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Falling Ashore appeared first on Cruising World.