Spirits and glasses were raised high as the Outremer team accepted the Multihull of the Year award for its Outremer 52 model at the British Yachting Awards in London at The Royal Thames Yacht Club. Elected exclusively by the general public, the 52-footer was one of five contenders in this year’s multihull category.

The competition was fierce, according to a BYA spokesperson, as all five contenders made strong cases for the top honor. However, it was the Outremer 52’s “undeniable allure” and “outstanding craftsmanship” that secured the most votes from the sailing community. 

“It’s an honor to receive this public acknowledgment of the hard work and innovation that has gone into our 52 design,” said Outremer Sales Director Matthieu Rougevin-Baville, upon receiving the award in London. “The popularity of the 52 has continued to grow our close-knit community of Outremer owners since its official launch in Cannes 2022.” 

The Outremer 52 combines the signature features of the legendary 51 (the model’s successor) with the fresh look and feel of the 55—which won the European Yacht of the Year award in 2022—such as the adjustable helm, the view forward through the saloon, and the helm seat designed for two people. This merging of design elements, in addition to the involvement of renowned names in the industry—such as the naval architects VPLP and the French designers Patrick Le Quément and Darnet Design—have contributed to a design that is not only aesthetically pleasing but also highly functional and well-engineered.

Drawing inspiration from its predecessors, the Outremer 52 design brief sought to preserve the qualities that first made the brand a household name among sailors, while introducing new elements to enhance the overall experience. One of the standout features of the Outremer 52 model is its seaworthiness. According to Outremer’s parent company Grand Large Yachting, the naval architects and designers worked tirelessly to create a vessel that can handle even the most challenging bluewater cruising conditions. 

Weight savings achieved by optimization of the 52’s structural build components allowed for an increase in the amount of glazing and openings aboard the boat, without undermining performance. The result was greater visibility for the crew underway. The layout of the interiors and exteriors above deck were also made more conducive to keeping a better lookout. For example, the bar area of the cockpit allows the crew to eat meals while on watch. Night watches can be kept from the bench in the salon, which faces forward.

The Outremer team will present the Outremer 52 at the 2024 Miami International Boat Show in February. Adjacent to the boat show, on February 17, Grand Large Yachting will host a comprehensive day-long seminar featuring industry experts, trainers and seasoned sailors. This event will cover a wide range of topics, from cruising routes and understanding weather patterns, to ensuring safety both on board and at sea.

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The most important word when jibing is control. The helmsperson, sail trimmers and entire crew need to be diligent. The mainsail boom will swing across the boat with great force if important steps are not taken. There are many cases of serious injuries to unsuspecting crew who were hit in the head by the boom, or who tumbled overboard with the rapid change of course.

By contrast, completing a successful jibe provides great satisfaction when executed with precision.  

The best time to jibe is when a boat is sailing at full speed. The force of the apparent wind on a sail is less when sailing swiftly, which makes steering easy. The reason to jibe is to head on a more direct course toward a desired destination, or to take advantage of a shift in wind.

In advance of a jibe, one person, who is usually steering, should hail the crew about the intention to jibe. This is the proper time to assign specific duties to each crewmember so that everyone is clear about their role during the jibe.  

Once in proper position, the crew should stand by for a countdown to the maneuver. The helmsperson should turn the boat slowly, leaving no one caught off guard. Verbally state the new course, and visually look at any references, such as objects on shore or other boats, to know where the boat will be heading after the jibe.   

The sail trimmer should trim in the sails as the boat makes the turn. This is particularly important with the mainsail. Keep the sail under control so that the boom doesn’t swing wildly across the deck. Trim in the mainsail as the boat turns, and let it out rapidly as the sails fill on the new course. Just before the mainsail swings over, the helmsperson should hail, “Heads!” This will alert the crew to keep their heads low. 

In heavy wind, the ­helmsperson can execute an S-course jibe. Just as the mainsail is swinging across, the helmsperson turns the boat briefly in the direction the mainsail is heading. This action depowers the wind’s force on the mainsail. Once the boat is on the new course, the mainsail can be eased out to its most efficient position. The course that is steered is the shape of the letter S.

In winds less than 10 knots, most boats will jibe through 70 to 90 degrees. In stronger winds, a boat will jibe through 60 degrees or less. In a good blow, I suggest easing off the boom vang and securing the traveler in one place before jibing. This will depower the pressure on the sails and the rig.   

The jibing process is more complicated when a ­spinnaker is being flown. If the ­spinnaker is symmetrical with a ­spinnaker pole, then the helmsperson should be particularly careful when steering. The foredeck crew needs to exert downward and forward pressure on the spinnaker pole to keep it under control as it is being rehooked to the mast.   

Avoid rapid turns. Give your crew adequate time to shift the spinnaker pole. The sail trimmer in the cockpit is positioned to keep the sail full. Good teamwork is the key.

In recent years, the asymmetrical spinnaker has become a popular sail. I find that inside jibes are generally more efficient. This is when the sail passes inside the fore-triangle. The sail trimmer eases out the old sheet so that there is plenty of line to trim on the new jibe. The turn of the boat is usually a little faster than when jibing with a symmetrical sail, but it should not be any faster than the sail trimmer can move the sail from one side of the boat to the other. Continue changing course smoothly and constantly when jibing with an asymmetrical spinnaker. A pause can cause the sail to wrap.   

I find it interesting how many modern yachts resort to roller furling systems to handle forward sails. This applies to headsails and staysails. The sail is simply rolled up before jibing and rolled back out after the jibing maneuver is complete.  

I suppose I could add a technique or two for schooners and other multimast boats.  For example, schooners set a gollywobbler between the masts. On some schooners, it is best to have two of these quadrilateral sails ready to set on either jibe. When it is time to change course and jibe, take down one and hoist up the other on the new jibe. You just need two sails. But that is a story for another day. 

5 keys to safe jibing

1. Give the crew ample warning that a jibe is about to take place.
2. Assign each crewmember a specific job.
3. Keep the mainsail under control; don’t let the boom fly across the boat.
4. Look for a reference point on land to head for on the new course.
5. Do not turn the boat too quickly.

Hall of Fame sailor Gary Jobson is a CW editor-at-large. 

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As active seasonal ­cruisers seeking winter warmth, usually in the Bahamas, my husband, Radd, and I have spent many winter holidays aboard our Island Packet 40, Sasha, far away from family and friends back home. We do miss the gatherings and traditions, but no matter where we are, we try to embrace new ways of celebrating—joining local celebrations or attending local services—while preserving a few tried-and-true traditions from our land life. 

Nassau, on New Providence Island in the Bahamas, was the backdrop for one of our most memorable holidays. We arrived a few days before Christmas, got settled, and then set out to explore. That day’s mission was to visit the Bacardi distillery.

In all our cruising ­destinations, when venturing beyond walking distance of our harbor, we always use whatever public transportation is available (if any). Yes, we’re frugal cruisers, but public transport is a great way to interact with local people and absorb the culture. It’s always far more interesting than taking a taxi.

In Nassau, we were lucky: There’s an extensive bus system. New Providence is a fairly large island; if you want to head away from Nassau harbor and the downtown area to the island’s south side (“over the hill,” as the locals say), you must hail a taxi, get a ride or take the bus. 

After ensuring that we were going in the right direction, we asked our friendly bus driver if the Bacardi distillery was on the route. 

“No,” he replied, with a ­sorrowful head shake. Then, his face lit up with a wide smile. “But I’ll take you there.”

And away we went, the only two riders on the bus.

Once we got “over the hill,” we discovered a whole different world: homes with yards, small shopping centers, and no tourists. Eventually, we were out in the country. The driver took us right to the distillery’s entrance. We expressed our heartfelt thanks, and then he asked, “What time do you want me to pick you up?” 

The friendliness and ­courtesy of the Bahamian people are astounding.

After a pleasant tour and, of course, a rum tasting, we emerged with several bottles of Bacardi to restock our near-empty liquor locker on board. Sure enough, our new friend retrieved us at the ­appointed hour, and back “over the hill” we went.

Back on the boat, feeling festive, I formulated a plan. For as long as I can remember, my mom made special cookies for Christmas Eve. They were moist and creamy, with a hint of peanut butter perfectly ­complemented by chocolate centers. She always used packaged Brach’s Chocolate Stars, so we called them Star Cookies.

Of course, she passed down the recipe, one she’d modified through trial and error. I began to gather ingredients on the boat and realized that I had everything but the chocolate stars. It didn’t matter: The cookies are delicious with any small, solid-chocolate candy pieces for the centers. You can use dark chocolate, milk chocolate, even white chocolate.

When Christmas Eve arrived, we rode the city bus again, this time to attend a holiday service at the magnificent 300-year-old Christ Church Cathedral, a Nassau landmark. In yet another demonstration of Bahamian courtesy, a different driver apologized profusely for not being able to take us directly there but promised he’d get us within a short walk. We both wore wide smiles as easy-­listening Christmas carols blared out of the bus speakers. 

Late that night, back aboard Sasha, we feasted on the cookies, along with eggnog spiced with fresh nutmeg and a healthy shot of our recently acquired rum. Turns out it’s possible to be home for the holidays after all.

Star Cookies (yields 30 cookies)

Ingredients:

• 1¾ cups flour
• 1 tsp. baking soda
• ½ tsp. salt
• ¾ cup butter
• ¾ cup creamy peanut butter
• ½ cup sugar plus ½ cup more for rolling 
• ½ cup brown sugar
• 1 egg
• 1 tsp. vanilla
• About 30 small chocolate pieces
• Powdered sugar, for dusting (optional)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Sift together flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside. 

Cream together butter, peanut butter, ½ cup sugar and ½ cup brown sugar. Add egg and vanilla. Beat well, then mix until consistency is like dough. (It will be slightly wet.) 

Line a cookie sheet with baking paper. With your hands, form the dough into 1½-inch balls (about the size of a ping pong ball), and roll each ball in the remaining ½ cup sugar. Place about 2 inches apart on cookie sheet. 

Bake for 8 minutes. Remove from the oven, place a chocolate piece on each cookie, and press firmly. Return the cookies to the oven and bake for 2 to 5 more minutes, or until the cookies are golden-brown and set. 

Let the cookies cool, and then sprinkle them with powdered sugar, especially if you miss snow. 

Prep time: 1 hour
Difficulty: Medium
Can be made: at anchor

Cook’s Note: 

Use a 1-tablespoon measuring spoon to scoop out raw cookie dough, then roll to shape into balls. A heaping tablespoon makes a perfect-size dough ball.

Do you have a favorite boat recipe? Send it to us for possible inclusion 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 high-resolution digital photos of you aboard your boat, to sailorandgalley@cruisingworld.com.

The post Sailor & Galley: Home for the Holidays appeared first on Cruising World.

ePropulsion has announced the launch of its X Series outboard engines. The X Series comprises three innovative electric outboard motors, the X12, X20 and X40, offering dependable electric propulsion with user-friendly features for eco-conscious cruisers. 

“With the new, incredible power that this line provides, we’re looking at a great opportunity to spread ePropulsion further in the market of electric propulsion in the United States,” said Tom Watson, President of ePropulsion USA. “Across the globe and here in North America, we’re looking forward to the X Series further propelling ePropulsion to a position of leadership as it sets the new standard for what electric propulsion is and can do.”

All motors in the new series offer a total powertrain efficiency of 88.2 percent. The X12 features 12kW power, the X20 generates 20kW of power and the X40, which made its debut at the 2023 Fort Lauderdale International Boat Show, boasts a massive 40kW of power. ePropulsion’s R&D team formulated a unique algorithm for the X Series’ propellers, refining over 20 key metrics to ensure optimal hydrodynamic performance. The new range incorporates frequency resonance isolation and vibration dampening technology, resulting in a quiet design that creates less vibration than comparable outboards.

Weighing up to 36 percent less than traditional motors, the X Series features a compact, fully integrated design. All motors in the series unify electric steering, power trim/tilt, the electric control unit (ECU) and the controller within a single assembly, simplifying installation and optimizing onboard space. 

The X Series features the ePropulsion Smart System Architecture (eSSA), which the company says will facilitate a seamless, worry-free experience for boaters. According to the manufacturer, the modular architecture of eSSA not only assures simple system configuration but also supports the integration of renewable energy systems for an enhanced, sustainable experience on the water. 

Engineered for intuitive and effortless operation, the X Series offers an accessible experience even for those new to boating. The digital helm and smart throttles provide instantaneous feedback, while the electric steering eliminates the need for cumbersome hydraulic components. This refined steering mechanism opens the door to Advanced Driving Assistance Systems that improve safety and redefine aquatic navigation. Cutting-edge driving assistance features like “Position Hold” and “Heading Hold” and “360 Motions” offer additional safety-focused options.

With a technologically advanced design, the X Series offers boaters a comfortable, responsive experience with its connectivity functions. The ePropulsion Connectivity Service is available for users of all motors within the X Series, so they can stay connected with their boat remotely, accessing real-time boat and system status with advanced monitoring, reporting and tracking.

Fully compliant with the latest IEC standards, the X40 is IP67 waterproof and built to yield a minimum service life of 5,000 hours. The motor is fully compatible with existing ePropulsion accessories including the Smart Throttle, Digital Helm, Smart Display, Propellers, G102-100 Battery, Battery Charger, Solar Charger Controller, MPPT and DC-DC.

“The inclusion of the X Series in our ever-expanding electric propulsion portfolio marks a significant step forward in electric propulsion systems,” said Danny Tao, Co-Founder and CEO of ePropulsion. “The X Series is the result of extensive R&D and we are always looking to go above and beyond the industry standards. With the advanced X Series, we deliver more than electric propulsion, it’s an intelligent and integrated platform accessible for consumers and OEM clients, ensuring a quieter, cleaner boating experience.”

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Sailing south from Lefkas in the Greek Ionian Sea, I found a calm anchorage in a ­deserted cove on the east side of the hilly, wooded island of Ithaca. This was the home of Homer’s hero Odysseus, who was seeking to return home to his wife, Penelope. I, on the other hand, was seeking to get away from home and find a secure anchorage for the night. In deference to Odysseus, I kept the sails up in a desultory 10-knot breeze. I was always a sucker for the appearance of inauthentic antiquity. My Hanse 415 Adagio’s refrigeration, however, remained on with the Greek beer chilled. Odysseus would have been thrilled; the god Poseidon, probably not.

The next morning, I sat down in the cockpit to enjoy a freshly brewed cup of coffee. No sooner had I settled down than I heard the raucous noise of a high-speed powerboat. 

The only vessels that traveled that fast in the Mediterranean, apart from Italian speedboat cowboys, were the coast guard. Sure enough, the Hellenic Coast Guard roared into the bay and, slowing only a little, executed a tight U-turn around my boat. Their wake rocked Adagio violently. Annoyed, I nevertheless waved with what I hoped might be taken as a friendly but not overly familiar gesture. With no acknowledgment, and seemingly assured that there were no illegal migrants or unsanctioned toga parties aboard my ­Italian-flagged vessel, they sped off into the horizon. Paradise, or the illusion thereof, is invariably a fleeting phenomenon.

With no agenda or itinerary other than to get Adagio out of the water and fly home to Southern California in early November, I returned to my coffee and pondered the day. Avoid expectations, be open to what shows up, and let the day unfold, I reminded myself. The thought of calling my office or clients in the States did not even occur to me.

Conventional-cruising narratives had always told me that to genuinely experience a cruising lifestyle in locations such as the Mediterranean, I needed to fully drop out from my domesticated land life. This would include abandoning my ­business and the work I enjoyed, my friends, skiing, my home, and my physical-­fitness routine. For me, however, this posed what I initially saw as an insoluble conundrum: Did I really want to be that liberated?

As much as I was passionate about cruising, I also loved my lifestyle in Ventura, California, and, yes, my joint-custody dog, Murphy, from a recent divorce.

In 2008, at age 60, I came to the stark realization that my biggest enemy in life was time. This awareness led me to the conclusion that if I were going to live the balance of my life to its fullest, then I needed to start doing it now. I did not want to have any regrets, and I dreaded finding myself in a conversation with my orthopedist that began: “Well, Jim, you know you are at an age where you need to start slowing down. Have you considered taking up miniature golf?”

In the fall of that year, I chose to do the Baja Ha-Ha—the fun cruise from San Diego to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico—with a friend. For the balance of the fall, winter and early spring, I mostly solo-sailed my 41-foot Wauquiez in the amazing Sea of Cortez.

I discovered that I thrived in solitude with total self-reliance, and I loved the ability to get away from it all, if only for two to three weeks at a time. Moving around the sea, I would berth my vessel in a secure marina for several weeks, and fly home to resume my work and land life in Ventura.

By fall 2015, I had spent two seasons in the Pacific Northwest, two seasons in Mexico, and eight months in the Hawaiian Islands following the Transpac race. Commuter cruising, as I came to call it, had become a chosen and well-trodden—albeit still adventuresome—lifestyle. I had become comfortable, if not confident, in my ability to schedule and meld my work, my team, and my cruising life. This skill allowed me to spend at least three to four months a year on the water.

In winter 2015-16, I looked for new commuter-cruising grounds. Cruising to the South Pacific did not appeal to me; where could I park the boat and return home? Nor did I relish long, solitary ocean passages. My limited bareboat experience in the Caribbean had left me with the impression—superficial, to be sure—that there was a repetitive sameness to these admittedly beautiful islands. The Mediterranean, on the other hand, held the allure of a rich history, varied cultures, big cities, quaint villages, and a friendly and engaging people. It also offered an established cruising infrastructure and secure marinas. I rationalized that if I continued working, I could afford to purchase a better boat in the Mediterranean.

I bought the three-year-old Adagio in spring 2016 just outside Genoa, Italy, and began the first of four seasons, each one around five months, in the Mediterranean. My initial goal was to cruise the entire Med in two years. I subsequently modified that to a more realistic four years.

Adapting my flexible itinerary to such constraints as the pesky 90-day EU visa and the reality that there is, at best, a Mediterranean cruising season of six to seven months, I soon developed a lifestyle that had me in the Med in early April and out of the water in early November. I’d return to California in July and August for a five- to six-week working hiatus. My time afloat in the Med became more like two- to three-month mini sabbaticals, and my working life adapted accordingly.

July and August in the Mediterranean were hot, crowded and expensive. Did I really want to be seen in trendy marinas in that heat while paying more than $400 a night for a mooring, if I could even get one? Cruising in the shoulder seasons, however, came with the challenge of more-variable weather. The sailor’s adage that the wind blows either too much or not at all in the Med I found to be especially affirmed in the spring and fall.

One of the pluses of cruising the Med is that it rarely required me as a solo cruiser to do any overnight sailing. And I was almost always within cellular range. Now, with devices such as Starlink and videoconferencing, conducting business afloat in the Mediterranean is no more difficult than doing it remotely in the US, aside from the time difference.

Like any cruising area, the Mediterranean does have its drawbacks and risks. There are some definite no-go areas, such as most of North Africa and the Middle East. And there is the ongoing illegal migrant crisis. 

And then there is the challenge of Med mooring singlehanded—especially in Greek and Turkish waters, where I needed to drop the anchor and back down, all while steering to hit my slot on the quay. It’s a good case for having three hands, or four if you have a bow thruster, which Adagio did not have. As with much of cruising, you adapt, though I would still embarrass myself from time to time.

The Mediterranean also offered an unexpected bonus: the opportunity to engage with a friendly, culturally diverse cruising community at anchor and in the marinas. Singlehanded cruisers are a bit of a rarity in the Med (I met only one other) and a curiosity. I got used to predictable questions of “How do you do it?” and “Don’t you get lonely?” Yes, I would think, that’s why I initiated this conversation with you. Some would speak of having met other solo sailors, invariably prefaced with the word “crazy,” as in, “He was a crazy Swede.” Perhaps I earned the moniker of “that crazy old American who ran and had a rowing machine on his boat.”

My advice to aspiring commuter cruisers is to start with a smaller boat and go for shorter durations. Learn, adapt and, in some cases, endure.

Most of us have multiple passions in life. For me, these became particularly hard to let go of the older I became. Is there a way for each of us to craft a ­cruising lifestyle that allows us to pursue all of these? I believe there is. Leap, as nature essayist John Burroughs put it, and the net will appear. 

Jim Eisenhart is the author of the ­forthcoming book Nomad Sailor: Adventures Commuter Cruising the Mediterranean. He currently owns a Moody DS41 and has been commuter-­cruising the US East Coast and Bahamas. 

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Your choice of which dinghy to carry aboard is pivotal to successful cruising. This is especially true if your cruising kitty is small. A good dinghy is a requirement for frugal cruising. 

Notice that I wrote carry aboard. I never tow a dinghy that I don’t want to lose. Why? Basic seamanship. Squalls approach fast. A swamped or flipped dinghy is a major problem offshore—for you and the environment. Painters can end up in the prop. Personal watercraft run over the tow lines. Towed dinghies get caught on navigational buoys, lobster pots and bridge fenders. 

Towing a tender is fraught with complications. Even a skillful boathandler can get into trouble approaching a slip while towing a dinghy. And being forced into your gyrating dinghy while at sea exposes you to extreme risk. Many a sailor has met Davy Jones just after pulling in their dinghy, casually hopping aboard, ambling aft, and leaning toward their outboard—just as the painter sharply takes up and catapults them over the outboard and into the water.

I’ve known three sailors who have ended up overboard this way. One was in the Lesser Antilles, without anyone in the crew even noticing. There’s one thing that every offshore sailor dreads: watching the transom recede as their vessel sails away. 

Yes, innocent choices can have severe consequences. And we haven’t even talked about the evil dinghies themselves. 

Offshore, dinghies can seem demoniacally possessed, ­especially while running downwind in heavy weather. They can hole your boat or wipe off its rudder or twist up the self-steering gear. I’ve even had dinghies pass me—then stop immediately ahead. Having a rigid-tender ­submarine zigzagging 50 feet beneath the surface like a berserk shark is no fun.  

One more tip: Never tow kids you love astern in the dinghy without an assigned watcher. Do this only with someone else’s bilge brats.

But seriously, the first ­question to think about when choosing a dinghy is: rigid or inflatable? 

I love to row, so we carried a Lawton-designed, fiberglass Graves tender for 15 years aboard Carlotta, our 36-foot Endurance ketch. Rowing is great exercise and a wonderful way to meet your fellow cruisers. It’s quiet and nonpolluting—two nice qualities if you reside on a warming planet like I do. 

If well-constructed, these dinghies are almost ­indestructible. At worst, you might injure one cosmetically, but it is almost impossible to destroy a Tortola-style dinghy, even in boisterous trade winds amid sharp reefs. 

Unfortunately, everything is a compromise. Well-constructed also means heavy. Of course, these heavy, rigid dinghies do more damage than the lighter, softer ones. So, I always tell my passengers to “keep your hands inside the dinghy.” They always comply until, suddenly, they don’t, and jam their hands between the surging dinghy and the immovable dock.

If you row a rigid tender, always remove the oar horns before coming alongside a ­vessel—especially if the ­graceful vessel has long ­overhangs. Dinghies yanked under a counter (or multihull wing) can do major ­damage in an instant during an ­unexpected wake. 

Ash oars are best. Oar leathers aren’t just about style; copper blade tips will greatly extend the oar’s life. Yes, the sailor and the length of the oar are related for best results. Of course, you should learn to feather your oars, and stow them in such a manner that they can’t be yanked into the water by the painter or float away if the dinghy is swamped. (Consider an oar lock through the thwart as well.)

Here’s a sad fact: If a dinghy rows well, it powers poorly. And vice versa. 

Stowage is another factor. Davits are cool on monohulls if you sail in, say, a swimming pool. It is best to stow a dinghy upside down on the foredeck while offshore in monohulls smaller than 70 feet long. We think of our foredeck dinghy as our backup life raft. And we put extra water and bulkier survival gear under it—in suitably tied-in watertight containers. 

Part of seamanship is to, again and again, prepare for the worst while expecting (and, hopefully, experiencing) the best. We’ve never used our dinghy as a life raft (or our life raft as a life raft, for that matter), which is exactly why we prepare it so diligently before each offshore passage. Just in case. 

In blue water, I carry a knife with me at all times (even sleeping), and I have dive knives made of 316 stainless steel in my cockpit and on my foredeck. Think about having to launch your dinghy while sinking, at night, naked and disoriented, after being hit by freighter. Those knives just might come in handy.

Currently, we have a 10.5-foot Caribe RIB for a tender, as we have for the past couple of circumnavigations. With a Tohatsu 9.8-­horsepower outboard (lighter than most and super dependable), the Caribe planes with both of us aboard, along with a case of beer and a full gas tank. This dinghy is small enough to hoist easily into our davits while coastal cruising in light-air venues such as Southeast Asia, or to bring on deck if we venture offshore. 

While initially expensive, the Caribes generally give us 12 years or two circumnavigations. This makes them quite affordable. How do we get twice the longevity that the average cruiser experiences? We always keep our tender protected by a Sunbrella cover, and we are careful where and for how long we leave it. 

The Achilles’ heel of modern inflatables isn’t abrasion; it’s puncture. Keep the tender away from sharp objects. I’ve poked a small hole from a nail sticking out of a dock, and my wife, Carolyn, barely touched a piling with a sole oyster that made a 6-foot slit in a ­dinghy’s starboard pontoon (that took three laborious attempts to fix). 

Sadly, some popular ­anchorages are regularly visited by organized dinghy thieves. An older guy, in his 20s, piles a bunch of local kids into his boat, gives them each a knife, and drops them all into the water. The kids cut the dinghy painters as they swim through the anchorage at 3 a.m. The older guy eventually collects all the drifting ­dinghies and swimming kids. 

We had our dinghy out of the water in South America when this happened in one anchorage, and were the only anchored cruisers with a dinghy left come morning. 

Now, about folding ­dinghies: They fold well. At least that’s what the guy with all the dripping cameras around his neck told me after I fished him out of the water off St. Barts. 

And while I love T-tops, ­center-consoles and fast boats, I keep my own dinghy as simple and light as possible. Sadly, too heavy and too light are both problems. When I had a lightweight 2-horsepower outboard on my inflatable, it would flip so often that I painted the outboard with antifouling inside the case. (To avoid this problem, pull the transom plug at anchor during a sudden squall. The inflatable dinghy won’t sink and will never flip, even in a gale.)

Another bonus of inflatables is that other yachties don’t cringe like they do if you approach their boat in a rigid tender, especially one lacking a soft rub rail. 

I was amazed in Western Samoa to have a fellow Virgin Islander come up and rail-cling while his heavy wooden tender banged repeatedly into my delicate gelcoat. When I said something like, “Careful, don’t allow your dinghy to hit my boat,” he just grinned, took another swig of his bottle of rum, and replied: “Don’t worry, Fatty. My rail is air-dried oak and through-bolted. Not a problem.”

Sure, for him.

One of the reasons we love our inflatable so much is because it saves us money while providing us with so much peace and tranquility. Marinas can be expensive, noisy and hot, so we almost never tie up. However, the anchorage closest to a marina is often also crowded. Our lightweight dinghy and its powerful engine allow us to anchor amid nature a couple of miles away, and yet have all the benefits of civilization when we want and need them. (We also have good ground tackle, a stout companionway locking system, and a loud burglar-alarm system on the main boat.)

It’s great to be able to sail a couple of miles to the inlet, catch a hundred pounds of grouper and snapper, and sail back again without raising a sweat.

Sailing tenders are another option, especially if you spend four months in deserted Chagos, as we did. It’s great to be able to sail a couple of miles to the inlet, catch a hundred pounds of grouper and snapper to share with the entire anchorage, and sail back again without raising a sweat. Or making noise. Or polluting in a pristine paradise. 

Alas, everything is a compromise. Rigs, a rudder, sails, and centerboards all take up room and cost money. I love sailing tenders dearly, but the confusion and weight of the gear doesn’t help you while passagemaking. Having clean, clear decks is a safety advantage offshore, especially in a breeze. 

On the plus side, there’s no denying how romantic sailing tenders are. If we have long-term guests aboard, we often disappear for an hour or two because (we tell them) the wind dropped on the other side of the island.

One more thing: If you haul out your dinghy each evening, as we do, it probably will never be stolen or acquire too much growth. However, it you leave it in the water, the clingy barnacles will certainly discover it. Sure, you can paint it with antifouling, but then, on passage, you, your sails and your sheets will gradually turn blue (as happened to us). 

If you don’t paint it, you’ll have to take it to the beach regularly, empty it, remove the outboard, and flip the dinghy over to scrape it. That’s not the bad part; the bad part is that it is easy to damage the RIB’s fabric while cleaning it. We’ve learned this the expensive way. Thus, we hoist at sundown, a nightly ritual in my life for 63 years now. 

The bottom line is that a proper tender, properly tended to, will save you money and time as it brings you joy. Seamanship is important. The wrong tender in the wrong sea at the wrong time at the wrong end of a tow rope can cost a life.

The choice is yours.

The post On Watch: Tender Feelings appeared first on Cruising World.

Cruisers often bypass the small and lesser-­known southeastern Bahamian islands on their windward passage through the Exumas on their way south to the Caribbean. But they shouldn’t. Take the advice of Bruce Van Sant, legendary sailor and author of The Gentleman’s Guide to Passages South: “Don’t rush through the islands; they are too perfect.” So, Google up a map, friends, and follow along. 

Because the Bahamas are shallow, the water they occupy in the North Atlantic Ocean is that much lighter, and, frankly, more beautiful than the Caribbean Sea. You can sail for miles in 10 to 15 feet of the lightest hues of blues and turquoise, suddenly plunge into thousands of feet of dark blue ocean, and return to shallow turquoise toward the edge of the next island. The shelf acts and feels like a large V.

Conception Island is possibly the most beautiful of all the Bahamian islands and is only 45 nautical miles northeast of popular George Town on Great Exuma Island. As Van Sant suggests, to reach Conception Island, anchor the night before just south of George Town at Fowl Cay, an uninhabited island with a small swimming beach. This will save you 4 miles of motoring to exit Great Exuma. Raise your mainsail at first light, and a southwestern wind will give you one long, straight starboard tack to Conception Island. Uninhabited and pristine, the beach has water so clear, you’ll swear you can drink it. The whole island is less than 3 miles at its widest, and it’s low-lying like all the small Bahamian islands, making it almost unnoticeable on electronic or paper charts.

The Bahamas National Trust has designated Conception Island a national park, which protects conch, fish and lobsters. The coral heads and reefs that surround the island make for great snorkeling and diving. At high tide, an entrance to a creek two-thirds of the way down the western side allows you to dinghy into mangrove flats to see turtles, sharks, conch and other marine life.  

To relax, simply walk the deserted white sandy beach and let your mind wander in your escape to this stunningly beautiful anchorage. Or, from the deck of your boat, simply stare at the magnificent crescent-shaped beach, and imagine why no more than five sailboats and catamarans are anchored outside the island on any given day.  

Like this solo sailor, you might chance upon the only other sailors on the beach who happen to know the Bahamas like the backs of their hands. If you are fortunate, like me, they will buddy-sail with you 35 nautical miles northeast to San Salvador. There, anchor in deep white sand just east of the only town on the island, and your new friends will take you to their favorite coral head, where they will spear two huge spiny lobsters and share their spoils in a tasty dinner on their catamaran. For thanks, buy them cocktails the next day at one of the only open bars ­overlooking the beach.

Sparsely populated and somewhat larger than Conception, San Salvador Island hosts a handful of small resorts and, surprisingly, an airport that brings in daily flights from Florida. Still, it maintains the feel of a quiet and secluded Caribbean island. You can walk the traffic-free main road, and a friendly local might drive you to one of the two small grocery stores on the island. Much controversy surrounds the claim that Columbus made his first landfall in the New World at San Salvador Island, though a plaque on a building in the middle of town states that he landed there October 12, 1492.

From San Salvador Island, you can sail 30 miles southwest to Rum Cay in prevailing east winds. (An island with the word rum in it must be good.) Find yourself wind-protected on the absurdly beautiful, quiet and pristine Flamingo Bay on the western edge of the island. Your charts will show a submerged wreck, giving you fair warning to watch the depth and weave the coral heads using eyeball navigation. You can sleep soundly under a clear sky and shining stars in tranquil water. Among life’s finer experiences, one should enjoy a morning cup of coffee on the bow of a gently swaying sailboat in a warm, clear bay that is yours and yours alone. Dinghy to the deserted shore to create the only tracks on the white-powder beach.

On a rising sun, sail out of Flamingo Bay against an east wind to seek civilization around the corner to Port Nelson, the only inhabited town on the island, with reportedly fewer than 100 residents. With a handful of tacks, you will turn a 6-mile sail into 15 glorious sailing miles where you will see small flying fish burst out of the water to escape predators. At 30 miles in total area but still tiny in size, Rum Cay dwarfs Conception Island.

Port Nelson consists of a welcome sign and a government dock that accepts a mail boat three times a month. Near the dock, you might find yourself at The Last Chance, a ramshackle bar with sand floors, a pool table and a book rack. Kaye Wilson, the proprietor, will sell you a Bahamian beer for $3, a dozen eggs for $8 or a bag of frozen green beans for $6. She also will make you the tastiest burger for $12 and serve it in a foil wrap rather than on a plate. 

You might chat up the only other patrons, two Bahamian police officers also enjoying a lunchtime burger. Even though the island is crime-free and all residents know one another, the officers are on daily foot patrol. One might be wearing a polo shirt, while the uniform of the other is a ball cap and T-shirt that say “police.”

Don’t shy away from requesting a police escort to the only other open eatery, the Ocean View Restaurant, an establishment with wood floors that’s been proudly owned for 45 years by Ruby Bain. Her son will serve you a Guinness in a bottle delivered to the island on a mailboat. I watched in awe as she affectionately taught one of the officers a local song. After you share a beverage with the police and they insist that you stay on the otherwise sleepy Rum Cay for a weekend festival, you know that you have met some of the friendliest people on Earth.

To seek protection from an oncoming stiff and persistent eastern blow, depart Rum Cay at 4 a.m. and motorsail 30 degrees off an east wind to reach the western side of Crooked Island in daylight, some 60 miles southeast. You might find several sailboats and catamarans already there seeking shelter. 

At Crooked Island, it is impossible not to make new sailing friends, either on the beach or at Gibson’s Restaurant, where they seat customers, mostly sailors, cafeteria-style on a long table. They serve everyone the same delicious fare of locally caught fish, meat and vegetables.

Take the advice of legendary sailor and author Bruce Van Sant: “Don’t rush through the islands; they are too perfect.” 

At Crooked Island, you also might be lucky, like me, to find a stainless-steel spear pole washed up on the beach that you can use to spear your own lobsters. If you need diesel and water, motor a few miles to the Crooked Island Lodge and Marina, the only marina on the island. You might as well spend one night there instead of rolling on anchor in the big blow. The ­marina’s knowledgeable ­general manager will show you the nearby coral heads to hunt lobsters. (Using the ­newfound pole spear, this ­novice ­fisherman came up empty-handed, but the ­marina’s chef prepared a lobster dinner for me, the restaurant’s only customer for the night.)  

Sailors can do major provisioning at the marina for Bahamian beer, wine, local fish, vegetables, frozen hamburgers and delicious rolls. And what the marina does not have, the general manager will drive you 4 miles to find at the small grocery store. The marina is undergoing big renovations, including new hotel rooms, small cabana-like lodges, a new restaurant and a pool. It is also enlarging its jetty, so boats will enjoy a swell-free dock experience.

So far, you will have had days of pain-free windward sailing. That might end as you sail east toward the lightly populated Mayaguana Island, a staging ground for a ­southeast run to Turks and Caicos. If you have no time to wait for a favorable wind north of east, you might ­experience moderate bow-bashing and ­wave-crashing sailing to the small and uninhabited West Plana Cay, a good stop-off 43 miles toward Mayaguana. After you pass Acklins Island off your starboard and you steer 30 or so degrees south, the waves begin to behave, and you will reach West Plana Cay in calm conditions.  

Again, you will have all to yourself another beautiful ­turquoise-blue bay protected by an east wind, and you will ask why you are not ­spending long days there reading, beachcombing, fishing, ­sleeping, and just enjoying your escape from civilization. 

Last, the 37-mile east sail from West Plana Cay to Abraham’s Bay on Mayaguana will likely be similarly uncomfortable. Protected by a barely visible long stretch of coral reef, Abraham’s Bay will feel like you are ­anchoring in 15 feet of open ocean, but the overnight roll will be ­moderate and easy to handle. 

The next day, sail east in 14 miles of pain-free ­tacking across a small bay to Southeastern Point, where Van Sant suggests that you stage your departure to Turks and Caicos. From this point, you will have a better ­southward angle to sail a reach to Sapodilla Bay on the Caicos banks.

Damian LaPlaca is currently in Puerto Rico aboard his Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 39i Performance, Beckon.

The post Cruising the Southeastern Bahamian Islands appeared first on Cruising World.

I’m no Ernest Shackleton. I live in Hawaii, and I love the warm weather and clear blue waters of the tropics. Having done a little high-latitude sailing, I have to admit that freezing weather is not my favorite. My boat doesn’t even have a heater.

Yet here I was with Tracy, a surfing friend from Hawaii, ripping down Puget Sound at 12 knots under spinnaker, in the dead of winter. I had on about 10 layers, two puffy jackets, gloves, boots and a hat. I also had a huge smile on my face.

This was shaping up to be an ideal adventure, filled with solitude and unexpected experiences. It was also some of the best sailing I’d done on my Jeanneau 509, Kāholo. And it had all started with simple necessity: I had to move the boat to get new canvas.

In 2021, I had sailed ­new-to-me Kāholo 5,000 miles, across the Atlantic and the length of the Caribbean, from Portugal to Panama. While soaking under the torrential rains of Panama, I realized I definitely needed new canvas. Once we got to the Pacific Northwest, I learned that Iverson’s Canvas in Olympia, Washington, had a yearslong waiting list. And its team would not travel to your boat. Like the Soup Nazi in Seinfeld said, “No soup for you!” Unless you were ­prepared to travel.

Olympia is on the South Sound near Tacoma, 80 miles south of my winter berth in La Conner, near the San Juan Islands. Although I managed to secure a spot on Iverson’s busy schedule, the only date its team could do the work was in mid-February, the coldest month of the year.

Well aware of the shifting weather systems in Puget Sound, I stacked things in my favor by leaving plenty of time to choose a weather window. As luck would have it, a high-­pressure system was set to fill in, bringing a favorable, but very cold, northerly wind. To get ready for the next day’s northerlies, Tracy and I made a short sail out to the historic town of Coupeville on Whidbey Island, where we spent time in a warm pub with the colorful local crowd that had replaced the summer tourists. Well-fortified against the cold, we paddled back out to lonesome Kāholo, the only anchor light in the anchorage.

Leaving Coupeville early, we had a serene reach south in calm water, all alone, jibing back and forth across Possession Sound under an asymmetrical spinnaker. It was challenging sailing in shifting winds, amid evergreen-­covered islands down Whidbey, the second-longest island in the United States, after New York’s Long Island.

The wind began to build as we neared the bottom of Whidbey. The helm felt lively. Somewhere around freezing, the wind sent a chill right through me. Adding another puffy jacket at the helm, I was quite comfortable but looked like the Michelin Man.

We blew right past the mooring I’d had in mind for the end of the short winter day, not to mention the alternate destinations I’d marked off in case the weather or the gear failed to cooperate. This was no ordinary sail, and we were having too much fun. We continued south toward Seattle.

Passing the southern tip of Whidbey Island, we sailed into the comparatively open water of Admiralty Inlet. Both the seas and the wind began to build. Now we were reaching at 12 knots with more than 20 knots of apparent wind. This was the upper limit for the spinnaker. The boat was ­handling well, but I could feel the rudder loading up as the boat leapt through the following seas. Rounding up in this wind with the spinnaker would mean taking it down in pieces. Breaking seas to windward alerted me that the wind was still building in the exposed waters of Admiralty Inlet. As the saying goes, any fool can put up a sail, but it takes a sailor to know when to take one down—and I’d ­apparently left it a bit late.

“Tracy!” I called out. “We need to get that spinnaker down. Now!” 

As Tracy hustled forward, I brought the boat downwind to hide the spinnaker behind the main. Tracy tried to douse the sail, but the sock refused to come down. The spinnaker sock lines had become tangled after so many jibes. I managed to balance the boat on a deep reach, with the seas slewing her around and the spinnaker flailing behind the main. I set the autopilot, praying we wouldn’t wrap the sail around the forestay, and jumped forward to help. We managed to untangle the lines while the autopilot miraculously kept us safely off the wind. The sock ­finally slid over the unruly beast and we dropped the sail to the deck with a sigh of relief. After that battle, we were no longer cold. The wind increased to the point to where the working jib was now plenty of sail, and we surfed south to Port Blakely, just across Puget Sound from Seattle on Bainbridge Island.

We arrived as the sun set and the lights of Seattle came alive in a purple sky. We could see the huge marinas of Elliott and Shilshole bays, housing thousands of boats. Yet we were alone, swinging at anchor in a quiet cove at the end of a perfect weekend sailing day. Finally, one other sailboat joined us: a singlehander on his 30-foot Wauquiez. 

With the setting sun, temperatures dipped well below freezing. Luckily, we had thick down comforters on the bunks to keep us warm. In the morning, I found water pooling on the floorboards, something no captain wants to see. Assuming we had a freshwater leak in one of the pressurized lines, I pulled off panels to reveal the hullsides. They were running with water. In freezing temperatures, comparatively warm moist air inside the cabin condenses on the cold hull of the boat “like a cold can of soda on a hot day,” as one sailor described it. I immediately invested in a dehumidifier for use at the dock. The proper solution while underway would, of course, be a diesel heating system. 

The northerlies were still blowing the next day, and we raised the spinnaker again, doing an outside jibe back and forth down serpentine Colvos Passage to Gig Harbor. For an outside jibe, I bring the boat directly downwind, jibe the main to put the boat wing on wing, and then completely release the working spinnaker sheet, letting the spinnaker flag in front of the boat. I then turn the boat through the wind, onto the new tack, and haul in the leeward spinnaker sheet, which is led around the bow on the outside. I can do this singlehanded, and it works like a charm as long as the sheets don’t get snagged on anything. Sadly, they often do, which requires a trip to the foredeck to unsnag them.

Gig Harbor was where we’d planned to meet the team from Iverson’s Canvas. A lively harbor town shadowed by Mount Rainier—with several marinas, a fishing fleet, a strong paddling scene, and lots of maritime history—Gig Harbor was named in the 1800s for Capt. Wilson’s gig, or rowboat, brought into the narrow entrance for shelter. The town is home to Gig Harbor Boat Works, which builds traditional gigs from modern materials.

It was amazing to watch Kyle and Mike, two guys from Iverson’s. They installed custom, large-diameter stainless, and patterned the entire dodger and Bimini top with plastic sheeting, all in a day. They said it would be two weeks for me to receive the dodger and Bimini top, but they were back a day early. The new dodger transformed the cockpit, with better visibility and clear windows. It felt as though I’d been upgraded to an ocean-view home after cowering under an old tent for years. It wasn’t cheap, but it was money well spent.

As luck would have it, sailing north back up Puget Sound was also a downwind run. Southeasterlies are quite common in winter, often associated with the approach of a low-pressure system. This was exactly the case I encountered: An approaching low was sending me 15-knot southeasterlies. I jibed back and forth up the sound, this time singlehanding because Tracy had flown back to Hawaii. Often, I would tangle the sheets on some obstacle on deck or on the anchor, and I’d need to hustle forward to free it. On my last jibe across Admiralty Inlet, on a layline for Port Townsend, I noticed the unmistakable T-shaped mast of a submarine steaming at me en route to the naval yard at Bremerton. Two oceangoing tugs and two US Coast Guard vessels were in escort. Soon, the Coast Guard politely hailed me: “Sailing vessel Kāholo, I see that you are making tracks for Marrowstone Point. We request that you keep as close as you feel safe to the shore. We will be turning right, into your path.” Good thing I was on a layline, with good speed, and didn’t plan another jibe. The consequences of something going wrong were too great.

An old friend, veteran bluewater sailing instructor John Neal with Mahina Expeditions, met me at the dock at Port Townsend. He showed me around the bustling boatyards and introduced me to his favorite sailmaker, Port Townsend Sails, and riggers, Port Townsend Rigging. These are family operations where attention to detail and craftsmanship are the rule. John says that he can get 50,000 to 55,000 miles (two circumnavigations) on a single main and jib built by the craftspeople at Port Townsend Sails, who, by the way, are all women. 

I set out on foot to see the boatyards at Port Townsend, the premier wooden-boat building and repair region on the West Coast. It’s a dynamic place where the next generation of shipwrights learns traditional skills at places such as the Northwest School of Wooden BoatBuilding. I wandered around the yards, amazed at vessels like the 133-foot San Francisco bar pilot cutter Adventuress, built in 1913 and still sailing here. 

Port Townsend is famous for its annual wooden-boat show, but what seems to have escaped worldwide notice is that Kirsten Neuschäfer, the South African sailor who recently became the first woman to win the Golden Globe round-the-world race, sailed a Port Townsend boat: a 36-foot, 1988 fiberglass-hulled version of a traditional 1930s design built by Cape George Marine Works. Her boat was among only three boats to finish the grueling race without pause for repairs, and it survived 235 days at sea around the tempestuous Great Capes—and with Neuschäfer managing to rescue a skipper whose boat had sunk.

Continuing my stroll through Port Townsend on this cold, blustery afternoon, and seeing a small sign advertising “sails and canvas built and repaired” on an old wooden building in the harbor, I ducked into a shop called The Artful Sailor. Engulfed by the smell of tar, hemp and linseed oil, I found Emiliano Marino and Pami-Sue “Salty Sue” Alvarado practicing the ancient art of marlinspike seamanship. The late-afternoon light streaming in through the windows made it look like a scene from an old Dutch painting.

Only in Port Townsend could a sailor encounter a nuclear submarine, see a 1913 schooner and meet a couple practicing traditional marlinspike splicing, all in the same day.

Unfortunately, my luck ran out with the weather, and I sailed the 30 miles up to Deception Pass and to Kāholo’s La Conner slip in full foul-weather gear, in cold, drizzling rain and variable winds. The ending was a bit of a letdown, but overall, this had been an unforgettable voyage, precisely because it had happened in the dead of winter.

Not that I am planning any Shackleton-esque small-boat crossings in the Antarctic, but at least now I understand the beauty of a winter’s sail. Next on the my shopping list? A diesel heater.

Tor Johnson is an award-­winning photographer and writer who has shot 16 covers of CW, so far. He grew up sailing the world with his family.

The post A Winter’s Sail appeared first on Cruising World.

In the early days, when I thought about what it might be like cruising and home-schooling, the vision went something like this:

Warm, dappled morning light streaming in through the open companionway, my daughters working on journal entries. Me making coffee while gathering items for our morning science lesson, which would, of course, tie into that day’s reading assignment. My husband, Green, working on route-planning and navigation exercises over breakfast. After a snorkeling break (with fish and coral identification, naturally), the girls would do math without complaining, and then we’d hunt for shells, which we would somehow turn into an art project. Visits to town would be prefaced by a study of the area’s history. 

There would be lesson plans. We would be organized. Our curriculum would be exciting and relevant, and meet all of the standards from back home. The kids would be engaged and eager to learn.

This was, obviously, a fantasy.

When an old friend reached out recently with questions about home-schooling while cruising, I hesitated to answer—even after a couple of winters sailing south with the kids to the Bahamas. 

Why did I go silent? Because, while some of our days had included some of the elements I’d envisioned, most days saw the kids begrudgingly sitting at the salon table doing some pages in workbooks, with me imploring them to “get school done” so we could go ashore. If we were underway, forget about it. School took a backseat. I was not quite the teacher I had hoped to be—nor was I terribly creative or organized. I worried that they’d be behind their peers, and that I was failing to embrace the opportunities around us. 

Looking for advice that I could pass on to my friend, I reached out to a few veteran cruisers who had many years of “boat-schooling” in their wake. What I discovered was surprising and comforting: What they envisioned wasn’t always what ended up working either, and doubts were common.

What Worked, What Didn’t

When Behan Gifford and her husband, Jamie, set out cruising with their three kids—who were entering preschool, first and fourth grades—they knew they wanted to “de-school.” This is a length of time with less, if any, focus on formal schoolwork. It’s sort of an ease in to home-schooling where you learn what the kids’ natural areas of interest are.

“The idea of de-schooling is that we, parents and kids alike, need time to reset on how learning will happen on board,” Behan Gifford says. “Home-schooling on board doesn’t have to include the stress, the approach or many other aspects of mainstream school.”

It’s one of several approaches that I considered for our girls, Caitlin and Juliana, who were in sixth and first grades when we set out aboard Lyra, our family’s Reliance 44 ketch. Our approach ended up being eclectic. I sort of based our materials on where they had left off with their classes, with the thought that we would fill in with lessons that I made up, related to our surroundings. 

Other options could have been a “school-in-a-box” approach where you order a complete grade-level curriculum, and oftentimes have remote support from a teacher or adviser; an online school where kids log in and do activities each day; or unschooling, which lets the kids follow what interests them. 

The Gifford family, after de-­schooling with their kids, went with a sort of unschooling approach. “Natural learning felt like a natural fit,” Gifford says. “We stuffed the boat with primary resources, from field guides to an encyclopedia set to books about the places we’d be exploring together, and let it flow. There were also standard-issue grade-level workbooks, because if a kid wanted to do that, well, then, that’s what they did. Opportunities to learn were everywhere.”

Erin Carey and her family also had a pretty laid-back approach at the beginning. The family left to go cruising in February 2018 when the kids were 3, 7 and 8, and they cruised the Caribbean for two years before crossing the Atlantic. 

“While we thought school was ­important, we were pretty relaxed and open to finding new ways for the kids to learn,” Carey says. “I decided we didn’t want the school-in-a-box approach because we didn’t want to have to send results home or order books via [snail mail]. We also didn’t want to have to rely on the internet. Our approach completely changed after a couple of years.” 

The Eccles family, whose daughters were 10 and 12 when they set out on the Oyster World Rally in September 2021, began with a more structured approach. 

“When we first left Monaco, we planned for the girls to use a full curriculum from Laurel Springs,” Kate Eccles says. “They offered us a more traditional textbook option rather than online schooling because we knew that Wi-Fi and data would be a challenge, particularly when on passage for weeks at a time. Unfortunately, what we didn’t realize until the girls actually started the schooling was that at the end of every lesson, they were required to do an online test, which of course they were unable to do.”

The Reality

Carey says that she needed to adjust her schooling to reality: “I realized that I was not really creative enough or patient enough to make up lessons each day. I also hated wondering if I was doing enough.”

After a cruising pause during the pandemic, the family continued on to the Mediterranean, where they cruised for almost two years. “For the second time around, we went with the complete opposite kind of curriculum,” Carey says. “We signed up to an online school called Acellus. The kids simply had to open their computers and log in, then watch videos and answer questions based on those videos. In theory, it sounded amazing. It took all of the teaching out of the equation for us, and we never had to worry if they were working at the right grade level.”

This went OK for about six to eight months, and then, the younger kids got bored. The oldest son continued with Acellus, and the family added writing assignments because they felt that the program lacked in that area. They moved the two younger kids into a program called My Homeschool, a curriculum that emphasizes high-quality literature. 

Aboard Lyra, our girls kept up with their workbooks, and I kept my fingers crossed that they would fit in with their classmates once we returned to land. A difference in our situation compared with the other families is that our timeline was much shorter. Our girls wouldn’t get too far off course, but we never really were able to settle into a good rhythm with home-schooling. 

Eccles’ family came to a similar conclusion. “A huge part of the Oyster World Rally for us as parents was that we would expose our children to alternative forms of learning,” she says. “The bulk of our days included learning to sail, to log coordinates on charts, and participate in SSB calls.” 

Her kids also learned to prepare meals, organize provisions, and live in a ­confined space. Patience and hard work were emphasized, and they developed a sense of responsibility by being on time for their watches. 

“They experienced firsthand learning about wildlife, not only in the oceans, but also on land all around the world, from the Galapagos to the Gili islands, and were exposed to an array of different cultures and religions,” she says. “Sure, we knew that the girls possibly might return to regular life weaker in certain areas of the curriculum, however, we felt that the rally really was an education in itself and an experience of a lifetime.”

Lessons Learned

There is no “best” way to home-school on board. What will work for your family might look completely different from the family down the dock, and you will likely go through times when you doubt yourself. 

“Know that the first steps into home-schooling will be uncomfortable, and the approach you take probably won’t work out quite the way you imagined it,” Gifford says. “That’s OK. Reset, and try again. You can always stop, breathe, and reset from the place you find yourself. Most cruising families do this—sometimes a few times—to different degrees. It’s a lot of pressure felt by parents. It’s often not pretty to navigate the delicate roles of parent and teacher or learning facilitator, but we have yet to see dismal failures as long as parents are keeping minds and hearts open to continue trying until they land on the right balance for their kids and themselves.”

Eccles agrees: “Get the kids reading as much as possible. If you can, get them used to using e-readers because this will save a lot of time trying to find bookstores as you go around the world.” 

Also try to see everything that you’re doing as a learning or teaching ­opportunity, she says, and enjoy the adventure. 

Things to Consider

The pandemic changed many aspects of daily life, especially school. “Home-schooling has blossomed,” said Melissa Robb, home-school advocate for ENRICHri, a Rhode Island home-school support group. “It was already on the rise, steadily, across the country, really, across the world, but throw in a pandemic along with a plethora of social issues, and it skyrocketed. With the higher numbers comes more resources in the marketplace and locally via libraries, businesses and museums.” 

This availability of resources has been a game-changer for cruising families, but the options can be overwhelming. Before committing to a full curriculum, ask if your kids can try a few lessons to make sure it’s a good fit. Also keep in mind that many of the ­online-learning options require a robust internet connection (and unlimited data), and some courses have a set class schedule. This could all work well if you’re at a dock with great Wi-Fi, but less so if you’re actively cruising.

Resources include the Kids4Sail Facebook group, made up of cruising families around the world. It has a frequently updated spreadsheet with common curricula that cruising ­families are using.

World Book has textbooks and workbooks in all subject areas, as well as digital resources.

Outschool can help with everything from a one-time drawing class to weekly Spanish lessons. Because these classes are over video, Outschool requires high-speed internet access.

Voyaging With Kids by Behan Gifford, Sara Dawn Johnson and Michael Robertson (available in print and e-book) is a treasure trove of information for any family considering going cruising.

Lesson Plans Ahoy by Nadine Slavinski, third edition (available in print and e-book) covers a variety of subjects and can be adapted for kids ages 4 through 12. 

Jennifer Brett is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Home-Schooling Aboard appeared first on Cruising World.

Aboard our 31-foot Hunter, Ragtime, our dinghy was the unsung hero of our cruising escapades. It was always the first thing we deployed upon arrival to a destination, and it was the last thing we packed away before we departed. It was our family Ford, our Honda for the harbor, our Miata of the marina (I’ll see myself out…). 

To the untrained eye, a dinghy might appear to be no more than a floating dock cart to tote provisions, pets and people. But as cruisers well know, it’s so much more. 

A dinghy is an all-access pass to exploring new coves and reaching short-water fishing spots. It’s a recon vessel for scouting surrounding depth, seafloor terrain and on-shore amenities. And, of course, it’s an escape pod should all hell break loose. A dinghy also provides endless amounts of fun, and even some boathandling education, for the kiddos. 

Ragtime’s dinghy was a 9-foot-6-inch Achilles with a 4 hp Mercury outboard. For 13-year-old me, it allowed a real taste of freedom. We named it Cascade (after Scott Joplin’s jubilant rag “The Cascades”). I can still feel the elation of hopping in the dink after dropping the hook in a new port of call and then roaming around the harbor, checking out neighboring boats, scouring the shallows for marine life. When there were no other boats around and the no-wake zones approved of it, I’d tear off on plane in a puff of sea spray to an imagined finish line across the bay. 

Our Cascade was state-of-the-art back in the ’90s, but it’s a dinosaur compared with offerings from the modern-day dinghy domain. Today, hybrid designs rule, combining the benefits of inflatable and rigid-­hull boats. Lighter-weight materials have enhanced ­portability and improved fuel efficiency. Some manufacturers offer sail-­conversion kits for multipurpose use. (Really, who doesn’t miss dinghy sailing?) Inflation systems have been enhanced; ­modular ­options for seating and stowage are often available; and electric propulsion has staked a serious claim in the power ­department.

 When the time comes to ­replace your dinghy or buy your first one, these four standouts in the market are fit to serve any mothership between 25 and 45 feet.   

Lammina AL 9.5

If strength and durability are atop your checklist, then the AB Lammina AL 9.5 is worth a look. AB’s line of marine-­grade aluminum-­hull ­inflatables comes with AWS certification, Orca 820 Hypalon fabric, and marine-grade aluminum and Axalta powder coating. The Superlight models, available at lengths of 9.5 feet and smaller, have a 0.09-inch-thick aluminum hull and are intended for boats with lighter-capacity davits. The hulls can resist abrasions from rocky shores, coral and sandy beaches, and the design cuts through wakes and chop with minimal pounding, resulting in a dry, stable ride. Check out the well-conceived bow locker and its capacity for a 6-gallon portable fuel tank.

Cadet Series

Compact and easy to stow in a cockpit locker, Zodiac’s Cadet series tenders hold their own against larger models. The progressive-diameter buoyancy tube design provides marked stability. Cadets have a longer life span and a high safety level because of a welded float closure and a glued overlap. Owners can choose among several versions. The Aero line, with an inflatable-air sole, is the lightest. The high-performance Aluminum line, with an aluminum sole, has an inflatable keel for quick planing and improved maneuverability. Fitting the slatted sole in the Roll Up line involves inflating buoyancy tubes. Stowage is a cinch; this tender folds up into a carrying bag, with no need to remove the slats.

Classic (CL) 310

In 10 years of manufacturing tenders, the 310 has carved out its niche as Highfield’s bestselling tender size—ideal for as many as five people and up to a 20 hp engine. The standard bow on the CL 310 can stow a 6.5-gallon fuel tank or other equipment. Construction includes 2.5 mm thick, powder-coated marine-­grade aluminum, coupled with tubes made of 1100-dtex coated fabric and a full-length keel guard. The optional FCT helm console forward gives the line a pickup-truck quality for long-range cruisers looking to haul gear and groceries. Total weight with the console and a 20 hp motor is about 400 pounds wet, which makes the 310 a solid, stable ride and puts it on a lot of davits. Highfield also makes an Ultralite line for cruisers who need a lighter platform that’s simpler to manage on deck.

Portland Pudgy

If lifesaving situations are high on your mind, then consider the Portland Pudgy. With or without the inflatable lifeboat canopy, the Pudgy is a dynamic lifeboat. It can’t deflate, and it can be sailed, rowed, or motored to safety. The Pudgy is constructed with rotation-molded, high-density compounded polyethylene (the same material used for top-quality whitewater kayaks). It’s stable, difficult to capsize, and easy to right. Closed-cell foam under the sole makes it “unsinkable,” according to the manufacturer. As for recreational use, the Pudgy is a fun family tender, a safe and sea-friendly sailing dinghy, and a great all-around rowboat/motorboat. Under sail, it can take surprisingly rough seas and heavy winds. Choose between a gaff or square-top Marconi sail. Every piece of equipment designed for the Pudgy can be stowed in the interior stowage chambers via five hatches. The Pudgy is US Coast Guard-approved as a dinghy for four people with a 2 hp or 3 hp motor.

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