It was 0300, and I was on the helm of one of the fastest monohull racing yachts on Earth; the Bakewell-White-designed supermaxi racing yacht Rio 100. With a reef in the main, a small jib set and a large reaching gennaker unfurled, we were romping along at sustained speeds in the high teens with bursts well into the 20s. I was decked out in the latest, greatest foul-weather gear from Musto and “talking story” with a Volvo Ocean Race veteran serving as my watch captain. Pinching myself to be in this place in time, we were fully sending it across the Pacific on what was quite easily the fastest boat I’ve ever sailed on a long bluewater passage.

A multimillion-dollar, all-carbon-fiber racing yacht that has set numerous course records on the West Coast and from there to Hawaii, Rio wasn’t exactly the waterborne equivalent to a Formula One car, but she was damn close. She might not have been the lightest, nimblest, highest-tech machine on the water, but when allowed to stretch her legs for more than your typical grand prix race, she was tough to beat. A race-car analogy? How about a 1,000-horsepower, top-tier 24 Hours of Le Mans racer. That sounds right.

Taking advantage of Rio’s generous 100 feet of water-line, we were knocking out the miles en masse on our approach to California. After racing to Hawaii in the Transpac the previous summer, then stuck there for repairs, eight other souls and I were now sailing Rio home to Cali in the dead of winter so she’d be ready for upcoming regattas.

Delayed by a full day or more in the Pacific High, drifting in circles, to allow a weather system to pass in front of us, we’d then been gifted an open 1,300-nautical-mile runway to the coast in picture-perfect conditions (a distance that we would ultimately knock out in less than four days). Rio was fully coming to life, reveling in the reaching conditions and mellow following seas created by the 10 to 20 knots of northwesterly pressure that was propelling us onward. At those angles, Rio slid along quicker than the wind speed, oftentimes cruising at 15 knots in 12 knots of breeze and closer to 20 knots of boatspeed in 15 knots of pressure.

With a massive bulb keel that draws more than 21 feet when fully down, and twin rudders, the boat felt incredibly stable and very much in control when driving her in these conditions. When one got rocked up on a wave or gust, or in a puff/ wave combo, the boat heeled predictably and gave the helmsman plenty of warning before wanting to round up. When that inevitable force did come, however, a quick press of the helm to leeward was met with an instant reaction from the boat, which responded just as the helmsman intended, and oftentimes with a long, rewarding surfing run and a sharp acceleration in speed. It wasn’t the small, quick bursts of speed that a lightweight dinghy or skiff delivers, but rather the long, pronounced surfs of a massive racing yacht powering its way forward, propelled by impressive amounts of sail area and inertia.

Sailing Rio was an educational experience. I’m a pretty experienced big-boat sailor, but there are several systems and design characteristics on this behemoth that I had never seen before yet would come to understand and love by the end of the trip. One of the chief joys of sailing well-sorted racing yachts is seeing how talented boat captains and professional sailors have chosen to tackle certain problems or set up various systems.

For example, headsails are hoisted up all the way until they are resting on a halyard lock. Once the sail is on lock, a 2-to-1 hydraulic tack line pulls down on the tack until the desired “halyard tension” is achieved. The twin-wheel, dual-rudder steering system is a magnificent array of foils, steering wheels, Spectra cables and sheaves and, finally, carbon-fiber tie rods and track-and-car assemblies in the hull.

At first glance everything seemed complex, but once broken down bit by bit, there’s a theme of simple, robust, effective systems in place throughout the yacht. While some of them are indisputably complicated (and no boat is ever perfect), I’ve been on boats about half the size of Rio that were at times more frustrating and laborious to sail and maneuver. With the larger headsails hanked onto the forestay (I’ve never been a huge fan of head foils) and the smaller ones on furlers, keeping Rio in phase with the conditions was a fun and relatively straightforward process, even with a somewhat shorthanded crew.

Much of the credit for the relatively smooth sailing was boat captain and skipper Keith Kilpatrick, another Volvo Ocean Race veteran who has “been there and done that” everywhere in the world of yacht racing. Intimately familiar with Rio and her systems, Kilpatrick had assembled a group of old-school sailing pros, friends and crewmates who he’s known for decades, and thrown in a few talented “young guns” who were experienced, up to the challenge and keen to knock out some miles. Needless to say, I was beyond stoked to have earned a spot in “Kilpatrick’s Navy” for a couple of weeks. The sailing was fast, the food tasty, and while we were all focused on the job at hand, the vibe on board was decidedly relaxed and fun.

A little history: When computer-technology magnate and passionate racing sailor Manouch Moshayedi, Rio’s owner, set out to win the coveted Transpac “Barn Door” trophy for first-to-finish-line honors in 2015, he knew he needed a unique yacht. At the time, the Barn Door rules required a monohull to have human-powered winches and hydraulics, and conventional ballast (i.e., a fixed keel and no water ballast), so he couldn’t merely show up with any of the mammoth supermaxis such as those that competed in races like the classic Sydney-Hobart, many of which had canting keels and water ballast, and powered winches. (The Transpac rules have since been relaxed to allow canting keels.)

So when Moshayedi put the program together, he looked to purchase or build a fixed-keel supermaxi with no water ballast and all human-powered winches and hydraulics. After consulting with many top international sailors, the decision was made to buy the 98-foot Lahana and have the Kiwi design consortium of Bakewell-White redesign the boat for a full transformation, which would take place at the Cookson yard in New Zealand.

The old water ballast was removed by cutting off the back half of the hull, which was replaced by a new, wider stern section that now sported the twin rudders. With the loss of the water ballast, the designers would need to rely on enhanced hull-form stability to keep Rio on her toes in fast power-reaching and running conditions.

She was further turbocharged by adding a longer boom and longer bowsprit to facilitate a larger mainsail and bigger spinnakers. With the input from two-time Volvo winner and three-time America’s Cup vet Mike Sanderson of Doyle Sails New Zealand, the boat underwent an extensive sail program that would ultimately reap huge performance gains on the water. Combine the added horsepower and righting moment with a weight savings of somewhere between 6 and 7 tons, and the Rio 100 that emerged from the shed was an entirely different beast than the old Lahana that had entered it.

On the water, the boat immediately proved her merit in hard offshore racing in New Zealand and Australia. After her training and adventures Down Under had concluded, Rio 100 was shipped to California, where she began an ambitious few years of Pacific Ocean campaigning.

In her first two Transpac races, in 2015 and 2017, Rio indeed claimed the Barn Door Trophy, though she failed to come up with the type of performance that would make the boat truly legendary. Rio 100′s crew saved that performance for the 2016 Pacific Cup race. In a record-setting El Niño-affected summer, the North Pacific was bursting with hurricane and cyclonic activity for the duration of the season. It was a navigator’s nightmare, in which many of the competitors (including this writer, aboard a Swan 42) finished in the middle of named tropical storms that were uncharacteristically battering the island of Oahu.

As well as the storms, the race was epic because of a nuking breeze almost all the way across the course, with a large broad-reaching racetrack that was set forth before Rio and the fleet. Maintaining a starboard jibe almost the whole way, Rio’s crew set their reaching spinnaker and smashed their way to Hawaii, knocking some two hours off the already impressive course record set by the 40-foot-longer Mari Cha IV in 2004. Finishing the 2,070-nautical-mile race in just 5 days, 3 hours, 41 minutes, Rio 100 claimed an outright course record in the “other” big Hawaii race.

I got my invite to do the Rio delivery in the midst of my studies at Hawaii Pacific University. Of course, there was no way I could take time off to cross the Pacific in the middle of a semester. Or could I? After all, it was a supermaxi. I immediately realized that if I let the opportunity pass, I’d regret it forever. I said yes, informed my professors I was leaving for a bit, and packed my sea bag. In hindsight, it was the best decision I’d made all semester. I blame it all on Rio.

After a false start in which our crew collectively realized that the old laminate racing mainsail provided to us was doomed to failure, we reappropriated it to the nearest dumpster and had the current racing mainsail shipped in. From the moment we started our second attempt at the delivery, things could not have gone better. The night before leaving, we departed Honolulu’s Ala Wai harbor on a high tide to bend the mainsail on and attach it to the many luff cars that slide up and down the mast—not a simple task on a 100-footer. With another crewmate, I was hoisted about 15 feet above deck to hook up the massive sail’s square-top section with its huge gaff batten and two headboard cars; soon enough, we were joined by two humpback whales. In the thick of their annual winter stopover in the islands, the pair of whales swam alongside and seemed to watch over us and wish us a safe passage from Hawaii. Fifteen feet up the mast, on a calm full-moon night in the tropics, with whales alongside, I had the first of many magical “pinch myself” moments of the trip.

We left Honolulu the following day. In contrast to the normal pounding that one takes when close-reaching north away from the islands, we were granted a very gentle escape. With easy conditions that allowed us all to gain our sea legs before the rough stuff, we saw the gentle trades gradually replaced by reinforced winds that would carry us north. Day after day, the breeze continued blowing as Rio knocked off miles under heavily reduced sail. Even throttled all the way back in an effort not to damage the boat, we still managed double-digit speeds most of the way, while attempting not to slam the boat too hard. With an extra-long flat-bottomed vessel, there is an unusual—and somewhat disconcerting at first—sensation each time the boat slams hard upwind. As skipper Kilpatrick described it, “We’re effectively on a 100-foot-long teeter-totter.” When driving, you’re standing some 40 or 50 feet behind the keel—and the origin of the reverberating motion—and can literally feel the boat moving up and down in a fashion unfamiliar to anyone who hasn’t sailed a boat of this length.

As the breeze finally abated and we entered the Pacific High, we were able to shed a couple of layers for the first time in days. Advised by the weather routers to stall in the high for a day or more to avoid 40 knots of breeze along the coast, we effectively shut down everything and commenced our halfway party. A few repairs here, a beer or two there and a live ukulele concert by one of the crew was the perfect way to break up a wintertime delivery across the Pacific.

Back into the breeze we eventually went. On our four-day-long glory run back to the California coast, we began knocking out miles toward the mark in wholesale fashion, three-sail reaching toward the coast. Flying toward Cali with plenty of fuel left on board, we sailed ourselves out of the breeze about 100 miles off the coast and motored toward our eventual destination of San Diego, arriving at Driscoll’s Boat Works in Mission Bay in the dark of night. On a crisp, clear winter evening, we tied up Rio, stepped off, and reveled in that special moment that comes with the conclusion of any big adventure or ocean crossing. We had made it.

The dash across the Pacific was likely the only time I’ll ever sail the boat, and it was an experience that I will cherish forever. Soon enough, I was back in class. Daydreaming of Rio.

Ronnie Simpson, his studies concluded, is currently based in Fiji, having recently returned from—what else?—a delivery to Hawaii. A contributing editor to Cruising World, he’s used his college degree wisely, carving out a career sailing, writing and doing media work for major yacht races.

The post A Delivery Aboard Rio 100 appeared first on Cruising World.

Armchair sailors around the globe are living vicariously these days as they watch sailing adventures unfold on YouTube. But while a handful of sailors and their channels have star power enough to earn a living, is posting videos a viable way for most of us to feed the cruising kitty? To find out, I reached out to eight video bloggers—or vloggers—and their answers were surprising. While a few report a steady, reliable income, several others were quite candid about how hard they had to work to capture what was supposed to be a laid-back lifestyle.

With 1.9 billion people tuning in to YouTube each month from 91 countries around the world, the platform reaches more viewers than any TV network. Individual channels receive a portion of their advertising revenue, so there is real potential for popular channels to earn a decent salary, but just as with music, movies or sports, the pros work seriously hard to make it look easy.

There are over 800 YouTube sailing channels now in existence, but only a handful actually draw enough attention to be called successful. Most of us are familiar with the Sailing La Vagabonde channel. With 1.5 million subscribers, it is easily the most popular sailing channel out there. Australians Riley Whitelum and Elayna Carausu have been uploading videos of their cruising adventures since November 2014, and have no doubt been an inspiration for many of the vloggers that I spoke with. While Sailing La Vagabonde’s success is difficult to match (Delos, the second-most-popular channel, has less than half the number of subscribers), there are plenty of cruisers out there dreaming about endless palm-tree-lined sandy beaches, rum punches and dreamy sunsets. Why not film what you’re doing and share your journey on YouTube? After all, how hard could it be?

Sailing SV Delos

The crew of Delos, four adventure-seeking souls sailing around the world, seem to have mastered the video platform. Their zest for life and infectious enthusiasm make you want to quit your job and buy a boat. Brothers Brian and Brady Trautman started filming in 2010 with a $200 handheld Sony “dad-cam.” They now have over $35,000 worth of equipment, including more than 10 GoPro cameras. Having almost completed their circumnavigation, their adventures have seen them experience things most people only dream about: swimming with sperm whales off the Caribbean island of Dominica, paddleboarding with seals off Namibia’s Skeleton Coast, and diving with great white sharks at Ascension Island. With engaging content and excellent cinematography, it’s little wonder they have amassed 629,000 subscribers from their 418 episodes.

Yet their success hasn’t come easy. Brady and crewmate Alex outlined just how much work goes into their channel and how long it’s taken them to reach YouTube success. The Delos crew worked consistently for three years before they finally made it to the point where they could focus all of their time on editing and filming. Working for two hours to produce just one minute of footage, each episode often takes more than 50 hours to edit, not including the time it takes to film and rewatch the footage.

With no niche market or target demographic, the Delos team naturally produces videos they enjoy and that makes them smile. For them, it’s not about pumping out 10-minute vlogs every other day; it’s about storytelling. Earning approximately $7,000 per month from YouTube alone, Brady said their bread and butter comes from their more than 2,000 patrons. That is how they are able to sustain their lifestyle and keep sharing it with others. Merchandise and the “Buy Us a Beer” component of their website are two other revenue streams, that combined, allow the crew of four to live off $10,000 per month, leaving plenty left over for a rainy day. Admirably, the team also donated $50,000 to charity in 2019 alone.

Sailing Millennial Falcon

Speaking with the crew of Millennial Falcon, a young Australian couple from Melbourne, it was interesting to hear the perspective of up-and-coming vloggers Khiara Parker and Adam Seeber. Parker, a former model, spoke of the hours they spend down below in the cabin of their 42-foot Tayana, editing their videos and working on their brand. With 50,300 subscribers, the couple’s channel is doing remarkably well considering they have been releasing videos for about two and a half years. Yet compared with the hours they are dedicating to their channel, the rewards they are reaping don’t quite make up for the time yet. Earning roughly $430 per month from YouTube, these cruisers make most of their income from their 285 patrons, bringing in an additional $2,600 per month.

However, it’s been far from smooth sailing for this fun-loving couple, with Seeber attributing their success to the numerous boat mishaps they’ve had, such as losing their propeller—twice. They’ve also had various technical difficulties, causing them to miss weeks’ worth of income because they were unable to upload episodes. Despite filming their videos on only a GoPro and iPhone, the couple has accumulated $6,000 worth of equipment, including the necessary laptops.

Sailing Ruby Rose

Terysa Vanderloo and Nick Fabbri from Sailing Ruby Rose know all too well the amount of work it takes to build a successful channel. With 124,000 subscribers and 249 episodes under their belt, the couple often works 40-plus hours a week. Between filming, editing, creating content for social media, digital marketing, communicating with followers, and working on projects such as merchandise, designing logos, website development, networking and Patreon (the platform most vloggers use for fans to support the channel), there is little time left for much else. Vanderloo spoke of the pressure she feels to “feed the beast” that is YouTube. She also pointed out the recent press about the number of YouTubers suffering from depression and anxiety. With a need to continually upload, the pressures can be too much for some.

Vanderloo said they are only just now making a meaningful income after three years of production and 249 episodes. They earn approximately $600 per month from YouTube; the majority of earnings come from their 435 patrons and related donations.

Sailing Nandji

Bonita Herewane and Jarrad “Yoshi” Laver, a young Australian couple on a tight budget, have taken their viewers on a journey through parts of the Pacific and Southeast Asia. Sailing through the Solomon Islands, Papua New Guinea and Indonesia, the uniqueness of their route may have contributed to their success. Then again, Australians love an underdog, and Sailing Nandji’s old boat and constant engine problems are not just an act for the camera. Despite having 110,000 subscribers, 214 episodes on YouTube and ranking 12th out of all YouTube sailing channels, these vloggers are earning only just enough to live frugally in Asia.

Cruising without a watermaker, chart plotter, life raft or autopilot (wow), and doing all of their own boatwork, these vloggers are not thrifty for the fun of it. With their videos scoring 17 million views over the past four years, they estimate they’ve earned about $24,000 through YouTube. Again, without sponsorships and their 312 patrons, they couldn’t live off their sailing channel alone. This poses another question: Is it OK to ask strangers for money to fund your liveaboard lifestyle?

Working harder than most cruisers, vloggers still have to maintain their boats and relationships. Not to mention the fact that they need to get out and explore the world to ensure that they have something to actually film and vlog about. They work extremely long hours creating content for others to watch and enjoy. They provide a service for thousands of people who are entertaining the idea of becoming cruisers themselves, and they are inspiring others to live life to the fullest. Many cruisers cite YouTube as an instrumental tool in their decision to untie the lines and sail away. Clearly there’s a market for their content, judging by the millions of views some videos receive.

Sailing Sophisticated Lady and Sailing A B Sea

If there is a recipe for sailing-channel success, one might argue that it includes young, attractive bikini-clad women. The crews behind Sailing Sophisticated Lady and Sailing A B Sea are happy to dispute that claim. All are in their 50s, and their channels have loyal followers and show that it is possible to succeed even if you’re not young and model material. (Nevertheless, it takes only one look at the top 10 sailing channels to see that perhaps those qualities don’t hurt.) Yet, with over 136,000 subscribers and 232 patrons, Rick Moore of Sailing Sophisticated Lady is proving that he definitely has something to offer. With years of experience in the film industry, Moore likes to think he provides viewers information and insight into all facets of the sailing life by way of his high-quality videos filmed with state-of-the-art equipment. Although, he was quick to add, “it takes dedication to have a successful channel, and there is no quick or easy solution for long-term success. It isn’t just one full-time job; it’s many. Sometimes being bikini-clad is not always the answer. If there’s no substance or personality, you will lose viewers very quickly.”

Sailing Britican and Sailing Trio Travels

Another two channels that have had reasonable success are Britican and Trio Travels. Both crews have one child aboard, and perhaps their popularity could be attributed to this. Yet vlogging hasn’t been without its drawbacks for the Brown family aboard Britican. Kim Brown suffered a heart problem that was caused by stress, something she attributes to producing YouTube videos. With 23,500 subscribers and 17 patrons, Kim has been working tirelessly on her channel and associated avenues of income for over six years. She does all of the production herself and spends up to two days editing each video. Yet, despite her tremendous efforts, her channel earns only $150 per month through YouTube and $230 per episode from Patreon. However, she added, “for me, YouTube is not the endgame. I don’t look at it as a way to make money. The benefit of YouTube is to let a potentially massive audience know how we can help them. It’s a marketing medium. Our primary business provides guides, consultancy and liveaboard experiences to help people live the sailing dream.”

Drawbacks

Besides a whole lot of hard work, what are the other downsides to running a YouTube channel? With his long hair and mustache, Seeber from Millennial Falcon is often ridiculed for trying to be the next La Vagabonde, and that’s not the worst of it. Parker also spoke of the negative comments and downright nastiness they’ve experienced, making her physically shake when uploading an episode.

Of the channel producers I interviewed, not one was free of taunts, with many citing the trolling as one of the major downfalls of running a YouTube channel. “We used to get quite upset over some of the mean, angry and hurtful comments people would say, but over time, you realize it’s mostly sour grapes,” Seeber said.

Realistically, YouTube should be viewed as a marketing tool to promote yourself for other avenues of income, whether that’s merchandise such as that sold by Delos, Ruby Rose or Nandji; liveaboard experiences offered by Trio Travels and Britican; or Patreon, which seems like a necessity for all involved. It won’t be an easy path. Still, if you’re wasting time having fun, you’re not wasting time. As Delos’ Brady Trautman so perfectly summed up: “Make videos for you. Film what you are inspired to film, and edit the way that makes you smile. If you start making content for the sole purpose of getting views and making money, it will show. Be honest, authentic, and do what makes you happy.”

Erin Carey and her family cruise aboard their Moody 47, Roam (@sailingtoroam).

The post YouTube’s Sailing Stars appeared first on Cruising World.

It is difficult to describe the utter devastation of a Category 5 storm such as Hurricane Irma because any accurate attempt seems like wild exaggeration. An 80-foot twin-engine catamaran with a generator and full fuel tanks blowing through the air like a 40-foot-wide tumbleweed? A 50-foot monohull whose barometer momentarily functioned as an altimeter before the boat landed on the roof of a government building? Entire harbors a sea of blue from the antifouling of the capsized rental catamarans?

Crazy, right?

Thatcher Lord and his wife, Vicki, couldn’t believe their eyes on September 6, 2017, as they forced open the door of their battered home enough to escape. The hillside on St. John, in the US Virgin Islands, appeared to have burned, as if magically incinerated during the torrential rains. There wasn’t a speck of greenery. Mighty trees were gone. Ditto the stone walls of sugar plantations that had stood for centuries. Thousands of houses were now mere smears in the dirt. Giant trucks had been swept into the sea. There were businesses so flattened that you couldn’t tell where they’d once been. Whole roads had slid into the valleys below.

“We’ll never make it, Thatch,” Vicki recalls telling her husband. “Bjork Creek is too far. Besides, sections of the road are missing and the rest of Centerline is so cluttered with debris that transiting it is more a climb than a hike.”

“I just want a look,” she remembers Thatcher telling her doggedly, as he climbed over the trunk of a tree in the middle of the asphalt in front of their house. “I know there’ll be damage. That’s a given. All I want is to make sure she’s floating. That’s all.”

Thatcher is a soft-spoken man, though the softness of his words somehow communicates strength. He wouldn’t be able to sleep until he knew his beloved Rhodes Reliant 41-foot fiberglass yawl, Trinka, was OK. They’d owned her for nearly three decades. All their spare time had been lavished on her; all their pennies too.

About two hours into the eastward hike down Centerline Road, Thatcher crested a pile of debris that had once been someone’s house and came face to face with Bad Nate. St. John is a small island with only a few thousand residents. Bad Nate’s eyes were dilated, and his teeth chattered as if he’d been staring into hell’s fires.

“She’s gone,” he croaked to Thatcher.

“What do you mean, gone?” Thatcher asked.

“Gone as in not there,” Bad Nate said. “Only one boat survived in Bjork Creek, the red-hulled Shibumi.”

Shibumi was owned by Dick Burks and Mary Tyler, two of Thatcher and Vicki’s best friends. Thatcher was happy to hear their boat had survived, even if the news came in such a backhanded, gut-wrenching manner.

Vicki was a few strides behind, but she’d heard as well. Worse, she’d seen Thatcher flinch as if he’d been whipped. Vicki wondered if her husband could handle all the drama, all the stress. He’d spent a decade wrestling with cancer, which he may have licked. But the long hospital stays and the bone-marrow transplant had drained them emotionally, physically and financially. Thatcher was a shadow of his former strapping self.

Two hours later, they rounded the point by Estate Zootenvaal and peered into Bjork Creek. Bad Nate had been right but also wrong. Trinka had been lost, but Thatcher knew exactly where she was: directly under those masts standing above the water that he’d once taken apart and reglued himself.

Thatcher waded into the now-still creek and swam out to his boat. Trinka was hard to look at. There was something obscene about her this way. It was too intimate, as if he should, as a gentleman sailor, glance away. He dived down and felt her wounds. She was holed and cracked and crushed. Sections of her transom had been eaten. Huge chunks of her rails had been pounded off. Only a tiny bit of her transom protruded forlornly above the water.

It wasn’t a judgment call. If she’d been insured, she’d be a total write-off, but of course, she wasn’t. It made no sense to attempt to fix her; the cost in both money and time would be astronomical.

“What do you think?” Vicki recalls asking from the shore.

“What do I think?” Thatcher snapped. “I think I want to cry.”

Over the course of the next month, Vicki researched their situation. While the Federal Emergency Management Agency and the Army Corps of Engineers quickly started removing all the sunken vessels in nearby Coral Bay without charge, Bjork Creek was in National Park Service waters. Almost a year would go by before the NPS would bring in a crane. So, in a sense, the Lords could do nothing but walk away.

But somehow walking away to callously leave Trinka’s corpse on display for a year didn’t seem right.

Thatcher bristled at the idea. He couldn’t decide whether to do the logical, sensible thing or the silly thing, so he asked a few of his knowledgeable friends for their opinion. I was one. I dinghied out to Bjork Creek and looked at the remains of the now brown-and-green Trinka. Then I gave him advice: “Forget it, Thatch,” I said. “It would take years and every penny you have, maybe every penny you will ever have.”

It was unanimous. Everyone agreed. Walk away, Thatcher, walk away!

And Thatcher agreed. But then, one afternoon, he and Vicky were driving past the Coral Bay Lumber yard, and, on a lark, Thatcher pulled in. A West Indian friend named Rupert greeted them with a wide smile. Thatcher asked if they had fir 6-by-6-inch lumber, 20 feet long. Rupert said they did.

Vicki was shocked to see Thatcher’s credit card flash in his hand. And so, the project began.

Plugging the major hole underwater with a sheet of plywood and Vicki’s yoga mat wasn’t easy. Thatcher found he could hold his breath long enough, but it was difficult to stay in place with the awkward materials. His friend Dick Burks dived into Bjork Creek to assist and held onto the side of the slimy cap rail of the sunken boat. Thatcher then dived underwater and sort of allowed Dick to stand on his shoulders to keep Thatcher in place with some stability. It was tough work. It took many hours. They managed.

Then came raising the sunken boat with float bags, bringing her to surface, and pumping her out.

A month underwater hadn’t been kind to Trinka. She looked like a slimy prop in a horror movie. And she apparently seemed angry at having been disturbed. The next day when they returned to the creek, she was on the bottom again. And a few days later, again she sank! But Thatcher was totally committed to the rebuild. He’d stay the course—even if it killed him.

“Once I purchased the big timbers for the cradle,” Thatcher said later, “that was it. I knew that if I started, I’d have to complete the project. Once I began, failing wouldn’t be an option.”

As mentioned, Dick and Mary of Shibumi were friends with the Lords, but that is an understatement. Dick and Mary were delighted to still have their home afloat, and translated that joy into hard, sustained work assisting in Trinka’s reincarnation. They didn’t just “kinda” help salvage the graceful yawl; they and a dozen other St. Johnians pitched in for days, weeks, months—and a few for years—of regular labor.

Once Trinka was moved from Bjork to nearby Coral Bay, work began in earnest. It was December, and Thatcher, a wood butcher and furniture-maker by trade, sliced and diced up the 6-by-6s to fashion a cradle that wasn’t merely strong enough to support the heavy-displacement Trinka, but it was also rugged enough to be dragged ashore with her in it.

Read More about Vicki, Thatcher and Trinka: Virgin Island Sailors Bounce Back

If building the cradle ashore weren’t difficult enough, it had to be floated out to Trinka, then weighed down and sunk so that Trinka could be loaded into it.

In mid-January, four months into the two-year project, the boat was firmly fastened in the cradle and she was skidded out of the water on plywood, using come-alongs and tractors, not to mention the help of half of the island community, both West Indian and continental.

Like the West Indians say, “Hurricanes blow all skin one color!”

While Thatcher stared at all the hull damage, Vicki and Mary went inside the dripping vessel with buckets and worked for three days. Wearing the same odoriferous clothes, they mucked the mud, oil, grease and diesel fuel out of the interior. Stinking barnacles were everywhere. Pieces of Thatcher’s six-string guitar floated in the bilge, along with a shoe and bits of the Lords’ Maine wedding pictures.

“I couldn’t think of all the projects required,” Thatcher confessed. “It was too daunting, too impossible. I just did one thing at a time. I didn’t look ahead; I just looked down, and put one foot in front of the other.

The big hole in the hull was gaping, and had lots of compound curves, so he made a mold and fiberglassed over it. Then he removed the mold and glassed the other side. Then, and only then, did he think about the cracks, another hole and the pulverized area by the rail.

Most of the bulkheads were salvageable, but much of the interior plywood was delaminated. The settee, galley and all the cabinetry had rippled from the immersion. Thatcher laboriously cut it way with a chisel until he found good wood.

He had some bits of luck. He stumbled into a pile of air-dried Burmese teak. The owner of a destroyed CSY 44 sold him its mainmast cheap. Thatched used the Sitka spruce from his box-section mainmast to repair his mizzen mast. And a sad sailor on St. Thomas had a brand-new 30 hp Yanmar diesel still in the carton because his boat had sunk before he could install it. One man’s bad luck is another man’s good.

Thatcher had built his house primarily because he wanted a woodworking shop. It was here he band-sawed teak planks into 1/16-inch slices, attached them temporarily to other blocks of wood, and then ran them through his joiner/planer, making his own teak veneer.

He and Vicki worked side by side, day after day. When they began, she wondered if this project would, literally, kill Thatcher. But as the months wore on, she realized that her husband was no longer obsessing about his health because he had Trinka to worry about. He became stronger and more confident. He not only gained weight, he gained muscle. Within a year, Thatcher once again resembled the handsome Viking he’d once been.

He tossed in the new engine, and replaced all the wiring, plumbing and tankage. There was a new stove and LED fixtures, along with solar panels and controllers, of course. All the sailing and nav instruments were deep-sixed and replaced as finances permitted. Ditto the windlass and roller furler. While he was at it, why not replace the original chainplates? Thatcher wasn’t making Trinka as good as new—she’d be even better.

The longer the project dragged on, and the more the local landlubbers thought Thatcher and Vicki were crazy, the more local Caribbean sailors chipped in to help. It was almost as if Trinka had morphed into the local sailing community’s vessel; Vick and Thatch just happened to skipper her. And when the work was done, it seemed as though the whole island showed up for the flag-snapping launch.

Then, on Christmas Day 2019, they went sailing—Vicki, Thatcher and Trinka. Crazy, right?

The Goodlanders are staying put in Singapore these days and enjoying time with the grandkids.

The post On Watch: Reincarnating Trinka appeared first on Cruising World.

My liveaboard family of six finally docked. We pulled off our Irish sailing dubarrys, slipped into our knee-high wellies, and stepped off the boat onto the floating pontoon at Oban Marina to stretch our legs after having crossed the North Atlantic and up the Irish Sea.

When I put on my Wellies, my sea body became a land body again. I walked through the boatyard and trudged through the muddy paths, and my sailing soul was filled with the piece of land my heart needed. Floating offshore aboard Selkie is the life we have chosen, but this land, this place, the family of Oban Marina and the Isle of Kerrera was a home we had chosen for winter.

“I never want to leave here,” said my 10-year-old daughter, Lily, four months in, as we walked the puddle-filled path past the baby pigs. Just beyond the boatyard, a visit to any new puppy, either on Ardentrive Farm or Balliemore Farm, was frequent.

“Really?” I asked. After our first week here, and after the first couple of initial explorations, Lily had been ready to move on like a true cruising sailor. Now there was a different atmosphere about her, an epiphany. She had found a new home, a place where people will remember her, a place her heart will always yearn to return, and a place she loved to wander and risk thistle and thorn to bramble-pick. This home is called the Isle of Kerrera.

Our family—including my husband, Nick, and our four children: Tristan, 12, Lily, 10, Mara, 6, and Rory, 3—crossed the Atlantic from the Caribbean on our 49-foot Westerly, Selkie, with the ARC Europe rally in May 2018. We’d started our liveaboard life nearly a year earlier, in June 2017 in the British Virgin Islands, and enjoyed cruising the Caribbean. We sailed as far north as Anegada and as far south as Grenada, but we canceled our plans to circumnavigate and decided to take a shortcut to where we truly wanted to be: Scotland. With the hospitality of the ARC, we enjoyed mingling with other cruisers in Tortola while preparing for the rally start. Once underway, however, we quickly came to realize that even though you’re sailing in company, you are still by yourself at sea.

But we did it: We crossed an ocean—something I was very apprehensive to do. We split from the ARC, which was heading to Lagos, Portugal, and went north, landed in Cork, Ireland, then finally reached Gigha, Scotland, in August.

We wanted a place to call home, and online, Nick discovered Oban Marina’s discount for a six-month winter stay. We had been to Oban before on a seven-day, six-castle tour in 2015; and we had cruised the Caledonian Canal with LeBoat, and rented an RV on the Isle of Skye in 2016. We knew we loved the waterfront of Oban, but Kerrera, where Oban Marina is actually located, is a small island just across the Sound of Kerrera from Oban with fewer than 50 full-time residents. It is nestled on the northeast in a protected bay vulnerable only to an east wind. We would live on this tiny, hardly inhabited island (about 4.5 miles long and 1.5 miles wide) and take a ferry to and from Oban for provisions and fresh seafood. We had changed our parallel from 12 degrees to 56, and our meridian from 65 degrees west to 5.

I don’t know if others would like something so secluded, but immediately, as cruisers, we were welcomed, and especially so when we shared our plan to stay.

“What’s it like here in the winter?” I asked Robin, the marina manager.

“It’s like being caught inside a washing machine,” he replied.

Fantastic, I thought sarcastically. This will be an interesting winter.

But we loved the countryside of Scotland so much, we would have endured anything to stay. The open air, the hillsides of the highlands, the mountains on the horizon, the endless water in every direction, the hairy cows, the sheep, the brisk and fresh air, the damp and fertile soil, the heather, the smell of peat, the seal colonies—all of it. And even if it meant living inside a washing machine.

So, in September 2018, Oban Marina became our line-tied, cleat-knotted home.

Being a full-time mom, home-school teacher and chef on Selkie, I enjoyed the time I took out the trash at night. I know it sounds silly, but in the dark after dinner, I often ventured alone. The errand took but a minute, and then I was free to look at the night lights of the Oban coast: the fishing boats, the ferries, McCaig’s Tower and its forever-changing light displays. The air was crisp and clean; the water (every once in a while) gently bobbed the docks. If the clouds cleared, an unforgettable moon and set of constellations blessed my soul with the experience and a sense of mystic. Sometimes I brought my phone for music and danced on the empty docks. Other times I brought my son and we messed about. Mostly, though, I went out into the quiet and thought of those with whom I wish I could have shared this experience.

During a sunny day, the most pleasurable walk was the one to Hutcheson’s Monument. David Hutcheson was a ship owner who took people to and from Oban to the Inner and Outer Hebrides. His services later became Caledonian MacBrayne, which today is a major ferry line that brings visitors and locals to 22 islands on the west coast. Or for a true walk, a hiker can wander all the way to the south of the island where the ruins of Gylen Castle, dating back to 1582, stand next to a tea shop. My boys preferred to stay near the marina to throw rocks by the waterside, and have a wee bit of swordplay with our boat hooks.

The Waypoint, the seasonal restaurant at Oban Marina, was delicious and cozy, with an unforgettable view. Since we arrived in fall, we got to enjoy quite a few dinners there. Sam, the manager of the bar, would dance with our children during dinner, and the chefs were grateful to hear compliments in the nearby kitchen. In winter Waypoint shut down and became a clubhouse for the few people still left around. I enjoyed doing aerobics, dancing with my kids or homeschooling within its doors. On Fridays it opened for the locals. Either Sam or Robin minded the bar. Bill, a mariner living on the hard, always sat to the left and encouraged all to imbibe. Gary and Catherine, the owners, were usually there. David and Karen would show up with one of their dogs from Ardentrive Farm and, at times, Gill and Tim would come with their boys, or Donald wandered in from the north. At Waypoint, everyone knew each other so well that a big cheer was shouted for any arrival. Kids played with Lego bricks on the floor, and the adults shared stories about past adventures and future plans, but most of all, we enjoyed each other’s company.

In October, the Oban Marina family threw my daughter her 10th birthday party. On Halloween, or Samhain, there were not many houses to trick-or-treat at, but we were invited into homes for cocktails and chocolates, and because we were invited in, it was one of the best Halloweens we have ever had. We even thoroughly enjoyed tromping through the wet, muddy paths in our Wellies. Lily, in her zombie-prom-queen dress, hid about the boatyard jumping out and scaring us.

In November, Oban had a Winter Festival, which reminded me of a Dickensian village. The streets were lined with beautiful open shops, and there were craft sales, carnival rides, a Santa parade, tree lightings and fireworks. On the day of America’s Thanksgiving—obviously not celebrated in Scotland—everyone was quite interested in what I was going to cook on the boat, and my husband and I (with little Rory) took a sunset dinghy ride around the entire Isle of Kerrera. It was breathtaking.

At Christmas we had an amazing potluck dinner at the Waypoint. I made a sweet potato casserole, and Sam and Robin cooked a turkey. Afterward there was chaotic and fun karaoke. Everyone was nice enough to let my girls start it off with sailing songs. Gary and David were pros. By the end of the night, even I was screaming into the microphone. After the Christmas party, the sun came out for a beautiful day, and the Waypoint held a children’s Santa party. Tim served mulled wine for the adults who were hurting from the night before, and Santa, played by Donald, handed out a toy for every child who attended. It was a perfect weekend.

Fireworks were seen from Kerrera to Oban on New Year’s Eve, and we had front-row seats.

Despite the merriment, though, we knew winter had set in. “Another storm is coming. Double-check your lines,” was often repeated as another huge wind event came spiraling in off the North Atlantic. It was like living inside the tornado that takes Dorothy over the rainbow. But if you could endure the rigging whining in the wind, the water slapping the hull, and the dock lines stretching, squeaking and pulling, you truly were living in a brightly colorful, magical land of adventure.

Every week it seemed that a storm blew through, and we got used to it as one would a weekend. Each one became a two-day family holiday aboard. We would hang tight, listen to Selkie get yanked back and forth, cook a giant pot of spicy chili in the galley, get busy with home-school work or explore another mechanical endeavor in need of improvement. When the storm settled and everything was still, we could hear distant highland cattle moo, folks laughing, dogs barking and an announcement of the CalMac ferry coming across the bay.

In spring our family rented the nearby cottage, referred to as the boathouse, while Selkie was hauled at the yard. I walked to the Waypoint through the mud in my new knee-high fancy red boots. I knew I didn’t care about their appearance; I cared about the present countryside. It was high tide. I could not reach the Waypoint from the cottage without walking way around, but the stroll in the dark with my headlamp was why I was there, to sink my feet in the soil, walk the cliff, hear the lines flapping from boats on the hard, and dodge the puddles to go see some friends along way

A winter in Kerrera is for sailors who love highlands and the rolling hills, and who feel the wind and water in their soul. Our family highly recommends a short or long stay. Slàinte mhath, as the Scottish like to toast. Cheers.

At press time, Maggie Hirt and her family were sailing Selkie back to the Caribbean with the ARC+. Follow along with the family’s adventures at sealongingselkie.net.

The post Wintering Aboard in the Scottish Highlands appeared first on Cruising World.

Recently, a member of a forum in which I participate shared a plea for help with an engine that would not start: “When I try to turn it over, I get nothing.” Should you need similar assistance, get the terminology right. If you turn the key to the crank position, wherein the starter usually engages and the engine rotates, and you get no response, the engine “will not crank.” If you turn the key and the starter engages, it “cranks but will not start.” Most key switches have three positions: off, run and crank. The latter is spring-loaded, so it stays engaged only while you are turning it; when you let go, the key returns to the run position.

If it does not crank (i.e., it doesn’t even click when the key is turned to the start position), it’s a clear electrical problem. The culprit is usually the starter itself or the battery; the wiring leading to the starter (from the battery or key switch) also might be compromised. First, check and cycle the battery switch; these can fail and contacts can become oxidized if not used for long periods.

Next, turn the key switch to the run position: Do the instruments respond? If not, electrical power to the engine is somehow compromised; check all of the connections at the starter, both large and small, for any that might be loose or corroded, or where ring terminals are not properly crimped. And don’t forget to check the large DC negative cable where it is connected to the engine block, or in some cases to the starter directly.

Most engines have a button-type circuit breaker on the engine that protects the power supply to the instruments and key switch, including the starting circuit; if it trips, the instruments will not respond when the key is turned to run, and the engine will not crank. These breakers can be notoriously difficult to find on the engine because they are small (a little larger than an eraser) and sometimes painted the same color as the engine. Find out where yours is located. This circuit also might be protected by a fuse—again these can be hard to locate because they are rarely labeled.

Read More: Monthly Maintenance

If you have no power to the instruments and you can use a multimeter, check for voltage at the start battery; it should show roughly 12.4 to 12.6 volts at rest, with no load and no charger. If the charger is on, you should see something over 13.4 volts. If you do have power, move on to the starter’s large post, to which the large red cable is connected. You should see roughly the same voltage there; if there is no voltage, that’s the problem: A battery connection is compromised, or the battery switch is off or defective.

If you do have power at the large post, the next test is the starter solenoid. Many engines use a yellow wire with a red stripe for the cranking circuit; it should indicate 12 volts when cranking only. If the key is turned to the crank position and you observe no power at this post, the key switch or its wiring is the issue.

While conducting these tests, it’s important to not only have a good ground for the multimeter, but it also should be the same ground the engine is using. Don’t connect the meter’s black lead directly to the battery; connect it where the large, black negative cable is attached to the engine block. Before taking any readings, confirm that this is a good ground by touching the red lead directly to the battery positive post or a known positive source. Doing so will ensure all of your subsequent meter readings are valid. There might be other causes, but the above are among the most common.

Glow plugs, if the engine is equipped with them, are usually actuated with a separate spring-loaded switch; however, some keys also might have a glow-plug position. In some cases, the engine will not crank unless the glow plugs are actuated (reminding you to use them); however, if this switch is compromised, it can prevent the engine from cranking, so it should be part of the troubleshooting process. Assuming the engine uses a pump-line-nozzle injection system (i.e., non-electronic) and it cranks but will not start, that’s almost certainly fuel-related. But it could be several other things, which I’ll discuss next month.

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

The post Monthly Maintenance: What To Do When the Engine Won’t Start appeared first on Cruising World.

The United Nations estimates that 1.5 billion tons, or one-third of all food produced, is wasted annually. It is also estimated that more than 40 percent of that food is wasted by the ­consumer. What you put on your plates has far-reaching ­environmental consequences, and that means you have the power to make big, positive ­environmental changes. On a more personal level, reducing food waste means less stinky trash to deal with on board.

Reducing food waste doesn’t mean going vegan or giving up favorite foods. It doesn’t even require major changes to your routine. Simply by being a little more mindful about the food you buy and eat can help prevent global food waste.

Use What’s on Board

The first step ­toward reducing food waste is simply to use what you have on board instead of heading ashore to buy more. Start by checking what fresh goods need to be ­eaten before they spoil, and build your meal from there. Sometimes this means creative substitutions, but cooking is about the creative process—embrace it. This is also a good opportunity to rotate stock and check expiration dates on canned goods in the dry stores.

Make a Plan and Stick to It

Taking a few minutes each week to create a meal plan and a provisioning list is a great strategy to reduce food waste, not to mention stress. Arming yourself with a list when heading out to provision means you can reduce impulse purchases and avoid doubling up on things you already have on board. Buying only the food you need means your shopping trip will be time- and cost-effective.

Eat Ugly

Approximately 46 percent of produce never makes it from the farm to the galley simple because of cosmetic preferences. Apples that aren’t big enough, carrots that aren’t straight enough and lemons that aren’t yellow enough are all thrown away despite being perfectly nutritious. “Eating ugly” is accepting that nature is not cosmetically perfect, and that produce grows in all sorts of shapes, sizes and colors. Small producers and farmers markets are likely to have more variety when it comes to cosmetically imperfect fruits and veggies. As well, check for the “ugly”—and often discount—produce section in conventional stores. Save a few pennies, and the planet too!

Shop Local vs. Organic

Many people choose organic over locally grown, thinking that it is a better choice for the environment. However, it is important to consider farming practices, shipping distances and packaging when choosing your food. Buying something organic that is from an industrial farm, wrapped in plastic and shipped to a remote island will have greater negative environmental impact than choosing locally grown but not certified-organic food.

Eat Sustainably

Eating sustainably asks that we consider where and how our food is grown, the resources used, the ­environmental impact of the entire ­process, the conditions of the animals, and how the workers are treated and paid. You can eat sustainably by reducing your meat consumption, choosing wild-caught instead of farmed fish, eating seasonally, buying local, buying fair trade, growing or making your own, and eating less packaged and processed foods.

The post Five Ways to Prevent Food Waste Aboard appeared first on Cruising World.

Navigare Adds Bahamas

In time for winter sailing 2021, Navigare Yachting, with a global fleet of more than 300 monohulls and multihulls, has added a base in Abaco, Bahamas, and expanded its Caribbean facility in the British Virgin Islands.

Bareboat and crewed charters are available from a fleet of 12 multihulls at Marsh Harbour, on Great Abaco, which opened in December 2020. Also in December, Navigare moved its base in Tortola, in the BVI, from Road Town to Nanny Cay Resort and Marina. A fleet of 50 boats include these models: Jeanneau, Beneteau, Bavaria, Hanse, Dufour, Lagoon, Fountaine Pajot and Nautitech. The new location is naturally sheltered and features convenient taxi, air and ferry connections. Facilities include a boatyard, showers and restrooms, a hotel and restaurants, convenience and marine stores, a swimming pool, laundry and postal service.

In other company news, Navigare continues its weekly bareboat-charter auction. Join in on the live event, which offers savings up to 60 percent off regular rates, via webinar every Wednesday at 5 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. Bidders receive a list of available charters and starting prices, which excludes cruising taxes and other applicable fees. They are invited to negotiate in $200 increments until there are no bids for 30 seconds, when a winner is announced. Auctioned charters aren’t refundable, though the company has a flexible postponement policy. Preregistration is required.

Navigare luxury property- and travel-club partner Thirdhome allows Navigare charter-yacht owners to receive bonus travel credits when reserving their first stay. Membership fees are also waived.

For information, visit navigare-yachting.com.

Pocket the Passport and Sail Florida

Southwest Florida Yachts, which offers clients easy access to the cruising grounds of Pine Island Sound from its base at Tarpon Point Marina in Cape Coral, Florida, is adding to its fleet. New boats include a Swift Trawler 52, Saona 47, Helia 44, Lucia 40 and an Aquila 44 power cat. The company’s sailing school, which teaches the American Sailing Association’s curriculum, seeks to add to its instructor staff. Contact the company for details (swfyachts.com).

New Colgate 26 Builder

Waterline Systems, known for the Alerion Yachts line of sailboats, is the new builder of the Colgate 26 keelboat, the teaching platform of Steve and Doris Colgate’s Offshore Sailing School.

Three Colgate 26 hulls that Waterline will build have been sold, and orders for more are being taken. Today there are close to 400 Colgate 26 boats sailing and racing throughout the United States by private owners, sailing schools, yacht-club fleets and the US Naval Academy. Offshore Sailing School owns 17 Colgate 26 sailboats, used for sailing lessons, basic Learn to Sail certification courses, performance sailing courses and racing events, and team-building and leadership-development sailing programs.

Waterline Systems will also now service Colgate 26 sailboats at its facilities in North Kingstown, Rhode Island, and Hubert, North Carolina. Colgate 26 owners may contact the company (service@waterlinesystems.com; 401-247-3000).

The post February 2021 Chartering Update appeared first on Cruising World.

Sailing-friendly point-and-shoot cameras live challenging lives. Not only are they expected to be easy to use when things get hectic on deck, but they must also be able to capture sharp, rich images while tackling bright reflected light that can complicate metering. Moreover, they need to be as equally intuitive while exploring a new coastal town as they are while swimming off the transom or snorkeling with the family on a dream charter. Then there’s the matter of salt water, which doesn’t have a great reputation when mixed with sensitive electronics, and the inevitable bumps and bruises that are incurred when surprise waves send everything skittering across the cockpit sole. Here’s a look at some of the best pocket-size waterproof and water-resistant cameras available.

Canon Ivy Rec

I’ll admit that I wasn’t overly optimistic about the Canon Ivy Rec when it arrived. The camera features a colorful body (blue, green or pink; my tester was blue) and a carabiner-like clip that makes the 3-plus-ounce camera feel more like a toy than a serious shooting device. Then there’s the fact that the camera has no optical viewfinder or rear LCD screen for composing or reviewing shots, and that it’s good only to depths of 6-plus feet for 30 minutes.

My initial impression quickly shifted when I got home from my test shoots at a local beach and in a neighbor’s pool, downloaded the images onto my Mac, and viewed them on my high-definition monitor. That’s when my jaw dropped: The shots, given the camera’s tiny size, lightweight nature, and fetching price of $80 (usa.canon.com) were seriously impressive.

To be fair, I learned a critical pretrial trick about the camera from my wife, a reformed professional photographer, who pointed out that the camera’s square lanyard aperture (that’s protected by the carabiner-like gate) doubles as a hold-it-up-to-your-face viewfinder.

Regardless, the Canon Ivy Rec’s 13-megapixel sensor and 25.4-millimeter fixed lens consistently captured sharp-looking imagery that hit considerably harder than the camera’s featherweight price tag, both in salt water and in the pool. I was especially impressed with the Ivy Rec’s automatic light metering, ISO control (100 to 3200) and white-balance control, coupled with its capable lens.

User interface doesn’t get much simpler than the Ivy Rec, which features a single shutter-release button and a single thumb wheel, the latter of which allows users to select operating modes. These modes include wireless, photography, video and a hybridized multimode that captures a still image before switching to video mode. An LED light lets users know the camera’s status.

Images are stored on a microSD card (sold separately) and can be transferred using Canon’s Mini Cam app. Pairing and interfacing with the app was simple, as was transferring images to my iPhone. The included USB cable can be used to transfer data directly from the camera to a PC as well.

Field operations were as user-friendly as the Ivy Rec’s selector wheel and single-button interface. I especially appreciated the fact that the shutter-release button is tactilely discernible from the rest of the camera’s svelte body thanks to its raised profile and smooth finish. Even the mode-selection wheel was easy to adjust in the water because of its thumb-friendly tab.

While image composition was admittedly a bit less precise with the Ivy Rec than with a camera with an optical viewfinder or LCD screen, it did just fine, especially given the fact that it can accommodate up to a 256GB microSD card (in other words, that’s a whole lot of photos and videos).

So while I initially may have been skeptical of the Ivy Rec, the tiny Canon’s imagery quickly changed my way of thinking, especially for casual shooters, junior photographers-cum-crewmembers, and for trips ashore to places where it’s not the safest or smartest idea to tote a high-dollar camera.

Nikon CoolPix W300

Point-and-shoot waterproof digital cameras tread a fine line between being feature-rich and being overly complex, especially when one focuses on the underwater part of the equation, because it’s oftentimes trickier to adjust settings and dig into menu options when swimming, snorkeling or scuba diving. That said, I found that the Nikon CoolPix W300 nicely hits this balance, especially where image quality is concerned.

The camera is rated to 100 feet below the surface, and it delivers key features that are typically found on feature-rich terrestrial cameras. These include an f/2.8 Nikkor lens with a 5x optical zoom that delivers the equivalent performance of a 24-to-120-millimeter lens on a 35mm camera, a built-in flash, vibration reduction and a 3-inch LCD screen. Moreover, the camera is lightweight (8.2 ounces) and small (4.4-by-2.6-by-1.2 inches), making it easy to tote along for almost any activity. Also, for shooters who like to snap away during times when green water washes over the decks, the CoolPix is shockproof to drops of up to 8 feet.

The CoolPix W300 sports a 16-megapixel sensor that allows it to capture 4K ultra-high-definition video and high-definition (up to 4608-by-3456 pixels) still images. Users can select their desired photo and video resolutions from the camera’s intuitive menu system with just a few hard-button clicks.

The camera features built-in Wi-Fi and can share images with smart devices using Nikon’s SnapBridge app. And it has an embedded GPS, electronic compass, altimeter and Bluetooth low energy—allowing the camera to track your adventures. (For instance, cruisers can access their latitude and longitude from the camera’s menu, which is an added navigational benefit.)

Serious photographers can get creative with the CoolPix W300′s various special effects, while casual shooters can simply use the camera in its automatic mode, which is what I primarily employed during my field test. That said, it’s also easy to switch between beach, snow, landscape, and underwater shooting modes by pressing hard buttons and (firmly) tapping on the camera’s LCD screen.

In swimming, the CoolPix was easy to use, and its proportionately large LCD screen simplified image composition. The zoom was easy to find and operate, even with chlorine stinging my eyes, and the shutter release was easily discernable from the camera’s other buttons, which is a feature that’s great for shooting while snorkeling or diving.

Image quality was excellent, as one would expect from a Nikon. If I had to cite a downside, it would be the camera’s vertical grip, which I found to be small for my mitts. Overall I was impressed with the CoolPix W300, both in terms of its usability, size and weight, built-in feature set, and price tag of $390 (nikonusa.com).

SeaLife Micro 3.0

If you’re looking for a serious point-and-shoot underwater camera that can be used for a wide variety of adventures, SeaLife’s Micro 3.0 is a tough competitor to beat. For starters, the camera’s permanently sealed construction allows it to dive to depths up to 200 feet. Inherent in this construction method is that there’s no removable battery or memory card; in fact, the only thing that’s removable on the entire camera is a small rubber cover that protects the USB charging port. Inside its sealed body, the Micro 3.0 has a 2,000-milliamp lithium-ion battery that’s good for hours of shooting stills and video, 64GB of solid-state storage, and a Sony-built 16-megapixel sensor that can capture 4K ultra-HD video imagery.

While the Micro 3.0 is the largest and heaviest camera that I field-tested, I didn’t find its heft (11.6 ounces) or its girth (2.1-by-2.9-by-4.2 inches) to be drawbacks. The camera is encased in rubberized body armor, which bolsters its shock resistance. That said, I made sure to reeve the optional wrist strap because it provided a definite sense of security.

The first thing that I noticed about the Micro 3.0 were the simplicity of its design and user interface. The camera features a 2.4-inch color LCD display, and it has a total of four buttons—a shutter-release button and three piano-style hard keys: video, menu and playback. The Micro’s user interface is intuitive, and it took only a minute or three of pushing buttons to navigate around its operating system.

The Micro 3.0 has a fixed-focus lens that’s the equivalent of a 19mm, wide-angle lens on a 35mm camera, and it delivers a focus range that runs from 15 inches to infinity.

I found the Micro 3.0 to be easy to use on land, in salt water and in the pool. All of the piano-key buttons are where you’d want them to be; it was easy to discern the shutter-release button from the camera’s body (even in Puget Sound’s still-cold summertime water temperatures); and I also found the camera’s integral vertical grip to be ergonomic and useful for composing shots.

The camera boasts three underwater modes: dive, snorkel and underwater light; and three underwater color-correction modes: deep, shallow and green water, all of which are easy to access and adjust. The camera is Wi-Fi-enabled, and users can transfer images wirelessly using the SeaLifeMicro3+ app, or via an included USB cable. The camera is both Mac- and PC-friendly.

Overall I was impressed with the Micro 3.0, in terms of its ergonomics, user interface and image quality. I was able to choose from numerous resolution options, both for still imagery and video. While the Micro 3.0 is the most expensive camera in this roundup, selling for $600 (sealife-cameras.com), it would make a fine addition to any sailor’s sea bag, especially if underwater shooting is a big priority.

A Few Other Options

In addition to the point-and-shoot cameras manufacturers sent me so that I was able to use them in the field, my research turned up a few more possibilities to consider.

The Panasonic Lumix TS7 is designed to withstand drops from almost 7 feet and to endure loads up to 220 pounds, while also offering waterproof protection down to 102 feet. The camera comes with a 20.4-megapixel sensor that takes high-resolution stills and ultra-HD video, and its zooming capabilities deliver the equivalent of a 28-to-128-millimeter lens. com; $450)

The FujiFilm PinePix XP140 features a 16-megapixel sensor, a 5x optical zoom, and a lithium-ion battery that can take up to 240 images in between charges. The camera’s software features automatic subject recognition (it will autofocus on people’s eyes), multiple self-timer modes and the ability to capture up to 15 frames per second when operating in continuous-shooting mode. Cooler still, the camera’s companion app allows a smartphone to be used as a remote control. (fujifilm.com; $230)

If you’re seeking a distinct-looking camera that’s equally adept on board and ashore, check out Sony’s W800. Despite its urban-friendly styling, the W800 is waterproof, shockproof and X-ray-proof, and it can withstand temperature swings from minus 13 degrees Fahrenheit to 185 degrees. The W800 features a 20.1-megapixel sensor, a 5x optical zoom that’s further bolstered by a 40x digital zoom for taking still images, and a 10x digital zoom for video work. The camera’s scene-selection mode includes cruiser-friendly options—nighttime shooting and reflected light—and its SteadyShot Image Stabilization is purportedly great for times when the windward beat is fully self-descriptive. (sony.com; $100)

The Olympus Tough TG-6 might be a point-and-shoot camera, but its aftermarket accessories—optional telephoto and macro lenses, floating straps, and an underwater housing—allow shooters to stretch its comfort zone. Couple this with the camera’s 12-megapixel sensor, f/2 lens, and underwater shooting modes, and the Olympus Tough TG-6 is ready to go sailing. The TG-6 is waterproof to 50 feet; it’s built to absorb drops from 7 feet; and it features anti-fog glass. The camera can shoot ultra-HD 4K video, and its built-in Wi-Fi allows it to wirelessly share its imagery with paired smart devices. (olympus-global.com; $450)

Unlike the other point-and-shoot cameras featured in this article that are primarily aimed at capturing photographs but can also shoot video, the GoPro Hero8 inverts this equation, with video as its primary objective. That said, the Hero8 also captures high-resolution still images using its 12-megapixel sensor, and photographers can leverage the camera’s proprietary SuperPhoto and high-dynamic range capabilities. Also, the Hero8′s LiveBurst mode captures 3 seconds of video, from which users can either grab the best of 90 still images, or they can share this slice of time as a tiny 4K60 video. On the video side, the camera features three built-in microphones and noise-canceling technology that reduces the sound of wind, and its TimeWarp 2.0 feature allows videographers to slow down or speed up frame rates to create desired effects. The Hero8 recognizes 14 voice commands, a bonus for crew whose hands may be busy. The camera’s HyperSmooth 2.0 stabilization features gives users the ability to level the horizon using the GoPro app, which is key given the heel angles that are involved in sailing to weather. Cooler still, the Hero8 features four digital lenses: narrow, linear, wide and Super-View. These provide a ton of on-the-fly options. Finally, the GoPro is waterproof down to 33 feet, and is built to handle lumpy seas and overstuffed sea bags. (gopro.com; $450)

David Schmidt is CW’s electronics editor.

The post Product Test: Three Underwater Cameras for 2021 appeared first on Cruising World.

As a child, I was fascinated with pirates: fearless, swashbuckling buccaneers plundering galleons and burying loot on desert islands—maybe that’s why I took up cruising. As my husband, Neil, and I sailed through Panama and the Greater Antilles, the name of the infamous pirate Henry Morgan kept popping up again and again. We found ourselves following in his wake: sailing routes that he had traveled, anchoring in bays he had frequented, and inspecting the ruins of forts and settlements that he had built or destroyed.

Neil and I had arrived in the Caribbean after crossing the Pacific in Distant Drummer, our Liberty 458 sloop, and spending three years dawdling down the west coast from Alaska to Central America. We enjoyed a season exploring the Gulf of Panama before transiting the Panama Canal and finally reaching the Spanish Main, the honeypot for pirates in the 17th century. Tales of Capt. Morgan had me hooked; I had to find out more about this notorious privateer so loved by the British, loathed by the Spanish, and iconic enough to have a rum named after him.

Panama: A crossroads, past and present

After the serenity of cruising in the rivers and islands in the Gulf of Panama, Panama City is a great place to enjoy the buzz of city life while getting organized to transit the canal. The city has two anchorage areas on either side of Isla Perico; La Playita on the south side of the island provides better shelter during the northerlies of the dry season, and Las Brisas on the north side is preferred during the wet season when a persistent ground swell rolls in from the south.

As with any city, there are good and bad districts; the old Canal Zone offices in the Balboa area with their immaculately clipped lawns border the slum tenements of El Chorrillo. Downtown is crowded with skyscrapers competing for the most radical and eye-catching design, whereas the old Spanish quarter known as Casco Viejo is the hippest and trendiest part of the city.

There are actually two “Old Panamas” in Panama City: Panama Viejo is the ruins of the original settlement after it was razed by Morgan in 1671, and Casco Viejo is the historic district where the town was rebuilt. The battle for Old Panama City was a complete fiasco. Morgan’s reputation as a ruthless and bloodthirsty pirate preceded him, and although the Spaniards were superior in number, the troops were mostly inexperienced, and many fled before the first shots were fired. The governor of Panama had sworn to burn down the city if it were lost to the privateers. The resulting fires destroyed the wooden buildings, leaving only a few stone structures standing in what is now Panama Viejo.

In 1673, the offices of colonial government were rebuilt in Casco Viejo, but as the modern city grew, the old Spanish town was abandoned and became a tough barrio where no rational person dared to tread. However, since Casco Viejo was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1997, money has poured in. The denizens have been relocated, and many of the old pastel-colored buildings have been restored and reopened as chic restaurants and bijou hotels.

Chagres: The route across the isthmus

The route of the Panama Canal follows the Chagres River and the Camino de Cruces, one of the trails used for transportation of Peruvian gold and silver from the Pacific coast to the Spanish Main. The canal joins the Caribbean Sea about 7 nautical miles east of the mouth of the Chagres River, and entrance into the river requires a slalom around the Lajas Reef to port and a sandbar to starboard. The anchorage behind the bar is sublime, but it pays to listen for ACP (the Panama Canal Authority) radio warnings; when the floodgates open, the current and water level increase dramatically, and in the past, at least one vessel has been washed up onto the sandbank.

In 1671, Morgan arrived at Chagres with the largest pirate fleet ever assembled, on a mission to march to Panama City and destroy it. An advance party was sent to take Fort San Lorenzo, which protected the mouth of the Chagres River. Unfortunately for Morgan, as the rest of the fleet arrived, five ships were wrecked on the treacherous Lajas Reef, including his flagship, Satisfaction.

Unperturbed, Morgan took the town and then ascended the Chagres River. The river was difficult to navigate, and although part of the expedition could be completed in canoes, much of the journey was on foot through dense rainforests and swamps. After three days, Morgan arrived at Las Cruces (near present-day Gamboa), where he landed his men and continued on the Camino de Cruces to his infamous attack on Panama City.

After exploring the well-preserved ruins of Fort San Lorenzo, we motored up to the Gatun Dam through pristine rainforest. The river is deep and easy to navigate, and we spent a few wonderful days anchored on the side of the channel enjoying the sights, sounds and smells of the jungle. Floating peacefully in the kayak, we watched howler monkeys capering in the trees and finally spotted a couple of toucans, the first we’d seen since arriving in Central America.

Portobelo: Pirate riches

Portobelo is a beautiful sheltered bay and a popular anchorage for cruising boats en route to Guna Yala. Sadly, a recent spate of armed robberies persuaded us against stopping, and we continued on to the marina at Turtle Cay, but we were able to hitch a ride back to Portobelo by road and enjoyed a couple of days exploring the historic town.

The old customs house, which still dominates the plaza, was where gold, silver, and slaves passing through Panama were counted and registered. Every year when the Spanish galleons arrived to transport the treasure back to Spain, merchant ships selling luxury goods and traders selling oriental wares would gather in the town. Because of the value of the goods passing through, Portobelo was protected by three forts: two on the harbor and another in town.

The wealth of Portobelo was an irresistible target to Morgan, and in July 1668, he attacked the town and quickly captured two of the forts. As he stormed the walls of the third, he purportedly used captive nuns and monks as a human shield. When Morgan returned to Jamaica, he was rebuked for his actions, but in his homeland of England, he was widely acclaimed as a national hero.

These days Portobelo is a sleepy little town with a trickle of tourists passing through. We enjoyed our stay, exploring the ruins of the forts, checking out the customs house, which was under reconstruction, and visiting the church where the famous Black Christ statue attracts pilgrims. Several yachts were moored in the bay, and if we came back again, we would be very tempted to anchor there for a few days.

Jamaica: Exploring Morgan’s home base

Cruising friends had recommended that we cross from Panama to Jamaica before mid-December, when the northeast trades—known as the Christmas winds—increase in strength, commonly reaching gale force at night. We left in early December but nonetheless ended up beating into the teeth of a relentless 15- to 20-knot northeasterly, and with a low choppy swell, it was slow-going. We motorsailed most of the way, turning off the engine and enjoying a couple of good days of sailing only when the wind finally veered eastward.

We anchored outside the Royal Jamaica Yacht Club, on the inside of the sand spit that defines Kingston Harbour. Most visitors bypass Kingston because it has a reputation for squalid shantytowns, with gangs and violence controlling the streets. This could be true for parts of the town, particularly at night, but during the day, the city is crowded and vibrant; street markets clog the pavement, restaurants and shops throb with music, and the smell of ganja wafts in the air.

It was a short trip by bus to Port Royal, now just a peaceful backwater, but during the 17th century, the town provided a safe harbor for privateers and pirates, and benefited greatly from the revenue generated by their activities. One in every four buildings was either a bar or a brothel, and despite being overrun with liquor, pirates and prostitution, it soon became one of the most important ports in the English colonies.

Between 1663 and 1673, Morgan conducted numerous successful and highly lucrative raids from Port Royal. In 1666, he married the daughter of the island’s deputy governor and, ironically, was made colonel of the Port Royal militia, responsible for the defense of Jamaica. However, the following year, diplomatic relations between England and Spain deteriorated, and Morgan resumed his piratical career.

Local sailors advised us to make an overnight passage to Port Antonio, on the island’s north coast, by leaving Kingston at dusk and rounding the eastern point around midnight, when the wind is lightest. We motored along the south coast into a light breeze, then once we passed Morant Point, we enjoyed a pleasurable sail until the wind dropped at dawn.

Sailing along the north coast of Jamaica was superb, with the easterly trade winds picking up in the afternoons and speeding us into the next harbor. We stopped at the beautiful tiny keyhole anchorage at Oracabessa, the home of Ian Fleming, where he wrote all of his James Bond novels. We also anchored for a night at Discovery Bay, which had nothing much of interest to see apart from a bauxite mine used as the headquarters of Dr. No in the James Bond movie of that name.

The anchorage at the Montego Bay Yacht Club is full of moorings but has room for a couple of visiting boats to anchor, provided you do not swing into the turning circle of the cruise-ship dock next door. The yacht club welcomes cruisers, and on Christmas Day, local sailors Julia and Phil on Diva invited us for a potluck barbecue. We met a friendly crowd and enjoyed chatting and picking up a few tips on cruising in Cuba and the Caymans.

Cuba: Off the beaten path

As we departed Montego Bay bound for Cienfuegos on the south coast of Cuba, conditions for the passage could not have been better. A fresh northeast breeze on the starboard beam and a moderate sea made for a fast reach across the Cayman Trough. As the wind eased and veered in the lee of Cuba, we poled out the jib and had a beautiful run up to the Cuban coast.

From Cienfuegos it is a relaxed overnight sail to the Jardines de la Reina, a chain of remote, uninhabited cays fringing the southeast coast of Cuba. It would be easy to get lost exploring the convoluted channels that weave through the maze of mangrove islands. We visited a fishing platform at Cayo Breton and shared a bottle of rum with the lobstermen. They cooked up a platter of grilled lobster and delicious garlicky fried fish—one of the best meals we ate in Cuba!

We spent hours snorkeling on the patch reefs along the southern shore of Cayo Caballones. In the late afternoon, when the zephyr of wind dropped, we raced across the crystal-clear water in the dinghy—like skimming across the coral on a flying carpet. Moving on to Cayo Caguama, we walked along the beautiful white-sand beach searching for turtle tracks and savoring our last afternoon in the remote, uninhabited wilderness of the cays.

At Cabo Cruz, at the southeastern tip of Cuba, we waited a couple of days for a cold front to bring northerly winds for the passage to Santiago de Cuba. The first part of the voyage was comfortable, with 15 to 20 knots from the north-northeast, but as the sun set, katabatic winds rolled down from the Sierra Maestra, gusting to over 30 knots. We quickly put a second reef in the mainsail, took a couple more turns on the jib, and settled in for a boisterous night. At daybreak we were glad to see the sun rise over the magnificent Castillo del Morro, which guards the entrance into Santiago de Cuba.

Morgan’s first command as captain of a privateer ship was with English vice admiral Sir Christopher Myngs’ fleet, a group of privateers operating out of Port Royal. In 1662 the fleet carried out a preemptive strike against Spanish forces gathered in Santiago de Cuba who were planning to launch an attack on Jamaica. The raid was a resounding success; they demolished the town, and the infamous Castillo del Morro was totally destroyed. They returned to Jamaica with vast amounts of booty and to a hero’s welcome.

While in Santiago de Cuba we attended a Santeria ceremony. Similar to voodoo, Santeria is a religion based on Catholic beliefs blended with spiritual concepts brought from West Africa by slaves arriving at the port and adding their culture and creeds to the melting pot of the city. We entered the temple and prostrated ourselves before an altar adorned with dolls and carved figures. After hugging a huge tree chalked with mysterious symbols, three rugged-looking men began beating a frantic rhythm on bongo drums. The babalawo (shaman) danced and chanted stories and songs of praise to the tree. Much rum was drunk, and we were totally embraced in the vibrant rituals.

Île a Vache: A popular stop in Haiti

Before crossing from Cuba to Haiti, we waited for a lull in the strong northeast trades, which often reach gale force as they funnel through the Windward Passage. We enjoyed a wonderful beam reach from Santiago to the west end of Haiti, but in the lee of the island the wind veered, and we picked up a west-setting countercurrent. We spent the second night of the passage motorsailing slowly into a headwind, and the next morning dropped anchor at Île a Vache, a small island off the south coast of Haiti.

Morgan frequently used “Isla Vaca” as a base for his operations, and in January 1669, he gathered a fleet of 10 ships in Baie à Ferret for a raid on Cartagena. During a night of drunken revelry, a spark in the ship’s gunpowder magazine triggered an explosion that blew up Morgan’s flagship, Oxford. He and the captains seated on one side of the table were blown into the water and survived; those on the other side were killed, along with about 200 of his men.

Île a Vache is a popular stopping point for cruisers waiting for fair winds to sail east to the Dominican Republic. The cruisers provide a trickle of income to the village. Every day dozens of villagers paddled out to Distant Drummer and knocked on the hull; children asking for sweets, fishermen hoping to sell us their catch, and other men looking for work cleaning the hull, polishing the stainless steel or guiding us to the market—anything to earn a few Haitian gourds.

From Haiti we sailed directly to Puerto Rico, taking advantage as best we could of the land breezes and favorable countercurrent close to the coast. We bypassed the Dominican Republic where, as a junior army officer, Morgan had taken part in an unsuccessful attack on Santo Domingo.

Cruising eastward through the Greater Antilles, upwind and against a west-setting current, was challenging, but the opportunity to get off the beaten track in the Caribbean was ample reward. The people we met reflected the distinctive character of each island—the boisterous humor of the Jamaicans, the extraordinary resourcefulness of the Cubans, the poverty but enduring courtesy of the Haitians, and the affluence and bravado of the Puerto Ricans. Although each island is unique, they are linked by a  grisly history of colonialism, piracy and slavery. Whether a pirate or patriot, Capt. Henry Morgan played a significant role in shaping the destiny of the southwest Caribbean.

Suzy and Neil Carmody are currently exploring Grenada aboard Distant Drummer.

The post Cruising in the Wake of Capt. Morgan appeared first on Cruising World.

One of the most common observations people make after they meet my little family and see Ganymede, the 31-foot boat that we once called home, is, “How very simple everything is!” We are mistakenly taken by some as pioneers of simplification, as bastions of off-the-grid living. And we are, I suppose, in a way—but it’s purely accidental.

For starters, the reason we went to sea without a 12-volt electrical system is mostly because I can’t stand the ­constant upkeep and ­bother they entail. To be perpetually cleaning contacts, running wires, changing fuses and poking multimeter leads everywhere would put a crimp in my relaxed cruising style. Not having batteries, of course, cuts down on all the lovely and useful gadgets they normally power, but there again my reasons against them were purely practical. Even if I had the money to buy and maintain lights and chart plotters and refrigerators —which I didn’t—there’s nowhere they could have gone. It was enough of a challenge trying to stow three children and all their necessary gear on a smallish sailboat without having to make room for battery banks, inverters, chargers and solar panels.

It was the same with galley plumbing. A sink would have taken up space I needed for my full-size chart table, and hoses, tubing and galley pumps need to go somewhere—and that somewhere didn’t exist.

A plastic tub tucked discreetly under the counter served for dirty dishes, and washing up was done in the cockpit with water drawn up in a bucket. Neither the easiest nor most convenient way, especially in colder weather, but it’s one of the many small things, taken together, that allowed us to be out cruising at all.

Now, I’m not against conveniences: I would have loved to have a double sink with hot and cold running water, a full-size refrigerator, and while I’m at it, a laundry with washer and dryer. But all those had to wait until we took a break from seafaring to live on land. With our boat and budget, they simply were unattainable.

Nor am I saying that I begrudge the simple lifestyle. The glow of our kerosene cabin lamps was a source of constant joy; rowing the dinghy, casting the sounding lead and cranking the windlass kept me in shape; and I loved the mental exercise of actively piloting and navigating the boat rather than giving those tasks over to a computer.

Please don’t think we denied ourselves any necessary safety or navigational gear—I wouldn’t be the sort to set off with nothing but an hourglass and astrolabe even if I didn’t have a wife and three children to be responsible for. Though they took up lots of room, we carried five compasses, two sextants, all the necessary books and a current nautical almanac, and we were always careful to have good chart coverage of any area we might be going. Not only that, but three handheld GPS units, a VHF and an EPIRB rounded out the supply of electronics not requiring a 12-volt feed.

There were times, to be sure, when a radar and an AIS receiver would have been most comforting, but those times were nothing a careful watch and diligent forethought weren’t sufficient for.

There are those who love simplicity for its own sake, and while I see their point, I’m not really one of them. The reason we followed simplicity in many things is because it was the only way we could put to sea at all. A bigger boat with more equipment might have been possible if we had waited longer, saved more, worked harder—but it would not have been when we were ready to go, and who knows whether a dream bigger than Ganymede would have even gotten off the ground. As it is, she was all the boat we comfortably cared to handle, and about all we could afford to decently maintain.

Eventually we outgrew the boat—the children and their things weren’t getting any smaller—so we moved ashore into the untold luxury of electricity and running water. There’s a refrigerator, internet connection, and even an air conditioner for the two weeks of New England summer. But we don’t think about those things; they’re just there, a natural part of ordinary land life. We’re grateful for them, of course, and enjoy them immensely (did I mention the AC unit?), but what we enjoy the most is getting out on Ganymede again.

We’ll go out and mini-cruise for a couple of days from time to time, anchoring any old place we happen to sail by as dusk falls. The greatest thing for the girls then is to sit at the saloon table around a guttering oil lamp, playing card games while the boat swings gently to her anchor, without even a thought for hot showers, movies, ice cream or any of the comforts left on shore. Their only regret is that in a day or two we’ll have to head back home. Looks like it’s time to put to sea again.

Ben Zartman is a boatbuilder, sailor and occasional CW contributor.

The post Simple Systems Aboard appeared first on Cruising World.