Among the many ­revelations I’ve ­experienced since purchasing a 1970s-era classic-plastic cruising boat and setting up shop on the Gulf Coast of Florida for half the year is the fact that yachts don’t get hauled out annually here for a fresh coat of bottom paint. In New England over the years, I’ve owned a series of sailboats, all of which spent every winter on the hard in a boatyard safe from the ravages of endless nor’easters. Their bottoms were all prepped and repainted before getting launched again the following spring. It’s not a particularly pleasant task, but one I’d always tackled myself—yet another annoying yin to the rewarding yang of owning a sailboat. 

So, when I bought my Pearson 365, August West, a year ago, I was pretty psyched to learn that I wouldn’t have to undergo the labor (and cost) on a yearly basis. In fact, I thought that I might get a pass altogether for a season or two. Then, two things happened: First, the diver I hired for a monthly bottom scrub, when asked about the condition below the waterline, had a pithy answer (“poor”); and second, the previous owner, when queried about the last time he painted the bottom, was equally succinct (“um, good question”). There really was no alternative: It was time to haul the vessel for new paint.

In Rhode Island, if in possession of a pulse and a ­valid credit card, this had never been an issue; plenty of yards in or near Newport were more than willing to relieve me of cash. In Florida, at least in the greater Sarasota area, it was more of a challenge. The first couple of places that I called flat-out said that they didn’t work on sailboats. And it was quickly apparent that, if I did find a spot, doing the work myself was out of the question. Finally, on a tip from a local sailor, I learned of an outfit called N.E. Taylor Boat Works, just a few short miles up the Intracoastal Waterway from my slip on Longboat Key, in a place called Cortez Cove.

The tiny adjacent community of Cortez, measuring just 2 square miles of real estate, was an oasis from the strip malls. Cortez is a commercial-fishing village founded in the late 1800s that still retains its old-timey Florida vibe. Home to a great fish market, a big fish processing plant and a couple of seafood shacks, it seemed of a different time and place, and an extremely welcoming one at that. 

The cove, however, is not such a simple spot to get into. Peering in from the ICW, the fleet of rather large fishing boats would suggest otherwise, but the actual channel is narrow and marked by hand-painted signs, one of which I, of course, missed. In what’s becoming a disturbing new habit, I ran aground…directly in front of one of the busy waterfront restaurants right at dinner hour. Free entertainment for all. Luckily, I’m getting good at getting off the bottom, and I made it to the yard unscathed. 

Descendants of the Taylor family, part of the original group of Cortez settlers from North Carolina, still run the yard. It’s both friendly and funky, and I mean the latter as a high compliment. From the time I pulled in until the time I pulled out, nobody ever bothered asking me for, well, anything: my full name, an address, payment details, nada. Almost as an afterthought, it occurred to me that, since I was in a boatyard and all, and I’d purchased a pair of deck hatches that were sitting in my V-berth, I might as well get them installed (a task I’d originally planned to do myself but was not relishing). No muss, no fuss, just two hours of reasonable labor costs that would’ve taken me much longer. 

Getting out of the boatyard was a lot easier. Back in my slip a few days later, my diver returned (he does several boats in the marina), noted the paint job, and said I was good to go for a while. “That could last you a few years,” he said, which made me smile. Whenever that time does come again, though, I’ll know to return to Cortez Cove. 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large. 

The post A Haul Out In Southwest Florida’s Cortez Cove Comes Packaged with a Few Surprises appeared first on Cruising World.

It’s difficult to say who came up with the brilliant idea of collecting and chronicling all the strange newspaper headlines that begin “Florida man…” These stories go on to recount the never-ending litany of strange crimes or occurrences that afflict or attract confused or deranged male denizens of the Sunshine State. For example: “Florida man trapped in unlocked closet for two days.” “Florida man desperate for ride to Hooters calls 911.” “Florida man arrested for trying to get alligator drunk.” And on and on. 

These headlines always struck me as totally hilarious until one morning last spring, after I spent a snowbird winter on my Pearson 365, August West, on a barrier island off Florida’s Gulf Coast. I realized that, uh-oh, I too had become “Florida man,” complete with personal moments that could’ve generated their own bizarre headlines: “Florida man befriends, converses with stowaway lizard.” “Florida man runs hard aground in sight of own boat slip.” “Florida man makes political statement by banning own books.” “Florida man, fearful of bridges, remains on island.” 

It was a tough pill to swallow, but to paraphrase an old cliche, if the Top-Sider fits, son, wear it.  

The notion of wintering in Florida had never struck me as one of life’s viable options until a longtime buddy made me the proverbial irrefusable offer to purchase his old Pearson. The deal-sealer was an awesome liveaboard dock space on Longboat Key. Early on, I was astounded one evening to watch a small lizard board the boat from my stern line, a feat of acrobatics akin to a reptilian Flying Wallenda. Florida man—ahem—had downed a couple of beers, and of course offered greetings. (I was hoping that the lizard would respond in a British accent, like the Geico gecko.) When it was time for Wallenda (yes, I named him) to go, a few noisy taps with a nearby winch handle had him scurrying back ashore, and before long, honest to goodness, this became a nightly ritual. Florida man had made his first Floridian friend. 

Accustomed to the deep waters back home in New England, I had to get used to sailing in shallow Sarasota Bay. It was a long motor out through the sandbars and mangroves to reach navigable water and hoist sail, and nary a tack or jibe took place without a nervous glance at the chart plotter to avoid any lurking hazards. I was feeling pretty chuffed after my first uneventful outing when, just outside my marina on the return trip, I stupidly cut a channel marker and squished to a stop in full view of my amused dock neighbors. It took many rpm and an unfurled genoa to extricate myself, but my local mate took it easy on me. “Welcome to Florida,” he said. “We all do it. At least it was sand.” Florida man agreed.

As a refugee from a bleeding-­heart blue region of the country, I did of course at times wonder about the state’s overall ­political climate. To show solidarity with my new surroundings, I personally banned all five of the books I’ve written. All are nautical titles, and there is no sex or pornography in any of them, but I confess to entertaining carnal thoughts during their writing. Which I believe somehow supports the case for book banishment, which otherwise has me completely confused. 

About that bridge-o-­phobia: I was born and raised in Newport, Rhode Island, on the southern end of an isle called Aquidneck, and am so ancient, I remember when you had to take a ferry to get off it. That changed when the Newport Bridge opened in 1969, and it’s an old joke among old Newporters that nothing good happens if you cross it. My new island, Longboat Key, is but 10 miles long, and within a mile of my slip are excellent grocery and hardware stores. A handful of times, I’ve slipped over the two bridges that connect mellow Longboat to crazed civilization, and I’ve mightily regretted every trip. You’ve heard about the traffic in Florida, right? Now I stay put, just like home. 

So, I’m happy to report that I’ve embraced the new ­Florida-man me, and I long for just one thing: If only Wallenda could drive me to Hooters, I’d be all set. 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large. 

The post Off Watch: Becoming Florida Man appeared first on Cruising World.

Yes, of course, Cruising World is a magazine dedicated to the glorious pastime of cruising. But, from time to time, it’s worthwhile to examine this basic truism: Racing sailboats will make you a better cruising sailor. Tacking and jibing at full speed, paying extra attention to windshifts and currents, trimming sails to get every last tenth of a knot of performance from them—these are all things you can apply to cruising that will make your life on the water a little more fulfilling. 

And there’s another, perhaps even greater, benefit as well. With the right crew on a sweet boat on a beautiful day, racing is also just a ton of fun.

This, I discovered, yet again, on a lovely Saturday in February when my colleagues at sister magazine Sailing World wrangled me aboard the Beneteau 40 Liquid Time for the North Sails Rally Race during the St. Petersburg, Florida, stop on the nationwide tour of six events that comprise the Helly Hansen Sailing World 2022 Regatta series. The 40-foot racer/cruiser is owned by a trio of pals who sail out of nearby Davis Islands: Pemmy and Ed Roarke, who set and trim the sails, and champion Sunfish sailor Gail Haeusler, whom I’d soon witness was one heck of a helmswoman. 

The name has two origins: Liquid Time is the title of a favorite tune by the progressive rock band Phish, with these appropriate opening lyrics: “The sea is so wide, and the boat is so small.” The name is also a running joke with the tight, nine-person crew, one of whom always pops the same question before a race: “What time is it?” To which the collective answer is, well, always the same: “Liquid Time!” It’s a joke that never gets old. 

My time on Liquid ­unfolded over a 20-mile course in a shifty northerly breeze around government marks on busy Tampa Bay, with plenty of visual treats to spice up the proceedings: the ever-­expanding St. Pete skyline; the weird, lopsided arena known as Tropicana Field, home to baseball’s Tampa Bay Rays; and the distinctive Sunshine Skyway Bridge, which replaced an earlier span that a freighter creamed in a 1980 storm. 

The starting line for our Racer/Cruiser division was a busy place, indeed; we shared it with a fleet of maniacs sailing light, twitchy L30 one-designs. Plus, unusually, it was a downwind start in about 8 knots of fluctuating wind, which meant a spinnaker set right off the bat. The Liquid team flowed through the maneuver like water running downhill (sorry). Haeusler timed it all perfectly. Off we went. 

It was pretty obvious right from the get-go that it was going to come down to a head-to-head match race with a Sarasota-based O’Day 40 called Mother Ocean, a name I assumed was borrowed from the opening line of Jimmy Buffett’s A Pirate Looks at Forty. (Also, what’s up with these Florida folks, their boat handles and their beloved recording artists?) 

In the early going, Mother was definitely a mutha, and we had a wonderful view of her transom as she assumed the lead. But all that changed when the kites were doused about two-thirds of the way through the race; the northerly ratcheted up to 14 knots, kicking up whitecaps as the skies cleared to reveal a spectacular sailing day. We hardened up for the closehauled beat back to the finish. Thanks in large part to Haeusler’s skilled driving, Liquid Time was both higher and faster, and before long, it was Mother Ocean in arrears. Which is how everything concluded, with Liquid Time the overall class winner. 

“We won that race in the second half,” said Ed Roarke, who then invoked another name, that of a recent Tampa Bay arrival—yet another cliched snowbird from New England—whose prowess has won over the local populace. “It was a Tom Brady special.”

The tunes came on, and, in the time-honored tradition of nearly all competitive sailing, the icy-cold beers were cracked and passed around. 

So, hey, what time was it again? 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Off Watch: A Cruising Sailor Joins the Race appeared first on Cruising World.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Falling Ashore appeared first on Cruising World.

One year ago this month, as director of this magazine’s annual Boat of the Year contest, I joined our judging team aboard the CNB 66 Escape in Annapolis, Maryland, to conduct our sea trials on Chesapeake Bay. The high-end, long-range cruising boat was owned by a vastly experienced German couple named Karl and Annamarie Frank, who’d been based in Annapolis the past several years while rambling up and down the East Coast. Generally, our test sails involve yacht designers and manufacturers’ representatives. It was unusual, though not unprecedented, to go sailing with a couple on their own boat (our earlier dockside inspections occurred on a newer sistership model of the CNB 66). When it happens, though, it’s always interesting and enlightening. 

Karl Frank was clearly one hell of a sailor who’d optimized the deck layout for singlehanded sailing; we all shared a joke about “German engineering.” He’d put a lot of thought into everything, and quickly got our attention and respect. (Annamarie told us that she didn’t care much for offshore sailing but loved the destinations, and opted out of passages when she could.) Later, in deliberations, judge Gerry Douglas said: “The build quality was just impeccable. The owner understood how to sail it well, and he had a system where he could handle it solo. He proved that you could operate a big, sophisticated boat alone.”

Here are a few excerpts about this ultra-sophisticated yacht from my own notes that day: “German couple on board their personal boat… Have laid it out beautifully… Running backstays with split fixed backstays adjusted belowdecks w/ hydraulic ram… Complicated… Carbon rig, in-boom furler… Huge Park Ave.-style boom….”

I hadn’t thought anything about Karl and Annamarie until late in July, when I learned that they both died in mid-June after a reefing maneuver gone very wrong in stormy conditions en route from Bermuda to Nova Scotia. Both had been airlifted from Escape by a US Coast Guard helicopter but succumbed to their wounds before ever reaching shore. 

A lengthy report, first published by Blue Water Sailing magazine and later reprinted in the newsletter Scuttlebutt, recounted the entire horrible tale, as told to veteran cruising sailor Sheldon Stuchell by one of the two additional crew on board for the trip (I was surprised by this detail because Karl had been quite clear that he preferred sailing without outside assistance). In essence, it appeared that Annamarie, handling the mainsheet, lost control of that big boom, and both she and Karl subsequently got tangled in and clobbered by its flailing sheet. 

So, if there even is one, what’s the moral of all this? Pretty simple. If it could happen to the Franks, it could happen to any of us. 

Earlier this year, I took a sailing trip with a famous, world-class mountain climber. Late one night after a few belts, we got around to talking about the perils of our respective passions, and of our friends and acquaintances who’d perished pursuing them (see “The Sail to Nowhere,” September). As I started to mentally take inventory of the longish list of ocean sailors I personally knew who have been lost at sea, it occurred to me that offshore sailing isn’t quite as hazardous as high-altitude mountaineering adventures. But it’s a damn sight closer than most of us would ever care to admit. 

A decade ago, as I’ve written before, I was part of a 28,000-nautical-mile ­expedition that sailed around North and South America via the Northwest Passage and Cape Horn. Before we shoved off, our core crew had a sobering conversation about what to do with our bodies if we didn’t make it back to shore. My answer was quick and straightforward: Commit me to the deep. I’ve got a few mates waiting for me.

And now Karl and Annamarie are waiting there too. 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Fatal Accident At Sea: It Could Happen To Anyone appeared first on Cruising World.

Some of the best things about sailing and cruising—maybe even the best things about it—are the people and destinations you discover along the way. That was certainly the case last spring when I washed up on the wondrous island of Grenada and met a local chap introduced not by his name, but his color: Green Man.

I’d just spent a week sailing with an old mate—author and adventurer John Kretschmer—for a story that will appear in CW later this year. On my final day, this being 2022, I needed a COVID-19 test before I could board a plane. I’d been on the water the whole time and hadn’t seen a lick of the island. I was hoping for a ride to the clinic, and then a quick tour of the place on my way to the airport.

“No worries,” John said. “I can get Green Man to take you.” 

“Who?” I asked.

“You’ll see.”

There was no mistaking the trim Green Man in the shining green van who collected me at the marina. Whoa. I hadn’t seen a dude decked out in such complete and resplendent tones of emerald since the last time I attended a Boston Celtics game. I buckled into his Toyota Hiace for what turned out to be quite the ride…in more ways than one. 

Luckily, the COVID test (negative) was short and sweet, which meant I had a few hours to kill. 

As we pulled onto the main drag, it was clear that GM knew just about everyone. We couldn’t travel more than 25 feet at a time without some honks and waves. “My brutha!”

And with that, the running commentary commenced. History. Politics. Boats. Women. Rum. There was no topic about which GM did not have a considered opinion or observation. 

Above all else, however, it was clear that there was one thing he loved and valued more than anything else: his island. 

He rattled off the numbers: 110,000 people, 22 miles long, 12 miles wide, 133 square miles. It occurred to me that he might know every inch of it. Grenada is nicknamed the Spice Island, so rich is its flora and fauna, and GM slowed down at just about every tree or bush to identify it: nutmeg, breadfruit, plum, banana, and on and on. 

We drove up a road called Royal Reach: “Just ­ambassadors and politicians,” he snarled.

We careened past a wrecked Honda: “The Japanese not coming back for that one.”

There was a long dissertation on the reign of former prime minister Maurice Bishop, which led to the US invasion of the island in 1983, but I had a hard time discerning his exact take on it all. Somewhere in there, he explained that he used to be called Yellow Man and dressed accordingly—John had mentioned this to me—but had abandoned the color because it symbolized a political party with which he had no interest in being associated. “Nobody owns Green Man,” he said. Well, I thought, that’s for damn sure. 

He drove me up to historic Fort Frederick, a French stronghold back in the 1700s and an essential stop for tourists like me. We pulled off at his buddy Mark’s rum shack, where I backed down a shot of firewater while GM nursed a green tea. Then, it was on to the Annandale Waterfall and Forest Park, where I wandered down to the falls while he returned some phone messages. There was a banker of some sort about to get an earful. 

When I climbed back into the van 20 minutes later, he looked kind of wistful. “This is where I grew up,” he said. “This is where I swam every day.”

I could see that GM was getting a bit restless, and though I could’ve happily kept going, when he asked, “Airport?” I knew it wasn’t really a question.

He dropped me off at the terminal, where I sort of mangled a complicated handshake, and asked him if he had a card. (I was secretly hoping I might discover his real name.) Instead, he took my phone and punched in his number. “You ever need me, that’s how,” he said.

And with that, he was gone. I could hardly say I know the man, but I was left with the impression of one of the coolest, most self-assured characters I’d ever met.

You could’ve colored me green with envy. 

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Grenada With Green Man appeared first on Cruising World.

It’s a gorgeous day on Longboat Key, a sliver of a barrier island off the west coast of Florida sliced between Sarasota Bay and the Gulf of Mexico, all of it straight out of a chamber-of-commerce brochure. The breeze has filled in from the southwest, but not too much, hovering at 10 knots or so. Which is just great, because the sandwiches are made, the cooler is packed, and we’ve got just the right activity for this sunscreen afternoon. We’re going sailing.

Skipper Steve Spurr is at the helm of his Pearson 365, August West—so named for the protagonist of an old Grateful Dead song called “Wharf Rat,” significant of nothing, slapped on the transom by a previous owner—and he backs her out of a tight slip with the easy nonchalance of a man who knows precisely what he’s doing. Which is probably no coincidence, and might in fact be a skill he’s inherited; his old man, Dan Spurr, is a longtime sailing writer, accomplished cruising sailor and a former editor at this very magazine. Seated to my left in a cockpit full of happy, expectant guests, Dan is also one of my oldest, best mates, a friend with whom I’ve sailed many a mile and enjoyed (or survived) countless adventures…talk about a pair of ol’ wharf rats.

I’ve actually sailed August West previously, back in Newport, Rhode Island, soon after Dan purchased her a few years back. But my longtime pal has since moved on, to the proverbial “dark side”—a pretty cool, I must admit, Grand Banks trawler parked in the same marina as August that we pass as Steve motors us into the bay. Dan’s boat swap gave his son the opportunity to upgrade to the 365 from his previous Pearson 30, and here we are.

Good old Pearson yachts, and my hometown of Newport, are a couple of threads that tie this whole story together, and sadly, it’s a tale not without a stiff measure of tragedy. It was almost 35 years ago (good God, how is that possible?) that Dan and his wife, Andra, were readying to set sail from Newport for points south aboard their 33-foot Pearson Vanguard (having moved up from, yes, a Pearson Triton), a time that Dan recalls well in his excellent memoir, Steered by the Falling Stars. It was an August night, and the Spurrs were on their boat in the harbor when I got word that back in Dan’s former Michigan stomping grounds, his son, Pete—the sweetest 12-year-old imaginable, even more so for the intrepid way in which he charged through life despite his cerebral palsy—had been struck dead on the tracks of an Amtrak train. It was my job to go fetch my buddy.

Steered by a falling star? You can say that again, brother.

Read More: Off Watch

Allow me to cut to the chase. Within a few months, Dan and Andra’s plans for an extensive, open-ended cruise came to a complete and sudden halt when they learned they were…expecting. One son can’t replace another, of course, but a son it was. Steve.

The subsequent journey, like all of them, hit a few potholes. Growing up ain’t easy, man. But fate and love and serendipity has now brought them all back together, living in Florida, their respective boats just a few slips apart. Always a handsome lad, hardworking Steve has grown to be a true waterman—a sailor and a fisherman—with a good job, a beautiful girlfriend, a new house. As happy an ending as one could hope for.

On top of all that, he’s taking us for a nice ride on his pretty, well-kept boat.

We cut across busy Sarasota Bay to the city front, passing the gaudy and palatial mansion once owned by the circus impresario John Ringling. It turns out that Steve is a fairly excellent tour guide, and he knows his local history. We see a few dolphins. Everyone gets to steer. The chow is tasty, the beverages icy. The breeze shifts, and we relish a sweet reach back toward sun-splashed Longboat.

So, yes, we’re enjoying our sail on this lovely day, in the fine company of the sailor and his son. Well, two sailors, really. It’s about as perfect as it gets in a thousand different ways.

Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

The post Catching up with Steve and Dan Spurr appeared first on Cruising World.

Capt. William “Bill” Pinkney, the first African American sailor to circumnavigate alone, who went on to skipper the replica slave-ship La Amistad. Lin Pardey, a two-time circumnavigator—west to east and east to west—and the co-author of nearly a dozen books, one of the most accomplished female cruising sailors/yachting journalists of all time. Dawn Riley, who competed at the highest ranks of Grand Prix sailing in both the America’s Cup and the Whitbread Round the World Race, and is now the executive director of the training center Oakcliff Sailing. Lynne Jewell-Shore, who won an Olympic gold medal in 1988 in the doublehanded 470 class dinghy with teammate Allison Jolly in a dominating performance. Tania Aebi, who took the world by storm as she became the youngest woman to sail around it.

For what do all of these sailing, racing and cruising luminaries have in common? Incredibly, not a single one has been inducted into the National Sailing Hall of Fame.

In a strange, ironic way, they probably shouldn’t feel bad about it. In Pinkney’s case, it’s not like he was shuffled aside by a similarly qualified candidate; after all, there’s not a single Black sailor in the NSHOF. Women haven’t fared much better; of the 90 sailors inducted since the first class in 2011, all but six have been white males, and of that half-dozen, the wife of windsurfing pioneer Hoyle Schweitzer seems to have eked in because she was…Mrs. Hoyle Schweitzer.

The National Sailing Hall of Fame? Hmm, OK. More like the National Sailing Hall of Ancient Pale Dudes. (As a card-carrying old white sailing dude myself, I’m authorized to make that crack.) And it’s not like cruising sailors are wildly represented, as maybe another half-dozen would fall into that category. No, the NSHOF is, as it’s currently constituted, the National Sailboat-Racing HOF. If they called it that, I’d be fine.

As it is now, I’m not.

Some of the folks at the organization have already heard my “fine whine” on this matter. One member of the induction committee admitted to me, somewhat sheepishly, that the imbalance was real and needed to be addressed, but that they had an obligation to get all the old, deserving chaps in first. Which, honestly, is baloney. What other hall of fame operates on that assumption? They’re largely all about recognizing the latest stars.

Look, I’m a sports fan. I like halls of fame. It’s cool when one of your old football or baseball heroes is recognized. But as far as I’m concerned, one of the huge problems with the NSHOF is the way in which potential inductees are nominated: by the public. That’s right, unlike Cooperstown, New York, or Canton, Ohio—the respective homes of the baseball and pro football halls—sailors are not considered by a committee of sportswriters and journalists and previously inducted members—you know, experts!—but by the public at large. Which is not only patently ridiculous, but also reduces the entire program to a popularity contest.

For example, as near as I can tell, if the criteria were similar, and a fan of Babe Ruth had not nominated Babe Ruth to be in Cooperstown, guess who wouldn’t be there? Babe Ruth!

Read More from Herb McCormick: Off Watch

There’s lots of maddening things about all of it. Take Lynne Jewell-Shore. She was cheek to cheek—and by that I mean butt to butt—with mate Allison Jolly when they brought home the gold in the 470, but Jolly is in the NSHOF and Jewell-Shore is not. What?

Even as I type, the NSHOF is undergoing a huge renovation in my hometown of Newport, Rhode Island, in what was the old Armory building, which by total coincidence was built by my great-grandfather Mike, who erected several iconic Newport structures. Admittedly, that part is really neither here nor there. My greater issue with the organization is as a sailor, voyager, journalist, cruiser, lover of boats, and so on. I look at the list of inductees, and I don’t see many who represent me. I sure as hell never raced in the America’s Cup. And that’s before we even begin talking about race and gender. I mean, seriously, folks.

For all the above reasons, I’m taking this whole NSHOF thing personally. But what I’m aiming for here is constructive criticism. As a Newporter, as a sailor, as a cruiser, I want it to be great. And inclusive. And cool. Please, guys, make it great. Please?

Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

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By now, of course, we’ve all come to realize that the COVID-19 pandemic has upended the world in ways previously unimaginable, and as we go into the first uncertain winter with the coronavirus, nobody knows what lies ahead. One of the ways in which our lives have changed is the way in which we consume sports—admittedly a small item in the grand scheme of things. But sports have always been important to me, going far back to my own athletic career, the highlight of which was captaining my college football team (back in those ancient times when the ball was a rock, but still….).

Despite COVID-19, the NBA and MLB somehow made it through successful (if abbreviated) seasons. In years past, I would’ve been on my seat devouring the NBA Finals and the World Series, but not this year. Watching sports played in empty stadiums and arenas, for me at least, holds little appeal; it makes for passable reality television but holds little emotion compared with epic games played before real, packed houses.

But this month—at least at press time—a competitive sporting contest was scheduled to get underway on November 9 that I am well and truly looking forward to: the ninth edition of the anything-goes, wild-and-woolly quadrennial Vendée Globe singlehanded around-the-world race. (One notable change for 2020: The pre-race “village” in Les Sables-d’Olonne, which in a normal year attracts tens of thousands of rabid fans, was basically scrapped.)

Think about it: Marathon, offshore solo yacht racing is pretty much the perfect game for a pandemic. You can’t get much more “socially distanced” than alone on a sailboat somewhere between Australia and Antarctica. And modern technology—using real-time tracking software, high-quality video and images from the far Southern Ocean, daily first-person blogs and reports from the skippers, and more—makes following the race not only possible, but also highly interactive and entertaining.

The race itself, now contested in skittish, outlandish IMOCA 60s, many with foils to add thrills, speed and sleepless nights—they are the undisputed answer to the question of what is the scariest, loudest, most uncomfortable sailboat on any ocean—provides plenty of drama in its own right. If past editions are any indication, there will be no shortage of casualties, crashes, rescues and retirements; it’s like a waterborne NASCAR race, with the added degree of difficulty of never stopping and lasting a few months. You need to check the “I’m nuts” box before even contemplating a Vendée campaign.

The sport of solo long-­distance racing was actually invented in the 1960s by a crew of what became household names in Merry Old England, where it originated: Chichester, Hasler, Knox-Johnston and the like. That all changed, basically, when a couple of Frenchmen from across the English Channel—the equally legendary Bernard Moitessier and Eric Tabarly—threw their watch caps into the ring and showed the fine tea-drinking chaps a thing or two.

Today, the sport is ­completely dominated by the French, where it’s every bit as big as football and basketball in this country: Every Vendée has been won by a Frenchman. Twice, however, an English sailor has almost barged in the door: In 1990, Michel “The Professor” Desjoyeaux was the winner, but a wee British lass named Ellen MacArthur was right behind him, and stole the show. And in the last race, charismatic Englishman Alex Thomson darn near pulled off an upset, also finishing second.

Thomson is a veteran campaigner who has sailed a string of boats called Hugo Boss, titled after his menswear sponsor. He’s well-known for YouTube stunts such as climbing his mast on a steep heel in a tailored suit and diving into the sea, but he’s also one helluva sailor. He’s back again this year, probably his last swing at a Vendée victory after multiple attempts, and is one of the prohibitive favorites. But there are plenty of great stories sprinkled through the fleet of 33 entrants, including a half-dozen skilled and ­dauntless women skippers.

Let’s face it, the pandemic has made many if not most of us landlocked to a high degree. And in almost every circumstance, I’d rather be on a bike or a stroll than parked behind a computer screen more than I already am. But this Vendée should provide a salty smack in the kisser or two, even if it’s a virtual one. Though from afar, I’m fully planning to hook in and hang on.

Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

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Funny, but I didn’t realize that what I was looking for was a simple, straightforward, good old Pearson Ensign. Right up until the moment I signed the check and bought one. But, as usual, I’m getting ahead of the story.

Let’s put it this way: Basically, I needed a boat. Sort of quickly. As I’ve mentioned previously in this space, it’s a condition of maintaining my city mooring here in Newport, Rhode Island (a mooring I waited over a decade for and hope not to lose anytime in the immediate future). I’d given away my previous little sailboat—a Pearson 26 that was in need of much tender loving care—to a high school senior looking for a school project. I’d kicked a few figurative tires, but suddenly time was of the essence. The summer wasn’t getting any longer.

I’ll blame my boss, CW ­editor Mark Pillsbury, for getting me thinking that less could be more. My search had been centered on smallish cruiser/racers with a proper auxiliary and galley, and decent if modest accommodations: a J/30 (I’d owned one previously), an older C&C in a similar-size range (ditto), a Cal 2-27, or perhaps a 30-foot Catalina or Pearson. But then Mark bought himself an O’Day Daysailer, and I thought: Eureka! Cheap, fun and trailerable, something of a placeholder for the time being. I almost immediately found one online about an hour’s drive away and made an appointment to see it that weekend.

Which was when fate intervened.

On Facebook Marketplace, a local friend who’s a stellar sailor posted a listing for a sweet Pearson Ensign. For a price that, frankly, didn’t seem to add up: much too inexpensive. I pinged him and got an almost immediate response; it wasn’t his boat, he was merely advertising it for a friend, for whom he passed along the contact information.

This is the point in the story where we disclose that anyone who’s been kicking around in boats on Narragansett Bay for the past few decades (guilty!) knows a thing or two about Pearson Ensigns. Nearly 1,800 of the Carl Alberg-designed 22-foot, 6-inch daysailers were built just up the road for a couple of decades starting in 1962. Ensigns were, and perhaps still are, the largest full-keel one-design class of racing boats ever, and inspired dozens of dedicated fleets across the country—including one here in Newport when I was just getting into sailing. I actually did some crewing for the great Dr. Charlie Shoemaker back in the day, who kicked some serious Ensign tail in these parts.

So I made another appointment, to check out the Ensign, on my way to the O’Day. And I was stunned. The owner had purchased it several years earlier from a sailor in Maine who I actually knew (once again proving my long-standing theory that there is but one degree of separation in the sailing world). It had been parked on stands in his driveway ever since, never launched. It came with a small chandlery of extras: a sweet, almost-new 6 hp outboard; six sails, including a very crisp main and genoa; cushions, fenders, dock lines, hardware, safety gear, boom cover, and even a small inflatable and the stands themselves.

What?!

Long story short: He was retiring and relocating, and selling his business, and everything else, including his house and boat. He asked me what I thought and to name a price. I named the one in the ad, and registered his immediate, visible shock. Apparently, he’d asked his friend to move the boat for him, but perhaps not so aggressively. He’d honor the figure in the ad, but not a penny less.

Sold.

I went ahead and looked at the O’Day, whose owner was a local Rhode Island politician (insert your own joke here) who happened to be a very red Republican, which is a rarity in our very blue state. He was hilarious and I enjoyed meeting him. If not for the Ensign, he might’ve sold me his little boat.

But I’d already recalled my fun with “Doc Shoe” and other buddies over the years, with whom I’d enjoyed a spin around the harbor on their Ensigns, the primary feature of which are their long bench seats. You sit in an Ensign, not on one. Sailing one is like taking in a Red Sox game from the Fenway bleachers, beer in hand. Just plain fun.

I’ve come to think I didn’t actually find this little gem. Nope. She found me.

Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

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