A small miracle happened to me recently. It was a message from the past, and so many memories flashed through my mind. It’s not often that one small thing can bring so much joy. But this unexpected phone call certainly did. 

First, a little backstory. Many years ago, in 1966, there was a young Australian bloke who built a small wooden boat he hoped to sail around the world. This young man of 24 was Andy Wall. He lived in Avalon, Australia, just north of Sydney. The boat design was called a Carmen Class. It was 30 feet long, with 27 inches of freeboard aft, blue gum timber frames and a flush deck, with a tiny dodgerlike doghouse covering the cabin hatch. Andy named his boat Carronade, after the small but powerful cannons used on the British warships of yore.

From the moment construction began, Andy knew that this small boat would be his home and his conveyance to grand adventure. When construction was complete, Andy and his two mates, Des Kearns and Ken Mills, set off from Pittwater, Australia.

To go below deck, one had to bend at the waist and crawl through the small hatch. Once below, there was a mere 5 feet of headroom. Carronade had no toilet, just a sturdy black bucket. She had a small kerosene stove and a tiny 1-cylinder Volvo that had to be hand-cranked to start. She had a pipe berth in the forepeak where all the sails were stowed, a small settee bunk, and a cramped chart table—that was it. There were no tanks, just jerry cans for water and fuel, and a tiller for hand steering. 

In the cockpit, there was a beautiful Sestrel binnacle compass with an artistic fleur-de-lis pointing north. Andy had no clue how to celestial navigate, but he had the good sense to get all the proper equipment: his grandfather’s sextant, a Walker log for dead reckoning, a Zenith Trans-Oceanic radio, a nautical almanac, and the tables and paper charts needed to navigate. Most importantly, he had a little book by Mary Blewitt, Celestial Navigation for Yachtsmen.

Anyone who has tried celestial navigation knows that it ain’t easy. As Carronade and her crew made their way across the rough and rugged Tasman Sea, Andy was not at all sure his sights and novice calculations were accurate. Luckily, the weekly seaplane delivering supplies from Sydney to Lord Howe Island flew overhead just as Andy was second-guessing his exact position. Andy took a quick compass bearing of the plane’s course using the Sestrel compass. Following that course, the boat and crew made their first landfall. Andy had become pretty proficient in his celestial navigation, but it was that plane and that little compass that got them safely to their first landfall. 

Carronade’s route across the Pacific followed a zigzag of islands beckoning to these three lads. From Lord Howe Island to New Zealand, to the Austral Islands south of Tahiti, then French Polynesia (where Ken Mills flew back to Australia and Bob Nance came aboard). Next, Hawaii, San Francisco, the Marquesas, and back to Tahiti again. Their longest passage was from Papeete nonstop to Cape Horn. From there, they headed up the east coast of South America, and then on to the West Indies, the Bahamas and finally to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where I met Andy. 

That little compass saw it all! Andy and I had our honeymoon sailing little Carronade across the Atlantic, stopping in Bermuda and the Azores, and making landfall in Falmouth, England. We spent two years—1972 and 1973—cruising England, Holland and Belgium, and then back home across the Atlantic via Spain and the Canary Islands. 

When Andy and I arrived in Fort Lauderdale, Billy Nance (the brother of Andy’s crew Bob Nance) was standing on our dock waiting to take our lines. He offered to buy Carronade and suggested we build a bigger boat. “I know an Australian who has made a mold of the three-time winner of the Sydney to Hobart Race, Freya. Why don’t you build a bigger boat, start a family, and I will take Carronade back to sea?” 

RELATED: Navigation Apps You Can Take for a Sail

And so began the story of Kandarik, our Freya 39, which now sits alongside my dock, full of tales of her own. But, back to the story of our compass. Sadly, after six crossings of the Atlantic, Andy died suddenly in 2008. Twelve years later, in summer 2020, I received a phone call from Skip Granger. He had owned Carronade after Billy Nance, and eventually sold her. I had lost touch with Skip until he called me out of the blue.

“Pam, it’s Skip here. I have Carronade’s original compass in my garage. Would you like it?” 

Would I like it? Yes! That amazing compass guided Andy, his crew, and myself through many adventures and around the globe. I rushed over to Skip’s house, and put the battered, old and weary compass in my car. The binnacle and compass desperately needed refurbishing— I replaced the liquid in the compass, and my friend Cathy put a new coat of paint on the pedestal, varnished the teak spacer, and polished the binnacle back to its original shine.

I don’t know why Skip had the compass after selling Carronade, but I guess he can explain that someday. The important thing is that my son, Jamie, now has this precious legacy of his father.

Pam Wall and her family circumnavigated aboard their 39-foot Freya sloop, Kandarik. Wall is a sailing consultant and speaker who loves teaching and encouraging cruisers. For more, visit pamwall.com.

The post The Compass That Could Tell a Story appeared first on Cruising World.

Departure Day: As the plane lifted off the runway, I muttered my final goodbyes out the window. My parents had purchased an Island Packet 445 10 months prior, and the day to board this boat had finally come. I was 11 years old and knew absolutely nothing about this cruising lifestyle my father had been speaking so highly of for the previous five years. I wasn’t on that plane by choice, but rather bribed on with the promise of a trip to Disneyland; the only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to leave my home.

Because I didn’t have any say in this big life change, I did anything possible to avoid moving onto the boat. I didn’t help pack the house. I made my homeschooling exceedingly difficult for my mother. I filled my younger brother with lies and tales of how he wouldn’t get to bring his stuffed animals onto the boat, how we would die, and how we would run out of money and food; my brother ate up all of this with a big spoon. I am told the excuses I constantly presented to my parents became increasingly hysterical as we came closer to the departure date.

Despite my best attempts, we were on a San Francisco-bound plane that September morning. My father was excited, my mother nervous, my brother impartial, and I sullen. I was not at all eager about this change in my lifestyle. My attempts to wreck the trip had failed. I had finally accepted defeat after I sat down on the plane, and I, to put it simply, was an undesirable child for the next week (maybe a year, according to some).

The Adjustment Period

The first three months on the boat had not been very easy. What my dad called an adjustment period, I called a nightmare. My “adjustment” to a homeschooling program had not been going well. In fact, my school days started with endless yelling and ended with streams of tears; I still hadn’t got the hang of working so independently. To make matters worse, my most dreaded fear was coming true: We had not met any other boats with kids, as my father had promised would so quickly happen. In contrast to how my father guaranteed I would have fun, I was having increasingly terrible days. I was always quick to make suggestions to return to Canada, my desire to turn this idea around still strong in my mind.

But, after three months of traveling, we had a lucky break. In La Paz, there was another cruising boat with a 13-year-old boy aboard. At the time, I was quite shy and didn’t want anything to do with him. But my parents were determined to make me a friend, and two weeks later, Glen and I could be seen endlessly boogie boarding the crashing waves to the beach. As I began to enjoy myself more and more, many other things happened. A big one is that the amount of time I spent on my schoolwork shrunk from eight hours to four, and the tears I had so endlessly shed began to make fewer appearances. All I wanted to do was play on the beach.

After meeting Glen, cruising for me began to get better and better. Kids having other kids to do kid stuff with is really important, and for some reason, we did not meet any other boats with kids for a long time. I began to get up early and finish my schoolwork so I had the rest of the day to myself. This system was working out great for me; I was having to complete only a couple of hours of schoolwork a day, and then the rest of the day was mine. At some point during these months, I must have decided to give this cruising idea a chance. I tried to withhold my suggestions to return to Canada and kept my negative comments to myself. I tried to ignore the negatives and focus on the positives, and after a while, I permanently ignored any negatives and enjoyed all of the positives. Instead of refusing the idea of living on a boat, I refused the idea of moving onto land.

Six Months Later

The day I shot my first fish was the day I began to consider myself a true cruising kid. (You know the type: long sun-bleached hair, ragged clothes, skinny-looking.) Why? We had met a new boat with kids on board, just a week after parting ways with Glen and his family. This boat was called Exodus. The father on Exodus, Tim, introduced my father and me to spearfishing. This became the new sport for our little group. Every single day, the kids and the dads piled into a dinghy along with all of our wetsuits, snorkels, fins and spear guns for a day of searching for fish, lobsters, scallops and anything else we guessed to be edible. This new sport took up the majority of our days and was a large part of my life at the time. That activity, in a way, represented how I was growing up. I was learning new skills and learning how to work independently, as well as part of a team. I was growing up in a way most kids don’t; I had adults around who helped me succeed and gave me support whenever I needed it, always doing their best to guide me in the right direction.

Read More: Point of View

One Year Later

Leaving from Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, we arrived in the Marquesas after a 23-day Pacific Puddle Jump crossing. What an experience to be so alone for so long. Well, we did have a radio and SSB email, but it was still a real test to be stuck with the same three people in a small space for over three weeks.

We continued touring through the South Pacific, soaking up the attractions of French Polynesia, the Cook Islands, American Samoa, Tonga and Fiji. During this time, my independence continued to grow. I often took a five-hour watch during the dark hours of long passages. This was quite a bit of responsibility to hand over to a 13-year-old, especially considering I was in charge of reefing and adjusting sails as the conditions changed, as well as dodging squalls using the radar, and keeping an eye and ear out for any problems. I woke up my father only when a ship was nearby and I wasn’t sure of its intentions. Almost everybody in the cruising community treated me as an adult while still understanding I was a child, thereby giving me the flexibility to make childish mistakes.

As of this writing, my family has now been aboard for three years. We have just left French Polynesia, and I am still enjoying this lifestyle we have embarked on. We have plans to return to Canada in 12 months and, similar to how I opposed moving onto the boat, I am now completely opposed to moving off it. I have so much fun and learn so many things on this boat that I can’t imagine ever returning “home”—a place I hardly even remember, where people are so different than the cruisers and the locals I have mingled with since.

Kyle Danielwicz and his family are back in Canada after cruising the Pacific aboard Lady Carolina, an Island Packet 445, for four years.

The post How a Young Sailor Learned to Love the Cruising Life appeared first on Cruising World.

Mommy, is this spinach from our garden?” § “Absolutely,” I beamed as I set the dinette aboard our Catalina 30 with plates of fresh crab cakes atop a bed of tender spinach leaves, marking the first bit of bounty from my latest project—my taffrail-mounted garden.

Over the past eight years, my nomadic family has sailed and lived aboard three sailboats; enjoyed a rugged winter in a rustic northwest Canadian cabin; camped and cavorted alongside lakes and meadows in a motor home, and then in a “camperized” minivan; and spent three winters being rested and restored in the embrace of Bali, Indonesia. We even tried on normal life in a three-story walk-up apartment where we had three windows. And no backyard.

It was during our stay in the apartment—closed off from fresh air, gentle breezes and the feel of sunshine on my face—that I rediscovered gardening with a simple window garden grown from kitchen scraps. My window garden was small and didn’t produce much food, but it was the inspiration for my entry into gardening on the go.

Three years ago, we returned to life at sea. When springtime came around, trips ashore saw leaves unfurling and gardeners sharpening shears and digging out gardening gloves. The sight of jet-black potting soil in a planter box outside the supermarket taunted me with the promise of leafy green vegetables.

I was yearning to garden. My window-box garden had brought me such joy…but you can’t garden on a sailboat, right? Enter our family motto: “I know it can’t be done. But if it could, how would we do it?”

My boat garden began with a beach-salvaged wooden plank on the stern rail where I added daily to the mix of egg cartons and yogurt tubs to hold the cut ends of lettuce, green onions, garlic, a cherry tomato plant and a selection of fresh herbs.

Our first sail with the array of containers had me worried about the tiny green shoots. We were transiting from our home port of Vancouver, British Columbia, to Gabriola Island off the northern tip of Vancouver Island, set in the rugged cruising grounds of the West Coast Gulf Islands.

I secured the sturdier plants as best I could on the taffrail-mounted plank; the tender new seeds made the passage down below in the safety of the cabin. The wind forecast called for a steady sea breeze of 15 to 20 knots, promising to keep our boat moving at an unassuming yet surprisingly raucous 5 or 6 knots, saltwater spray threatening the tender plants with every wave crested, to say nothing of the jostling when tacking.

But we gardeners, well, we know the bold power of a tiny new plant—of a seedling so voracious to drink up sunlight and water and do that most natural thing: grow.

Having survived a southeaster in a journey across Georgia Strait and a nor’wester on the transit back, it was time to host the sea-trialed new plants in a permanent home of their own. At our next port of call in the inner recesses of Howe Sound, I set about building a taffrail garden box.

I’d read about the benefits of container gardening, but my limited space left much to be desired. With the rigging for the mainsheet and the boom hanging just forward of the stern-rail garden plank—and the access needed for the helmsman (which is usually me) to work the tiller underway, not to mention the added burden of additional windage created by having a structure of any size in that part of the vessel—I had a maddeningly tiny parcel of space within which to work.

Mother’s Day 2019 saw the completion of the family-built garden box, which consisted of three separate boxes, all secured to the original beach-salvaged plank on the stern rail awaiting soil.

Ah, yes. Soil. Where does one get potting mix while out at sea?

While tied to a dock in Port Mellon, British Columbia, I had a conversation with a fellow mariner. She was a mother of three whose resourcefulness in the constraints of life at sea would make even the hardiest of pioneer wives blush.

“Potting soil? I know where you can get some,” she exclaimed as we stood on the dock, surrounded by vast ocean and mountain wilderness. While onshore exploring with her own family, she had noticed a spot along a side road where some well-meaning local had dumped mound after mound of potting soil, along with the planters and pots they, for whatever reason, no longer wanted.

Armed with the X-marks-the-spot treasure map she drew me, I rowed ashore and soon found the great heaps of promised potting soil, rich with peat moss and peppered with vermiculite. A broad smile fixed to my face, I set about scooping the bounty into an old 12-liter rice sack I brought along for the job.

A half-dozen sailing excursions since that day, and I am confident in the garden—box and plants alike—on both port and starboard tacks. It’s still a startling sight to look aft and see my garden perched at a 45-degree angle to the horizon.

Adjusting to gardening at sea, I did some reading about pollination requirements for greenhouse plants and worried about the lack of natural pollinators out here. I kept a small paintbrush at the ready, borrowed from my children’s craft box, to sweep and transfer the delicate pollen from each flower to the next, but was thrilled to see nature’s little wonders—the humble bumblebee—darting to and fro among my three tiny yellow tomato-plant blossoms, even when anchored 300 feet from shore.

I have been conflicted between conserving precious stores of fresh water for the crew and sneaking just a little extra for watering my plants when we were nowhere near land. I’ve since taken to reusing my dishwater, cooled pasta water and any extra rainwater collected.

I’ve worried about staking my tomato plant when it grew beyond 6 inches. I initially embedded three chopsticks to form a stake, but it never grew much beyond another 6 inches higher. While my garden did grow, it firmly remained a microgarden. The kale and spinach produced tender, sweet leaves that served beautifully in a fresh green salad. The herbs grew to a somewhat stunted level, though reproduced enough to make our Sunday night dinners pop with flavor.

Every plant grew, but they were small, undersize, and tinier than land-based plants would be with the same amount of sunshine, soil, and summertime love. I’d been warned about this by other onboard gardeners.

And so, I need to learn. I love the curiosity and discovery of life lived at sea. I love the resourcefulness and ingenuity of sailors and our willingness to share and learn from one another. The secret to successful gardening at sea is out there—I just have to find it.

In the meantime, we are still able to partake of that most joyful part of gardening: the harvest. We’ve now enjoyed that brilliant splash of freshness that comes from tossing a handful of parsley into any dish, the bold crunch of green onions and chives added to dips and morning eggs, and the exquisite treat of dressing a plate with a brilliant, verdant bed of fresh, tender kale and spinach leaves.

As I stand in our cockpit, watering can in hand, tending to my plants each evening, I marvel at the splendors of this world. I can introduce my children to the gifts of sailing, travel, exploration, adventure and discovery, and feed them fresh ocean-grown kale at the same time.

Kate Gilgan is a writer, mother and hesitant adventurist. From a life at sea to a rustic wilderness cabin to life in Bali with their two youngest children, Kate and her husband, Michael, delight in family-style discovery and exploration.

The post Gardening on a Sailboat 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.

I’m a marine surveyor and long-time cruiser, and something quite interesting has come to my attention of late: World events and in particular recent developments with this new pandemic have brought about a fairly urgent response from many people who feel the need to “get away” to protect themselves and their loved ones. Gun sales are reported to be at record highs and the pressing desire to feel safe seems to be on many people’s minds. I’ve seen all sorts of news stories and Facebook posts of really discontented and unhappy, maybe even scared people out there that want to extricate themselves from the madness, but just don’t know how or where to go about doing it.

And then there are the sailors. These people DO know how to get away, and most have a pretty good idea of where to go and how to go about it. Some of these are the lucky few who already own an ocean-going sailboat they could escape on if and when the local environment gets just a little too dangerous or uncomfortable. I would not be surprised over the coming years to see a much higher number of people heading out to go world cruising if for no better reason than to distance themselves from the potential health risks of big cities and the heated and sometimes deliberately misleading rhetoric of politics to reassess their lives out on the open ocean, visiting tropical islands, remote high-latitude bays or small countries where one can still find solitude and welcoming people, peace in place of hysteria, convolution, strife and relative safety from the risk of rapidly spreading pathogenic illnesses.

These lucky people own sailboats that could best be described as “escape pods.” Like the science-fiction books and movies, where large spaceships have escape pods to allow people to get away when danger threatens the integrity of their mothership, world cruising sailboats can offer the same safety net for sailors who realize that until things settle down again at home, or if things get just too uncomfortable, that their own escape pods can carry them far away to the safety of distant shores, unaffected by the viral outbreaks or the aftermath of bad government decisions. Granted that during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic many countries have closed borders, but this pandemic will pass and the important thing may be to be in a position for the next one that will surely come along, and to have a boat and plan to sail to a small and safe place to wait things out. We correspond with many cruising friends all over the world who positioned themselves in remote areas prior to the current border closures and have been allowed to stay, unmolested, until things stabilize.

If you are fed up with the way the society you have been living in is headed and are lucky enough to have the ability to sail, or are at least willing to learn, then maybe you should consider taking on the vagabond lifestyle of the world cruising sailor. We are not total dropouts. We pay our taxes, we keep in contact with family and friends via email and calls, and we even occasionally fly home to visit loved ones, but what we don’t do is sit quarantined in our urban or suburban homes in debt, taxed, charged or everything from water to electricity (which we get free from the sky, the sun and wind) and with our every move regulated and constricted.

Ready for a change? Go find yourself an escape pod and jettison the trappings of modern society that are keeping you held as a prisoner of a world that seems sometimes to have lost its sense of reason. Escape to the freedom of the open ocean and see where the four winds will take you. There is still a great big world out there and it’s yours to discover. Hop onboard your escape pod and head out. You are a prisoner no longer; freedom is just over the horizon!

The post Point of View: The Escape Pod appeared first on Cruising World.

Lying awake in my berth, listening to the roaring wind, I whipped up this little classified ad—or was I dreaming it?—in my mind. “Boat for sale: Beneteau 361 in great condition. Includes dinghy, watermaker, solar panels and wind generator.”

As all sailors can attest, these moments of doubt come around. That night, I would have sold my beloved Liberte for pennies on the dollar.

It had been a day of ridiculous logistics. Some land-based friends in Florida wanted to meet at the Sanibel Marriott for sunset hour. Simple enough, but the hotel dock wouldn’t work. The docks next door were private. There was no anchorage for shelter in the predicted northerlies.

I found a place on the charts that might work, and for several hours, we motored the twisting Intracoastal Waterway against current to go just 2 miles as the seagull flies. We crept around a long shoal and through skinny water to drop the hook. We were far from shore with no wind protection, but in flat water, or so we thought.

A fishing boat came blasting by, so close that our mast rocked in its wake. Then another. It appeared I had anchored smack dab in the middle of a local shortcut. Each driver gave us the stink eye as they hit the throttle. Doubt crept in, the scourge of any untested anchorage.

A TowBoatUS boat pulled up, and the driver hollered over: “You guys OK? Never seen anyone anchored here.”

“Uh, yeah…. Just here for a couple of nights.”

“Wow, you’re here on purpose? All the boats run through here.”

“We noticed.”

“Can’t believe you got over the bar,” the tow driver said. “I’d get back out at the next high tide if I were you.”

“Thanks! Now go save someone else, pal.” (I said that last part under my breath).

Now the breeze was lively. My wife, Rebecca, and I hoisted the dinghy off the foredeck, and it wanted to sail away. I stepped into the rollicking dink and fitted the outboard, my limbs jerking like a character in an old-time movie. I yanked the starter, remembering to use my left hand because the right arm was tweaked from before. All the while I muttered versions of the phrase, “This is ridiculous!”

Rebecca still had her sunny smile, so much better at these times than me, and we motored upwind in our foulies against breeze and spray. We tied up to the hotel docks with the guilty manner of not knowing if we belonged. Our friends looked fresh, unwrinkled, sensible and sophisticated. We pulled off our wet gear and smoothed our crazy hair.

The sunset was a five-star masterpiece, but we apologized and made the transit back to Liberte before dark. As we tossed about in our inflatable, feeling oh-so-vulnerable, I looked up at the Sanibel Island causeway. There were the smart people, unbound by charts and shallows. To change their weather, they just summoned the heat or air conditioning. They were no doubt destined for crisp sheets in a quiet hotel room. Those lucky people.

Back at the boat, the anchor light was out, so I cobbled together a “nonapproved” version using headlamps. I tried to read a book but instead inserted some more details into my imaginary ad: “Boat for sale. High engine hours. Jib needs replacement. Bottom paint due. Wind instruments behaving strangely. Fridge needs three sharp raps on the thermostat to come back on.”

The wind whistled, and the cabin was colder than seemed possible this far south. There was a squeeze in my chest, the unsettling feeling of making a big mistake. This sailing life made no sense at all. I would have to find a broker in the morning.

I went topside for a look around. That one step still squeaked. The winches needed servicing. My makeshift anchor light was already fading. It would be a great relief to hand all this to a new owner. Let him deal with it.

And then the cool north wind smacked me upside the head. I stood there for a long while, just drinking in the sensation of it.

The wind I chased through hills as a boy and sent me to the islands on my first ocean passage. The wind that silently, wondrously, put Rebecca and me next to a mother humpback and her calf as they dived and surfaced for 20 magical minutes I will remember with a smile all my life.

I smiled now too, in the darkness. Thoughts of the winds that had carried us to so many places. The fragrant land breeze of Pacific Mexico at night and the sea breeze in the afternoons. The clean, sweet wind of the West Indies. The pleasures of the Pacific trades. That epic night off Cape Mendocino, surfing a narrow groove with a scrap of sail, nothing more important in the world than to steer a course and keep the boat in one piece until morning. This little boat named Liberte that had given me thousands of sunsets and a million sparkling memories.

The deck was familiar under my feet. I knew my route over it and could find the corresponding handholds by instinct. Looking around in the moonlight, everything was tidy and in its place.

Even the blemishes had meaning. Who else would understand how that scrape or ding came to be? I had put them there myself over the course of years and adventures aplenty. I knew with a warm rush of memory all the stories here.

My eyes darted again to the bridge and all the cars. Their brake lights crawled along, constrained by tollways, traffic, convention and routine. Perhaps there was one kid, a younger version of me, looking out the window at a lone boat under the moon and dreaming.

Maybe he was thinking, Those lucky people.

“Baby, are you coming to bed?” A beloved voice from below. The gleam of polished wood. The good books, well-appointed galley and simple pleasures.

Yes, I most certainly am. And tonight I will sleep the sleep of a sailor, wrapped in water sounds and rocked off to dreamland.

“Boat for sale?” Not a chance.

You’ll have to pry old Liberte from my banged-up sailor’s hands.

David and Rebecca Kilmer spent this past winter aboard Liberte exploring Mexico’s Sea of Cortez, and savoring every bloody moment.

The post Point of View: Boat for Sale appeared first on Cruising World.

After cruising aboard our boats for 30 years or so, my wife, Liz, and I figured we’d done just about everything one could do in a small space surrounded by water. That is, until we connected with circumnavigators Caryn and Gary on San Diego-based Windflower. They certainly added to our ­repertoire of things to do while afloat.

Our education took place in beautiful Chamela Bay on Mexico’s Pacific Coast. I was returning to Feel Free, our Spencer 51, after a successful spearfishing excursion on the reef off the point. So successful, I thought I should share the wealth with our new neighbors on Windflower.

In the dinghy were the usual suspects—triggerfish, parrot- fish, hogfish, and a porgy or two. Immediately after accepting the offer of fish, Caryn exclaimed: “They’re gorgeous! We have to print them before they’re cleaned!”

“Excuse me?” I muttered.

“Have you heard of gyotaku? It’s the Japanese technique of fish printing.”

Not only had I never heard of it, but Liz and I had spent a fair bit of time in Japan aboard our first boat, Hoki Mai, which made me feel even more cerebrally challenged. Caryn insisted I come aboard so they could show me some of their fish prints. They unrolled sheets of mulberry paper and rice paper with beautiful black prints of fish they had caught throughout their travels. I was blown away.

“Why don’t you come back with Liz, and we’ll show you how to do it?”

The remainder of the morning was taken up aboard Windflower printing triggers, parrot- and hogfish—and so began our most recent obsession and our campaign to share this super-cheap, super-easy and super-fun art form that appeals to just about anyone who appreciates the beauty of a fish.

Gyotaku (ghee-yo-TAH-koo) began aboard Japanese fishing boats in the 19th century as a means of logging the fisherman’s catch. Fishing boats were supplied with sumi ink and rice paper to quickly and easily record what they caught. It was then and still is a simple but accurate way to record the type and size of fish. A good fish rubbing is probably the most accurate image, in every detail, of a fish’s external features. A photo won’t show the true size of a fish, but a fish rubbing will. It has since morphed into a popular modern art form. Gyotaku can be seen in galleries, museums and Japanese restaurants around the world.

The basics of gyotaku are simple: Take a newly dead fish and paint it on one side. Then take a piece of fabric, rice paper or even a T-shirt, and place it on the painted side of the fish, and rub the material so that the paint is transferred to the material. Remove the material from the fish and—voilà!—you have your fish print. It can be as basic as that.

Of course, should you wish to get more elaborate, the sky is the limit. Many—Liz and me included—have deviated from the traditional Japanese style of black (sumi ink) on rice paper to use a variety of media, as well as include colors that try to replicate the coloration of the fish or even to color it in a fanciful way.

You can paint the fish with color—or add color after first printing in black—to add definition and jazz it up. You can also print multiple types of fishes on one screen, or use the same fish again and again on the same screen to create the impression of a school of fish.

Here is a description of how Liz and I approach gyotaku. Maybe you will be inspired to let your imagination have a go at it too.

Step 1: Procure fish: Catch, shoot, buy or borrow. Yes, borrow. In Mazatlán, we borrowed a recently caught dorado from a sport-fishing boat. The captain allowed us to print his dorado, and in return we gave him one of two printed screens. He was stoked!

Step 2: Rinse any slime off the fish, then gently wipe one side of the fish dry, including fins. You can use rubbing alcohol and lots of newspaper, dry rags or paper towels.

Step 3: Seal off any ­orifices, which tend to leak a bit, with tissues to prevent ­contamination of the print.

Step 4: Lay out the fish in the desired position on a drop sheet. We often fan out the dorsal, pectoral and tail fins, and hold them open by placing bits of newspaper under them.

Step 5: Paint the fish with your paint and color of choice. Currently, we are using a very inexpensive, water-soluble ­color-fast acrylic paint found in paint stores everywhere. If you choose the traditional route, use Japanese sumi or India ink found in art-supply stores. Rice and mulberry paper can be found there too. Be careful to paint the body of the fish, skipping the eye, and paint in the direction of the scales. The pupil can be painted by hand on the print later. If the fish is small enough, pick it up to paint to ensure that no paint ends up on the drop sheet, which can spoil the print.

Step 6: Carefully place fabric or rice paper on the fish, and massage gently to transfer the paint onto the material. This is the Zen part of the operation.

Step 7: Remove the printed material and, presto, you have your print. Remember the paint will still be a little wet, so treat it accordingly.

Step 8: Wash the paint or ink off the fish with water while the paint is still wet, fillet the fish, cook and enjoy. We ascribe to the policy of you print it, you eat it! You are now a gyotaku artist. Repeat as often as you like with the same fish. You’ll see each print is unique.

Now that you know how to print fish, what do you want to do with the prints? Let your creativity be your guide. Try wall hangings, aprons, T-shirts, cushion covers, tablecloths, ­table runners and greeting cards. Liz has made dozens of items, and they make great gifts.

Cruisers are so curious about our fish prints that Liz and I have held workshops on board Feel Free. The looks on our students’ faces when they produce their first print is always fun.

Try it, you’ll like it!

Tom Morkin and his wife, Liz, began cruising in 1985, and since then have sailed to 50 countries aboard two boats, Hoki Mai and Feel Free.

The post Gyotaku Aboard: How to Make Japanese Fish Prints appeared first on Cruising World.

It started with a question. “Are you in this class?” the man on my right asked. “Yes,” I replied. “Marine diesel, right?” We were all awaiting the start of the diesel-engine class. And there I was, with a pink scarf draped around my neck, hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a bright blue purse slung over my shoulder. It was then that it hit me:* I’m the only woman here*.

But why would that stop me? My husband had taken the class a year before, and I wanted to know just as much as he did about our Yanmar 4JH3E. I wasn’t about to let a room full of testosterone prevent me from that. I wanted to become a better asset to our two-person sailing team. We had aspirations of traveling the world together aboard our Baba 40 sailboat, The Pioneer. I hoped that by taking this class I would be able to diagnose potential engine problems and provide ideas in solving them.

I’d scanned the room for an open seat just like a new kid in a middle school lunchroom. I could feel a lump in my throat. Just find a seat. I inhaled a shallow breath and saw a vacant spot between two men in the front row. I nervously excused myself as I wiggled my way down the row toward the empty seat. My classmates stared at me with eyes that said, What are you doing here?

“Hi, I’m Hannah” I smiled as I held out my hand. “Hello,” the bearded man replied, with a gruff shake. The three of us started up a brief conversation. I discovered one owned a trawler in New England, and the other planned to charter a sailboat in the Caribbean for vacation. When the instructor arrived, as he scrolled through his roster, he showed no sign of surprise that a girl was taking his class. A seasoned diesel mechanic and teacher, he proceeded to lead us through a series of PowerPoint slides, explaining the necessary balance among air, heat and fuel needed to propel a diesel.

As we covered the basics of fuel injectors, the hydraulic process, and the properties of diesel, my pen flew across the pages in my notebook in a mad dash to capture as much of the content as I could. I sketched little pictures to go along with my notes. Every now and then, the man next to me peeked over his glasses at what I was writing. Did he think my notes were girly? My insecurity swelled.

When the instructor discussed how the use of glow plugs heats an engine before ignition, I started wondering why we did not have glow plugs on ours. So, without much more thought, I jerked my hand into the air: “How does the engine get warm enough to start if there aren’t any glow plugs?”

Once the words had left my mouth, I could feel my cheeks burn a flushed crimson, and I realized all eyes were now upon me. Oh, no. Was that a stupid question? Did everyone already know this? Were they all annoyed I had asked?

Over the course of the class’s first hour, not one student had dared to ask a question. Since I’d been the first, I wondered if I was even supposed to ask questions at all. My heart was throbbing. To my relief, the instructor appeared unfazed by my question. He explained that larger diesel engines, such as our 54 hp Yanmar, did not need glow plugs because they relied on compression to heat them to a high enough temperature for fuel ignition on their own, with just the hot high-pressure air.

I went back to my note taking and hoped that if I had another question, other students would speak up and ask questions too so I wouldn’t look like an idiot. But no one did. The instructor even asked a few times at the end of a section if the class had questions; instead, the men looked around, out the window, or down at their complimentary copy of Nigel Calder’s Marine Diesel Engines: Maintenance, Troubleshooting, and Repair. And then we learned about the possible causes of different-colored engine smoke: black, white and even blue. I found myself wondering why burning oil made blue smoke, so I shot my hand up again.

After taking my question, I caught the instructor looking around the classroom. Several students looked up interested, and a few nodded their heads. Perhaps they had had the same question about blue smoke too? I felt less ashamed this time. Were they relieved that I was raising my hand with their questions so they wouldn’t have to?

A man from behind me leaned forward and whispered: “Thanks. I actually had been wondering that too.”Oddly enough, the instructor appeared pleased that I had asked, and used it as a segue into the next segment on oil maintenance and changing oil filters. He walked us through a series of diagrams on how worn valves or aged guide seals in the cylinder head weaken, and oil seeps into them over time, causing the oil to burn. And the chemicals in oil often burn a bluish color. Made sense.

As I looked around the room, it dawned on me that the men wanted to appear manly to their fellow men. From the time they’d been boys in the high school locker room, their male ego was on the line. This class was no different. Masculine ego was dictating that they pretend to understand everything about superchargers, turbochargers and mixing elbows so the other men in the class would respect them too. Asking questions showed weakness. And they were desperate to look knowledgeable about manly things like engines. In reality, they’d learn a lot more if they’d let down their guard about what all the other men in the class thought of them and started asking their questions too.

But was that too much to ask? What would it take for just one of them to take the risk of asking a question and potentially open the floodgates for the other men in the class to ask their questions too?

And then it finally happened. We were covering the material about hydrostatic locks and what to do if an engine made a clunk, clunk, clunk sound instead of turning over to start. The man from behind me shot his hand up into the air. You could have heard a pin drop. I knew how he must have felt as all eyes were now on him. But I did not dare turn around. I did not want to add to his embarrassment, and I was cheering inside.

I don’t remember his exact question, but I do know the instructor’s answer was to check the raw-water pump first. He had a broad grin on his face, and his eyes seemed to be telling the rest of the men in the class that asking questions was the brave, manly thing to do.

It didn’t take long for another hand to go up asking about how often to change the coolant in the closed cooling system. Answer: every one to two years. Less than a half-hour later, a third man asked about his Westerbeke engine and whether he should be checking his zincs more frequently. The answer was yes, at least monthly.

By the end of the day, my questions had been joined by a chorus of at least five others. And the next day, the class model evolved into even more questions and discussion as more and more men felt comfortable enough to voice what they did not understand.

Whether my asking questions made a difference at the start of the day, I will never know. But as I sat there surrounded by the “diesel-engine shop talk,” I recognized something else that I took away from the class as invaluable.

I might not equate my self-worth with how much I know about raw-water pumps, hydraulic transmissions and heat exchangers, but I do recognize that the way to gain more confidence is by investing in yourself by asking questions, taking classes, and learning from others who are more knowledgeable than you. I might be uncomfortable or feel out of place at first, but that discomfort will propel me toward the more confident, knowledgeable person I hope to be, regardless of gender and societal stigmas.

It will make me a better sailor too, which is the reason I was there in the first place. That “extra” lesson was a bonus.

Hannah Knecht spent several years sailing and cruising aboard The Pioneer, a Baba 40. She is now the program director for Hands Across the Sea, a nonprofit organization founded and run by cruising sailors that promotes literacy in the Eastern Caribbean.

The post Point of View: Taking the Risk appeared first on Cruising World.

I grew up surrounded by nature. When I was a young child, my family and I lived on 10 acres of grass and trees. My days were spent running around the backyard playing make-believe and adventuring in imaginary worlds. Then, at age 10, my parents moved my siblings and me onto a sailboat. This move deepened my connection with the world around me.

On the boat, nature’s whims became my reality, for the sea was my floor and the sky was my roof. In a house, I could go all day without feeling nature around me, but on a boat, inside or out, any little shift had a direct effect on my life. If the wind picked up, I could feel it funnel down through the hatches and sweep through the boat. I could feel it as it caused the momentum of the water to push its way under the bow and slap against the hull. If it was rainy, I could hear the pattering of the water, the trickling as it pooled on the side decks and drained away. Most of all, I could feel the night. My childhood evenings were spent abovedecks in the cockpit. We, as a family, gathered there as the dusk settled around us. We spent this time together connecting, sharing and planning our future.

On passage, the cycles of the moon affected our vision as we sailed through complete inky blackness or a moonlit silver sea. At anchor, the cycles of the tide constantly swept under our hull in an unending ebb and flow. Nature was the life force that powered our boat. Solar and wind energy gave us electricity, and harnessed breeze in our sails moved us from place to place.

Nature embedded itself into my experiences. Once we arrived in the tropics, beaches became my backyard. I spent every day playing in the sand and swimming in the clear warm water. I cracked coconuts and ate nature. I hiked ­mountains and felt nature. I explored cultures and their relationships with nature. I relied on the world I was surrounded by, and this gave me a deep connection and appreciation of it.

My childhood in nature forced my creativity to surface as I explored the vastness of the world. As much as I relied on nature, it was also an obstacle. During long bouts away from civilization, the tight quarters of the boat left me with minimal options for entertainment. It forced me to develop my creativity in the form of writing, sketching and other compact-space activities. After days and weeks of the monotony of life at sea, my thoughts would spiral in my head and begin to drive me crazy. I longed to talk to someone outside of the boat, someone beyond the vast horizon. Because this was not an option, I instead turned to a notebook and pen. I wrote and wrote, letting this be my outlet, my way to make an imprint on our vast world as the size of the ocean made me realize how very insignificant I was. Writing gave me release from my tumultuous thoughts and the loneliness of being at sea. I also turned to art as a form of therapy that drew me into a different world and made me forget my surroundings. I drew on my creativity to overcome the obstacles in my life, using it as an outlet for my pent-up thoughts.

My childhood on a boat was filled with freedoms that I am only now beginning to ­understand. I had minimal societal pressures, and this gave me the space to explore who I was, independent of any peer influences. I learned what true freedom looked like because I had the best example of it right in front of me — my parents, who were teaching me exactly what embracing independence looked like. They showed me how to follow dreams, make independent ­decisions and be self-reliant.

My childhood adventure was of a different sort. While my peers at home were ­adventuring through woods and fields, through middle school and childhood relationships, I was adventuring through the world. I was exploring foreign markets, foreign foods; I was hiking mountains and learning to sail. My childhood adventure was exploring a world of foreign cultures and nature, all under the protective wing of my world-savvy parents, who were always there to guide and teach.

Childhood is wild with ­adventures of the ­imagination and in reality. Childhood is where creativity is born and nurtured into adult life. This was my wilderness of ­childhood, scattered around the globe.

Zoë Buratynsky, now 20, lives in Southern Ontario, where she is starting her second year of ­university, studying sociology.

The post Growing Up on the Sea appeared first on Cruising World.

Leaving without a fixed destination to arrive to an uncertain welcome. That is why I sail.

It’s the first thing I tell landlubbers who ask, “What is it like, to sail across an ocean in a small boat?”

I could describe the long, loping swell of the deep ocean. The black, moonless nights when the darkness chokes my mind. The curl of blue bioluminescence on a breaking wave. The way a new dawn paints the deck candy-floss pink. I could describe the welling of joy when dolphins appear, and the secrets we share. But I always begin with the thrill of leaving port.

My port clearance is a precious document, the paper clearing boat and crew of debts and warrants and unpaid bar tabs, free to leave without obligation to say where we will come to rest. A zarpe, an outbound clearance, a chit that sets you free. The thrill of limbo when I travel without destination sets my imagination afloat.

I aim my boat into blue waters, seeking wind and way. A month of waves may kiss my keel, then, just miles from port, I jibe away. To another coast, a friendlier nation, somewhere downwind from here. Perhaps I’ll never return, never arrive, betwixt and between, alone at sea. I’ll sail in circles, north to the pole, south to the ice, east and then west until land stands in the way. I could if I wanted to.

When the wind blows hard from the north, we aim for Yemen rather than Oman. When our water runs low, we stop in Alaska on our way to Japan. If the sailing is good I’ll pass New Zealand and aim straight for Tahiti.

It isn’t always so, this ticket to eternal noncommittal freedom. If you are port hopping in an island nation, or skipping down a nation’s coast, authorities may ask your destination. But when you raise your sail to cross the Atlantic Ocean, the Arabian Sea, crossing a great expanse to a land far away, you wave farewell and slip away into a world between nations, free of borders, free of customs, duties and right of abode.

Tell me, where else can you wander like this? Which train carries you across a border without two nations, one to exit, one to enter? No airliner takes off without a destination on your boarding pass. Roads that lead to the frontera cross to the other side.

But not when I go to sea.

“Don’t you get bored, day after day with nothing new to do or see?” the landlubbers ask.

Bored? No. Never. I’m too engrossed in the blue soul of the Indian Ocean, light shot through it like a drift of silver filings. The fear that punches through the bottom of my belly when I look aft and see a gray wave, two, three stories high, with anger in its face. The brilliant flash of metal and blue, streaks of yellow, as a tuna hits the lure. Hand over hand, in it comes, the first fresh food of the voyage.

There’s too much work, helming hour after hour, trimming, changing sails. An inch of ease for a tenth of speed. Or making repairs, jury-rigging when you don’t have spares. Baking bread, cooking dinner, cleaning the head.

My father, an old farmer, came aboard my boat. Never sailed, never cruised, a life spent working hard. He knew nothing of the sea. I was proud, showing him my world. And I waited, wanting a hand on the shoulder saying, son, you’ve done well. Nothing. A silent, critical eye.

“So, Dad, what do you think of sailing?”

“Seems like an awful lot of work to go real slow.”

I couldn’t argue. The whole point is to go real slow, to appreciate the subtle shifts of scene. Sometimes I just sit and stare at the sea. Every cloud that passes creates a new blue, new gray, new frothy white cap on the wave. Sometimes there are thrills, a squall that makes us long for home. A whale, a school of dolphins showing us the way. But even without, even if it’s calm, we’re still sailing in a kaleidoscope of shifting shape and light. The setting sun on a clean horizon, the masthead light joining Orion. Darkness so deep it’s hard to stay on your feet. Watching the stars revolve, picking a new one to point the way. Then the dawn. Oh, the dawn. First a tinge of gray, then blues and pinks and tangerine light. The white decks glow, waves and wind that frightened in the night pushed back by the light. If I show you the dawn of open sea you will love it. You’ll know what’s for real.

And then, a few weeks in, someone gets lucky on their watch.

“Land! I think I see land!”

A dark smudge on the horizon turns into mountains, beaches and trees and sand. An excitement takes hold. We clean, we shower, we put the ship in order. We work even harder.

Port of Aden, Dutch Harbor, Port of Jamestown, Pond Inlet, Galle, Salalah. Ports and not marinas, not moored next to superyachts and motorcruisers, but ships of war and coastal barges, the grit and grime of a working harbor. The docks are painted with tar, the water streaked with oil. This is not the country’s best face. But it’s where we arrive, alongside working men and foreign cargo, by the kitchen door. Others, less fortunate, I’d say, are disgorged into shiny halls, then a taxi and a hotel in a predictable order. We hoist our yellow flag, a declaration of quarantine, inviting corrupt officials to board.

“Perhaps you have a gift for me? Ah, thank you, but my brother, he likes Marlboros too.”

Our first requests are fuel and water, and “Is there a sailmaker in this port?” And once she’s secure, the papers signed and bilge inspected, we step ashore.

A cold beer, that day’s newspaper, a meal that’s fresh and green. A walk about town, perhaps a souvenir. And then I begin to wonder, what does the forecast say, when will the wind blow and get us out of here?

Cameron Dueck has skippered his own boat through the Northwest Passage, dodged pirates off the coast of Yemen and crossed the Atlantic Ocean. He writes about remote places and people, and he is currently preparing his Hallberg-Rassy 42F for a circumnavigation. Cameron lives in Hong Kong.

The post The Magic of Being at Sea appeared first on Cruising World.