The vinyl-coated wire lifelines on my 1977 Downeaster 45 schooner, Britannia, were well past their prime. Sections of the vinyl coating had faded into a dull brown—with parts chafed and cracked, exposing the wire—and many of the chrome fittings had lost their luster. If I accidentally ran my hand along an exposed section, I’d pierce my fingers. They simply had to be replaced, not only for safety and to restore a smooth surface, but also for the appearance. 

Lifelines are intended to stop someone from falling overboard, so that’s the primary consideration in any replacement. But this does raise another important question: How does a person who falls overboard get back on board: through or over the lifelines? I’d once experienced a man-overboard situation where this became an issue, so it was foremost in my thinking.

Most lifelines have pelican hooks at one end that can be released to lower the lines. Britannia’s were the old style, with a locking ring over the release lever. When the wires were tight, it was very difficult to pry the ring back over the latch by hand, and pliers were necessary to squeeze the latch. 

A new type of pelican hook, from CS Johnson Inc., has a pin, like a snap shackle, that releases the hook even with the lines under maximum tension. Lines can also be released by unwinding the tensioning turnbuckle toggle at the other end, but if the line is tight, it too can be difficult to do so by hand. I found a neat little adjustment tool at CS Johnson’s website that fits in the center small hole of a tubular turnbuckle and is much better than pliers or a bit of old wire, which I had been using for years. 

If for any reason lines cannot be released, a final option would be to cut the wire, which requires long-­handled wire cutters for 3/16-inch wire—but what if the lifelines are rope? That would be easy to cut, but would rope be strong enough? Questions, questions.

Wire vs. Rope?

Since I was going to replace the wires anyway, I decided to look at the pros and cons of wire and rope. Maybe there’s a better alternative to old-fashioned wire? Regarding strength, I couldn’t find any manufacturer who gave the strength of their material when used specifically as lifelines. All I could find for both wire and rope was “tensile strength” or “working load.” No account was given for stanchions either, which are integral to any boat’s lifeline system. How stanchions hold up depends on their deck fastenings, length and tube thickness. Whatever I decided to use to replace my worn lifelines, it had to be no thicker than 3/8-inch (10 mm) diameter to pass through the 7/16-inch (11 mm) holes through the stanchions. I started listing the pros and cons:

Uncoated wire can become almost untouchably hot in the Florida summers, where Brittania lives, and I don’t like gripping thin wire with bare hands anyway, so I didn’t want to consider that. Vinyl-coated wire is commonly fitted by manufacturers and sold through aftermarket suppliers. It looks smart when it’s new, but over time, water can enter at the ends and wherever chafe has exposed the wire. Eventually this causes corrosion that might not be visible under the covering. However, wire is strong, and 3/16-inch 7-by-7 strand has a working load of 3,700 pounds. (As an aside, boats with wire lifelines should preferably also have a good quality wire cutter on board to chop the wire in an emergency.)

All that said, Dyneema rope’s working load is stronger, size for size, than stainless wire. The possibility of substituting rope for lifelines therefore becomes a viable possibility. I found Miami Cordage Inc., a rope-­maker, hidden in the industrial depths of greater Miami. Most recreational boaters will not have heard of this wonderful Aladdin’s cave of rope because nearly all of its product goes to the United States Navy, Coast Guard and other industrial outlets. Yet they make every conceivable type of rope, from old-style three strand to 12-strand Dyneema, which they call Ironlite. Their prices are considerably less than the regular retail outlets most sailors, including me, regularly use. Their 1/4-inch (6 mm) single-braided 12-strand has an amazing tensile strength of 8,000 pounds.

Once that overview was completed, I started digging deeper by going down a list of several categories.

Cost comparison: 7-by-7 3/16-inch vinyl-coated wire: $1.79 per foot (defender.com); Dyneema Ironlite 1/4-inch 12-strand in blue: $0.60 per foot (miamicordage.com). 

End fittings: A significant additional cost in replacing existing lines are the fittings needed on each end, especially if new turnbuckles and pelican hooks are needed. 

Stretch (creep): Once tensioned bar-tight with the turnbuckles, wire does not stretch further. Dyneema stretches only about 1 percent, but once stretched, it does not move much after that. Dyneema can also be set up bar-tight.

Chafe: All lifelines are subject to chafe by anything rubbing against them: sheets, dock lines, fender lines and where they pass through stanchions. Britannia’s stanchions have a 7/16-inch-diameter flared tube in each cross-through hole that minimizes chafe at those points. 

Cleaning: White vinyl-­coated wire can simply be wiped with a rag and some bleach now and then, but the vinyl still fades over time. Dyneema has a shiny, slightly slippery texture that can be cleaned with soap and water. 

How to Install

The next item to consider was ease (or lack thereof!) of installation. Once again, I broke it down to the potential materials.

With wire, I needed roughly 150 feet (46 m) with 16 threaded ends to replace my old wire, along with at least three new turnbuckles to replace the jammed old ones. The conventional method of attaching threaded ends to wire is to compress, or swage, the fitting to the wire. This can be done using a hand tool offered by most rigging suppliers ($42 from Defender), but it is tedious if you have a lot to do. First, the vinyl coating has to be cut back a couple of inches, exposing the wire (which in itself is not easy, and best done in a sturdy vice with a sharp box-cutter blade). Then, using a wrench to tighten the bolts on the swaging tool, five crimps are recommended on each fitting. I needed 16 ­fittings each with five swages—that’s 80 crimps! Even if each swage took only five minutes, it would still take nearly seven hours. Defender has a long-handled crimping tool that makes short work of swaging multiple fittings, but unfortunately the price is $279. Also, hand-swaging produces only 65 percent of the strength of the wire, but a crimping tool increases this to 85 percent.

An alternative method, which does not require swaging or any special tools, are wire Sta-Lok fittings by CS Johnson. These are easily ­assembled on wire using regular wrenches and actually provide 100 percent of the strength of the wire, and are approved by Lloyd’s of London for lifeline fittings. 

As an option to hand-­swaging, I decided to ask for a quote from the rigging services of a local marine retailer for vinyl-covered wire with end fittings professionally ­attached. I needed four 30-foot lengths and four 6-foot lengths. The price was nearly $800 for the wire alone. It was at this ­juncture that I decided to look ­seriously at Dyneema. 

Rope can be attached to ­existing toggle end fittings with either a splice or even a knot, but CS Johnson has special rope/end attachments, called Splice-Line lifeline fittings, to attach Dyneema to all types of fittings such as turnbuckles and pelican hooks. The rope is spliced directly around the fitting without a thimble, and chafe is reduced to a minimum.

Single-braid Dyneema is hollow, with no center core, and much easier to eye-splice than double braided line. The 12-strand rope is first tapered by removing four pairs of strands, then the end is buried deep inside the standing part and lock-stitched. This is an easy operation with a special 14-inch-long splicing wand from Brion Toss Yacht Riggers (briontoss.com). This fid enables the tapered end to be gripped by the wand and then pulled through the core, instead of pushing it with a conventional fid. With 16 splices to make, I was very thankful to have one. The fid can also be used for other rope work. 

I would need about 200 feet (61 m) of rope, allowing enough for 16 eye splices. I estimated it would still take about three hours to do them all. Miami Cordage makes Ironlite in many colors, including solid blue, which nicely matched Britannia’s royal-blue color scheme.

Advantage Dyneema

For my project and boat, I determined Dyneema was the way to go. Here are some of the reasons why: As mentioned, 1/4-inch Dyneema is much stronger than 3/16-inch wire. Dyneema is not subject to corrosion or affected by rain or seawater, and is easily inspected for chafe. 

Any section of a rope ­lifeline can be lowered easily between stanchions because the line slides through the stanchions and bends easily. Wire does not slide or bend readily. If necessary, rope lifelines can be cut with a sharp knife; wire needs a ­long-handled wire cutter.

Furthermore, rope lifelines can be replaced in a jiffy, even on a passage. A spare 50-foot length of 1/4-inch Dyneema is much easier to store than the same length of wire.

Dyneema is significantly lighter than wire rope. My complete wire lines weighed 13 pounds. The same length of Dyneema rope weighed only 2.4 pounds. I imagined the weight I’d be saving in my schooner’s 700 feet of 3/8-inch stainless-steel standing rigging—something to think about. 

Finally, there was the price difference—150 feet of 3/16-inch vinyl-coated wire, 16 threaded swage ends, plus a hand-swaging tool and wire cutter runs about $650, while 200 feet of 1/4-inch Dyneema, a splicing wand and three new turnbuckles cost $292. 

These prices were based on using my existing pelican hooks, turnbuckles and other fittings, but I finally ­decided to dive in and do the job properly with new parts. I used CS Johnson’s Splice-Line rope fittings, including new turnbuckles and beautifully crafted quick-release ­pelican hooks, with blue Miami Cordage 1/4-inch Ironlite Dyneema. The whole installation took two weekends to ­replace all the old lifelines, and I eventually got the timing down to 10 minutes for each Dyneema splice. Practice makes perfect. 

There was one final thing I decided to try: Since one of the only things that can weaken Dyneema lines is chafe, I decided to enclose the sections where this might occur with plastic covers that clip completely over the rope and act as chafe guards. These are 6 feet long and only $2 each from West Marine. They still allow the rope to move freely inside and, if any of the guards show signs of chafe, it’s a simple matter to replace one section before it wears the rope itself. They also increase the line thickness to nearly 1/2-inch, which makes holding the lines much more comfortable. 

Britannia’sfinished lines now look stylish and purposeful, and I am confident that in the event of a real man-overboard emergency, I will have the least possible obstructions to get the person back on board, past the lines. It’s a ­win-win solution.

Florida-based sailor and handyman Roger Hughes is overhauling his 45-foot schooner, Britannia, one system and project at a time.

The post The Lifeline Quandary appeared first on Cruising World.

I grew up near San Francisco Bay, where sailing is usually a chilly affair. My parents and my two brothers and I usually returned to our slip aboard Tango, our Catalina 30, with numb hands after especially blustery sails. We quickly discovered that a bowl of hot soup is a cold-water sailor’s best friend. This particular recipe is a family favorite. It’s packed with vibrant flavors, and the aroma of peppers roasting in the oven is a treat in itself. My crew and I have since moved on to the warmer waters of Mexico’s Sea of Cortez aboard our new boat, Circe, a Catalina 40. Although none of us miss the numb hands, we certainly miss those cozy evenings. Now, no matter where in the world we find ourselves, the taste of this soup brings us back to the days we spent joyfully shivering ­together on San Francisco Bay.

Roasted Red Pepper Soup

• 4 red bell peppers
• 2 medium carrots  
• 1 tomato
• 4 cloves garlic, skins on 
• Olive oil, as needed
• 2 medium onions
• 1 tsp. sugar
• ¹⁄₄ tsp. smoked paprika
• Sprinkle of chili flakes (optional)
• 1 14-ounce can chopped tomatoes
• 1 cup water or chicken broth
• Salt and pepper, to taste
• Splash balsamic vinegar (optional)
• Basil, fresh or dried (for garnish)
• Sour or heavy cream (for garnish)

Note: Requires a blender or immersion blender.

Serves 2 as a big meal, 4 as a starter.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Coarsely chop bell peppers and carrots. (If using an immersion blender later, size pieces accordingly.) Halve and seed the tomato. Coat the bell peppers, carrots, tomatoes and whole, unpeeled garlic cloves with olive oil, and place on a lightly oiled baking tray. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, and roast. After 15 minutes, ­remove garlic, and cool. Continue roasting veggies for 15 more minutes, or until pepper and tomato skins begin to char and the carrots are soft enough to be pierced easily with a fork. 

While the vegetables roast, chop the ­onions and saute in olive oil over medium heat until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add sugar, smoked paprika, chili flakes (if using), and a pinch of salt and pepper. Stir for 1 minute. Add can of tomatoes. Slip skins off garlic cloves, chop, and add to the pot. Remove veggies from the oven and add straight to the pot, including roasting juices. Add 1 cup of water or stock, and simmer for 10 minutes. Remove from heat.

Blend with a conventional or immersion blender until smooth. Soup will be thick; add more water or stock if needed to adjust consistency to your liking. Check seasonings, and add a splash of balsamic vinegar to taste (optional). Garnish soup bowls with a dollop or swirl of sour or heavy cream and basil.

Preparation: At anchor 

Time: 1 hour, including preparation and cooking 

Difficulty: Easy

The post Roasted Red Pepper Soup Makes a Warming Meal Onboard appeared first on Cruising World.

Over the years I’ve spent a lot of time in downtown Boston, so I’m familiar with the landmarks all around me: Storrow Drive, the Prudential Center, and over there in the near distance, the big Citgo sign towering over Kenmore Square and Fenway Park. Sure, I’ve seen them all before, but never from this particular vantage point—on a sailboat on the Charles River, smack-dab in the heart of the big city. What?!

At the helm of our sporty little Sonar, trucking to weather in a fresh fall breeze on a roughly mile-long track between the Longfellow and Harvard bridges, is an old racing mate of mine, Charlie Zechel. I’m here not to talk about old glory days, however, but to check out Charlie hard at work at his day job, as executive director of one of the sailing world’s rather unsung little jewels, the urban resource (or is that oasis?) for one and all called Community Boating. It’s the 75th anniversary for this way-cool, one-of-a-kind Beantown institution—what better time to sing its praises?

Charlie knows the history well, and tells a good story—a fine combination. The program was originally started by a prickly rascal called Joe Lee, who liked to tweak the exclusive Brahmins on Beacon Hill by getting the working-class West Ender kids out on the water. “Joe liked to do things that upset the apple cart,” Charlie says. Eventually that led to the building of a boathouse on the Charles in 1941—which exists as the base to this day—and the formal creation of Community Boating in 1946. “Community was and still is the most important of those two words.” 

Back in the day, a kid’s membership was a buck a summer…and for many young Bostonians, it still is, though there’s a sliding scale that’s more than reasonable. Blind sailors are welcome, as are those who roll through the doors in a wheelchair, who pay $50 a season for the accessible program. Adult memberships are $395, though Charlie admits that if someone sidles up and says they’ve just lost a job or are having trouble making ends meet, his response is often: “What can you afford? Oh, a dollar sounds good.”

His motto is pretty ­straightforward: “I can say ­unequivocally that anyone who comes in the front door will be able to get on a boat. And they’re going to be greeted by a smiling face. That’s a culture we work hard at.” (A local who used to live in the neighborhood by the name of Tom Brady would regularly show up, before relocating to Tampa Bay for work, though Charlie couldn’t rent him a kayak on one visit because his kid was too small. “He was very nice about it,” Charlie says, with a laugh.)

RELATED: Hudson River Community Sailing Returns to the River

So, what’s available once that door is walked through? All sorts of lessons, a racing program, different ratings you earn that allow you more and more privileges, and a pretty incredible fleet of boats: 60 Mercurys, a dozen Lasers, 18 420s, eight Sonars, 18 windsurfers and more than 50 ­kayaks. And access to the bustling Charles River, with the rowing shells from the local colleges plying the waters, as well as the sailing teams from MIT and Harvard. It’s a happening little piece of water. 

And as I witnessed after my own spin on the Charles, it sure does attract an eclectic bunch, some of whom—how shall I say this?—do not exactly seem like masters of the sport. Seriously, if I had Charlie’s job, my blood pressure would be through the roof, but he just chuckles. “It’s a pretty safe place here, in every way,” he says. “And look at them. Everyone’s having fun.”

Well, that was certain. 

We in the sailing biz can learn a few lessons from Charlie’s crew. Many of us, myself included, wring our hands trying to figure out how to get more people sailing. Community Boating has it figured out: Make it affordable and accessible and a blast. Not so hard, right?

The Boston Globe ran a piece about Community Boating this past summer, and concluded it with a Charlie quote, which is too good to pass up here a second time: “When you get on the water, there’s this euphoric sense of ‘life is good again.’ It’s the reason people like me hang out here so long.” Amen, brother. 

Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

The post Boston’s Community Boating on the Charles River Open to Sailors of All Levels of Experience appeared first on Cruising World.

Diving in the Cayman Islands is some of the best diving in the world. The abundance of marine life and amazing coral reefs combined with the islands’ clear, warm water is an unbeatable combination. I love to explore shipwrecks and swim-through coral tunnels, and I love to see sharks during a dive. But my favorite creatures to see in the Cayman Islands are the sea turtles.

My path across the western Caribbean took me 120 miles northwest from Negril, Jamaica, to the Cayman Islands. The sail from Negril on the west coast of Jamaica to Cayman Brac was grand—a flat sea and enough wind to sail at 6 knots with Sonic Boom, my 1969 Elizabethan 31, gliding beautifully through the smooth water. When I arrived on Cayman Brac, one of the Caymans’ two ports of entry, I cleared in and moved to one of the free mooring balls. From the mooring I could see clear to the bottom—I peered through the translucent water and enjoyed the show of colorful fish swimming among the coral.

From Cayman Brac, the leg to Little Cayman was a simple 5-mile sail. Little Cayman was my planned jumping-off point for Grand Cayman, which lies 90 miles southwest. Fewer than 100 people live on Little Cayman, and the water was even more translucent than Cayman Brac, if that’s possible. I picked up a ball in Bloody Bay above a reef shelf that sloped down to 40 feet, but just off my stern there was a vertical wall that dropped thousands of feet. It was absolutely stunning. Scuba diving the wall is popular around Little Cayman; just snorkeling was incredible enough.

My 90-mile sail between Little Cayman and Grand Cayman was slow; the wind died completely overnight, so I dropped my sails and went to bed. The breeze didn’t pick up until the next day. When I left Cayman Brac, I’d had to clear out of the islands, so I cleared back in in George Town, Grand Cayman. From there I tacked into North Sound and up Governor’s Creek, where sailboats can anchor free of charge, or tie up to the dock at the Cayman Islands Yacht Club. The yacht club is a small marina with slips, a fuel dock, a small supermarket and a restaurant. Farther south, Barcadere Marina is another full-facility option.

Globally, the Caribbean is home to the largest population of green turtles, but in the Caymans, the green turtle is a national symbol. There is a turtle on the national coat of arms and the national flag. There are turtles on the bank notes. A cartoon sea turtle, Sir Turtle, is the mascot of the national airline of the Cayman Islands, Cayman Airways, and is prominently ­displayed on the tail of the aircraft.

When Christopher Columbus visited the Cayman Islands in 1503, he dubbed it Las Tortugas because of the abundance of sea turtles in the waters around the islands. Many of the earliest visitors to the islands came to capture turtles and use them as a source of fresh meat during long sea voyages. Today green turtles are an endangered species, mainly due to threats from humans. Hunting, pollution, fishing nets and destruction of their habitat have greatly reduced their numbers.

I had numerous chances to dive during my stay in the Cayman Islands, and I was especially lucky to dive with Cayman Turtle Divers and dive instructors Alan, JT and Ollie. On one particularly nice afternoon, I met up with JT and Corey at West Bay public beach on Grand Cayman and went for a two-tank boat dive.

Our first stop was at the Big Tunnels, a deep dive with a spectacular swim-through tunnel. After a tea break, we motored the boat around the coast to Rainbow Reef. As the name suggests, the reef was incredibly colorful, and I felt as though I was swimming through the world’s top aquarium. I immediately spotted turtles, then an eel, then a ­porcupinefish. The ocean was flat-calm and the guides stellar—perfect for an afternoon dive. I was able to spot sea turtles eating sponges and jellyfish on the reef, but mainly they feed on seagrass. Sea turtles act as the aquatic lawnmowers of seagrass; the mowing helps makes the seagrass stronger, and provides a habitat for fish and other creatures. Turtles can stay underwater for hours, and during my time in the Caymans, I learned that, in fact, they sleep underwater. 

I learned a lot about green turtles while I was in Grand Cayman, and came to realize, in a funny way, they have a lot in common with cruisers. Both rely on a compass for navigation, although turtles use an internal magnetic compass instead of one in the cockpit. Yellow tang feed on algae on the turtle’s body, cleaning it. Just like scraping the bottom of your boat increases boatspeed, the turtle’s algae cleaning reduces drag and helps the turtle move faster. Turtles and cruisers are known for their long journeys. Turtles can swim 1,600 miles to return to the beach where they were born.

The post Underwater Wonders in the Caymans appeared first on Cruising World.

It’s fair to say that the marine industry is having a moment, likely spurred by at least three significant factors: the still-churning pandemic, a buoyant stock market, and historically low interest rates. While this is great news for ­many marine-facing businesses, the on-the-dock reality is that the brokerage markets have been scoured, and the wait times for new boats are being quoted in years rather than months. While this is quite a lengthy wait time, sailors looking for kit will find that the equipment tents at upcoming winter shows are filled with new innovations and electronics that can help breathe fresh life into the boat you have now. Here’s a roundup, then, of new electronics gear you might want to check out for any projects and upgrades that you’re pondering for 2022.

Airmar: If you’re interested in ­attaining next-level control, connectivity, and ­communication across your vessel’s various ­systems and networks, Airmar’s SmartBoat System is worth your attention. Third-­party sensors such as thermometers or DC-voltage monitors connect directly to a nearby SmartBoat module, which converts their protocol to NMEA 2000 and then wirelessly communicates this information with other networked SmartBoat modules over enterprise-grade Wi-Fi. 

This hybrid hard-wired/wireless architecture saves boat owners the cost and complexity of installing sensor hubs and cabling between modules, while also allowing owners (or installers) to check the status of their system and its sensors via Airmar’s CAST app or its SmartFlex View browser-based tool, the latter of which also includes user-configurable SmartFlex Alerts. Owners can connect a variety of NMEA 2000 and analog sensors to each SmartBoat module to know at a glance what’s going on from stem to stern. 

Fusion Entertainment: Stereo-­maker Fusion is (almost) never one to come to the fall-boat-show parties empty-­handed, and the 2021/2022 season was no exception. Fusion’s latest audiophile offerings include the MS-RA60 marine stereo, which delivers premium-level features and can be paired with the XS Series 6.5-inch speakers and 10-inch ­subwoofer, which combined, deliver ear-pleasing ­acoustics without breaking the bank. The ­MS-RA60 features clean-looking aesthetics and a user interface that includes a rotary knob, six hard buttons, and an anti-fogging, edge-bonded display. The stereo is built to IPX6 and IPX7 standards, and its Bluetooth connectivity ­allows it to be paired with a smartphone that’s running the Fusion-Link app. Once paired, users can control their ­MS-RA60 from their mobile devices (and/or ­compatible Garmin-built remote controls and smartwatches), and they can also use their smartphones’ cellular and Wi-Fi connectivity to deliver over-the-air software ­updates to their stereos via Bluetooth. 

On the acoustic side, the 200-watt XS Series 6.5-inch speakers (they’re also available as 240-watt 7.7-inch speakers) and the 600-watt subwoofer are built to IP65 standards and are available with ­interchangeable grilles to match one’s aesthetic preferences. And depending on your taste in style, the speakers can be purchased with optional red-green-blue LED accent lighting.

Garmin: The new-product ­announcements from Garmin fall into two ­categories: evolutionary and revolutionary. Garmin has been making (and ­refining) handheld marine GPS units since 1990, but what started as a metrics-­only navigation device has evolved into the GPSMap 79 Series handheld, which delivers a graphically rich, full-­color nav station that easily fits in one’s pocket. The handheld comes loaded with upgradable global base maps, or users can upgrade to the GPSMap 79sc, which comes standard with Garmin’s premium ­BlueChart g3 cartography. Both handhelds ­feature optically bonded, sunlight readable and scratch-resistant screens; a built-in three-axis compass; and the ability to get position information from the GNSS ­satellite constellation. Conveniently, the new handhelds also include 8 gigabytes of onboard memory that can store, say, 10,000 waypoints and 250 routes. The units’ ­batteries are good for up to 19 hours of navigation between refills.

Garmin’s biggest new-equipment ­announcement isn’t available for the ­aftermarket (yet), but it’s highly innovative and designed to work on new boats up to 80 feet LOA. SurroundView is made up of an array of six Garmin-built 1080p color daylight video cameras, a ­dedicated black-box processing unit, a ­compatible Garmin chart plotter, and Garmin’s image-­stitching wizardry, which the ­company honed through its work with its VIRB 360 cameras. The camera array consists of one forward-looking camera, two cameras each on port and starboard, and a single 180-degree-view stern-facing camera that’s mounted up high to provide stern clearance.

Once a SurroundView system has been factory installed and calibrated, it delivers a 360-degree bird’s-eye video view around the boat, as well as Distance Markers and Visual Bumpers. Distance Markers are similar to automotive-style backup ­graphics that give anyone on the helm a precise graphical reference for how far their sailboat is from a dock or other object, while Visual Bumpers are graphical (and user-defined) margins showing the water separating hulls from docks. Both Distance Markers and Visual Bumpers are overlaid atop SurroundView’s real-time video feed.

SurroundView employs color ­differentiation, artificial intelligence, and augmented reality to differentiate between water and objects. While this helps defang docking, the system can ­also differentiate between water and, for ­example, kayaks or dinghies.

As of this writing, SurroundView ­provides only visual warnings (other alarms are expected), and its sensor input is limited to its six-camera array, but down-the-road updates could pull in other technologies such as light detection and ranging technology (think of the driver-­assist sensors in your car), high-­precision GPS receivers (such as Garmin’s still-new multiband GPS xd24 sensor), vector cartography, additional artificial intelligence layers and, eventually, helm and throttle controls. (Expect this latter capability to start on the powerboat side.)

Icom: VHF communications isn’t new, but this doesn’t mean innovations can’t still be realized. Icom’s M510 is the first in situ VHF from a mainstream VHF manufacturer that gives users wireless command over their radio using a paired smartphone. The M510 broadcasts at 25 watts and can be paired via Wi-Fi with up to three wireless devices that are running Icom’s RS-M500 mobile app (Android- or iOS-friendly). Icom makes two versions of the fixed-mount radio: the standard M510 and the M510-AIS, the latter of which includes a built-in Automatic Identification System listen-only receiver. Aside from AIS, both versions feature identical 3.5-inch color LCD screens, active noise cancellation and NMEA 0183 connectivity (users can add an optional CT-M500 box to add NMEA 2000 compatibility).

Iris Innovations: All sailors can ­appreciate the benefits of bolstering ­onboard security, especially when it comes in an affordable package. Iris ­Innovations’ S460 camera comes bundled in a ­rugged 316 stainless-steel dome, boasts an IP66 weatherproof rating, and features a 1.8-millimeter wide-angle lens that delivers a 160-degree horizontal field of view, plus infrared capabilities with a range of 30 feet. The IP-enabled high-­definition camera has 3-megapixel sensors and is compatible with B&G and Raymarine chart plotters, TimeZero, and some PC-based navigation software. The camera measures 2.28-by-2.36 inches; once ­fitted, it supports multiple streams and ­allows users to tweak a menu of settings, including brightness, contrast and color.

KVH: One of the few silver linings from the past two years is the ­greater ­acceptance of working outside the ­office, provided, of course, that one has a ­reliable internet connection. KVH’s TracPhone LTE-1 Global gives ­cruisers the ability to access the internet using cellular networks from up to 20 miles offshore in more than 150 countries. The TracPhone LTE-1 Global ­accomplishes this by leveraging a high-gain antenna ­array, a GPS receiver, automatic network switching, and built-in Wi-Fi that allows the system to share its cellular-based connectivity with paired smartphones, tablets and PCs. While speed and coverage depend on local third-party ­cellular providers and the mounting location of each system’s onboard antenna (the ­higher the antenna, the better), KVH ­advises that under normal conditions, the TracPhone LTE-1 Global is fast enough to support video conferencing, HD-content streaming, web browsing, email and voice calls. Users buy their airtime from KVH as well, so hardware and service are compatible. The LTE-1 comes bundled in a sailboat-friendly dome that measures 13.5-by-13.3 inches and weighs 6.25 pounds; its single power and data cable purportedly makes for a DIY-friendly installation.

Sirius Signal: Back in the ­proverbial day, sailors had to remember to check the expiration date of their flare kit or else risk a write-up from the Coasties. Sirius ­Signal changed all that with its ­emergency flares that replace pyrotechnics with ­United States Coast Guard-approved LED-based devices. The company’s newest safety-­minded offering, the ­Supplemental Alert System, takes this to new heights (­literally) by coupling a high-powered ­electronic ­visual distress device—essentially an ­electronic flare—with a standard masthead light. Once installed, users can switch between standard navigation and anchoring modes and the system’s ­emergency mode, the latter of which triggers the alert system to flash SOS in both visible ­color (red-­orange-cyan) and infrared light. The system’s masthead mounting ­location maximizes its visibility; this is compounded by the C-1002’s ultra-bright array of 13 LEDs, which Sirius Signal purports to be five times brighter than any other ­USCG-­approved electronic visual device. While it’s expected that the SAS will be sold as an original-equipment option on new builds, it’s hoped that it will also be available as an aftermarket upgrade. 

Sneak Peek at New Radars

While we’re planning a more in-depth look at radars later this year, both Furuno and Garmin have introduced dome enclosed radars that warrant mention now. 

Furuno’s DRS2DNXT features a 19-inch enclosed antenna that delivers 48 nautical miles of range using a solid-state transmitter. The system relies on Furuno’s proprietary Target Analyzer feature, which uses Doppler technology to assign various colors to targets to graphically differentiate potentially dangerous ones from benign objects, vessels and landmasses. Additional features include Furuno’s proprietary RezBoost beam sharpening, dual-range mode and Auto Acquire, the latter of which automatically tracks all targets within 3 nautical miles of the radar.

Garmin’s GMR Fantom 18X and GMR Fantom 24x radars employ the same architecture and deliver similar feature sets using different antenna lengths. The radars can be configured with either an 18-inch or 24-inch antenna, both with 50 watts of transmitting power, and—in a Garmin first—black or white radome enclosures. Garmin’s newest Fantoms all leverage solid-state transmitters and deliver Garmin’s proprietary Doppler processing, called MotionScope, dual-range mode and a sailor-friendly power-save mode. 

Stay tuned!

Charge It

CRW0222_RV104

If you’re looking for an easy and secure way to charge your compatible smartphone while aboard, check out
Scanstrut’s ROKK Wireless Catch, which sells for $110. Once installed, cruisers simply place their smartphone on the mat, touchscreen side up, and the 12-/24-volt charger will replenish the device’s spent DC juice. Catch’s closed-cell foam construction and use of raised edges provide a safe harbor for a smartphone to hang out in lumpy seas, with impact and ­vibration protection.

Swimming with Smartphones

If snorkeling or diving are part of your sailing program, check out SeaLife’s underwater smartphone housing, which is now compatible with most Android and Apple smartphones. The iPhone and Android armor protects phones down to 130 feet, and its design features large, user-friendly control and shutter-release buttons. Users can check the integrity of their case’s seal using the app’s vacuum-pressure alarm, and a moisture sensor warns swimmers of any unexpected water ingress. Additionally, the app provides advanced-level camera settings, including exposure, focus and the ability to shoot in RAW format. Combined, they can add sophistication to your phone’s image-capturing capabilities.

Vendor List

Airmar: $650-$1,350

Furuno: call for pricing

Fusion Entertainment: from $170

Garmin: from $300

KVH: $1,700

Icom:.$600

Iris Innovations: $450

Scanstrut: $110

SeaLife: $300

Sirius Signal: call for pricing

David Schmidt is CW’s electronics editor.

The post A Look at New Electronic Gear for 2022 appeared first on Cruising World.

With boatbuilders intent on launching yachts filled with all the comforts of home, it was only a matter of time before they would find a way to put control of those comforts at a skipper’s fingertips—all thanks to the rapid convergence of onboard communications, digital switching, app-based software, and smartphones and tablets. But how does one actually create a smarter boat? This being 2022, let us count the ways, as sailors have several compelling options for everything from new builds to refits.

But first, let’s start with a bit of foundation-laying backstory. So-called smart systems entered the everyday lexicon with the advent of the smartphones—and then devices such as the Nest Learning Thermostat (early 2012), Ring video doorbells (2013) and Amazon’s Alexa (2014). While each fulfilled a different niche—which included delivering remote control over the furnace and air conditioner, remotely viewing front-door solicitors, and dimming the lights and queuing a Barry Manilow track—all three harnessed cellular and Wi-Fi communications, app-based software, and smart screens to give users better control over their domicile. 

Soon, similarly smart technologies began migrating aboard sailboats, especially as satellite ­communications and cellular networks expanded and onboard Wi-Fi networks became more prevalent. The final piece of the puzzle has been the advent of digital-switching systems that replace fuses and analog switches with current-­measuring devices and electronic switches across NMEA 2000 networks that tie everything together.

This evolution of life aboard came about relatively quickly. Less than a decade ago, a cruising boat was fairly sophisticated if its owner could run a chart plotter with a radar overlay. Now, thanks to the advent of what’s known as monitor, track and control technologies, users can track their vessel and turn networked devices or systems on and off—and in some cases, enjoy next-level control of devices such as cameras and security systems—from a ­single screen. Cooler still, thanks to cellular, satellite and Wi-Fi connectivity, that screen can be anywhere.

Here’s a look at some of the market leaders (discussed in alphabetical order) and the strengths and utilities that each system affords.

Now OnDeck

On its surface (and as of this writing), Garmin’s OnDeck system delivers fairly basic tracking and control features because the product is the company’s first foray into this market. But to sense the potential of how things could evolve, it’s helpful to consider the other technologies that are in Garmin’s portfolio and how they could be integrated into OnDeck. 

Hardware-wise, OnDeck currently consists of a ­GPS-enabled black-box ­module that’s NMEA 2000-compatible and comes with three proprietary sensors: security, temperature and shore-­power detection, along with a 12-volt DC relay switch that can be used to turn an onboard device on and off (more on this in a moment). Users can add up to 33 additional sensors, plus an aftermarket LTE cellular antenna. On the software side, OnDeck was added as a virtual button to Garmin’s existing ActiveCaptain app and requires an OnDeck monthly plan for cellular data.

Now you see it: Moving forward, GOST plans to integrate its ­existing video-app feeds with Specter, which will give users near-­real-time views of their ­vessels from almost anywhere.

Once installed, OnDeck allows users to remotely control their choice of five relay switches using the app. Some examples include masthead, saloon lights and courtesy lights, refrigeration, or a host of other onboard devices. OnDeck’s GPS capabilities allow users to set geofences that, if breached, trigger the system to notify the owner; owners also receive notification if the system detects, for example, abnormal bilge-pump activity, if it experiences a loss (or spike) of shoreside power, or if a security sensor is tripped. While these features afford peace of mind, OnDeck isn’t a security system per se because there’s a ballpark 15-minute delay between when a geofence or sensor is tripped and when an owner receives notification. That said, Dave Dunn, Garmin’s director of sales and marketing for marine, was clear that this notification latency will shrink as 5G networks come online, or when satellite connectivity is introduced.

This latter point brings us back to OnDeck’s possible future capabilities. Garmin’s popular InReach devices already serve as dependable two-way satellite communicators. While Dunn declined to comment on future integration between OnDeck and InReach devices, it seems fairly obvious that Garmin might eventually incorporate InReach capabilities with OnDeck systems. Moreover, while OnDeck users can control up to five networked systems or devices, Garmin also owns EmpirBus, which builds full-scale ­digital-­switching equipment, so it’s fairly safe to assume that these systems will see future integration. Once this happens, and once InReach capabilities are drawn into the mix, OnDeck owners should have the ability to monitor, track and control their yacht from anywhere, irrespective of their boat’s cellular or Wi-Fi coverage. 

Sailor-Friendly GOST

When it comes to vessel ­security and monitoring, few companies are as innovative as Global Ocean Security Technologies.
After all, this is the ­company that introduced GOST Cloak, a security feature that, when tripped, vaporizes a formulated glycol solution to create a thick, confusion-­inducing belowdecks fog and triggers ­attention-getting strobes, ­sirens, and proprietary Acoustic Barrier Systems, all of which make robbing or stealing a boat decidedly unpleasant, if not impossible. 

GOST has also long ­leveraged both cellular and satellite technologies to alert customers to onboard situations, from the relatively routine (bilge- and high-­water sensors) to the relatively rare (vessel theft), and to also deliver high-definition-­video imagery from the boat’s ­cameras to an owner’s phone or computer.

More recently, GOST introduced its next-generation satellite-based Specter vessel-­tracking interface. Unlike its legacy systems, Specter takes a mobile-first approach with its software, which is optimized for smartphone use and control. While this software looks and behaves like an app, it’s actually a much more powerful website that works on mobile and desktop browsers and allows owners to control their GOST system from afar. 

An owner can change the ­radius of their vessel’s geofence, from 1,640 feet to 4.32 nautical miles, and change the system’s reporting intervals from once every two minutes to once every eight hours, all with a few taps. Communication between a user’s phone or PC and vessel are facilitated by Inmarsat’s 14-strong network of I-5 geostationary satellites that deliver global coverage (except in high latitudes) and 10 times faster speeds, 100 times more data capacity, and significantly less latency than GOST’s cellular-based products. 

Specter is designed to be backward-compatible with existing GOST systems, so long as an owner adds GOST’s new IDP antenna. In ­addition to delivering two-way satellite communications with the ­vessel and lower power consumption than older-­generation GOST antennas, the IDP ­features an embedded accelerometer, which allows the system to automatically adjust its reporting intervals depending on the vessel’s speed. To take advantage of the variable intervals, the feature needs to be enabled on the Specter website, and it is available only for times when the boat is traveling at speeds greater than 2 knots.

Moving forward, GOST plans to integrate its existing video-app feeds with Specter, which will give users near-real-­time views of their vessels from almost anywhere, and it also plans to integrate Specter with its line of Apparition security systems. 

Beneteau’s Ship Control

While some of the hardware discussed in this article is available as an aftermarket upgrade, Groupe Beneteau takes a ­different tack with its Ship Control system, which is currently standard equipment on the First Yacht 53 and the Oceanis Yacht 54 and Oceanis Yacht 62. 

Ship Control was inspired by the automotive industry and leverages multiplexing, an embedded computer, and a Scheiber-built digital switching system to give users total control over all onboard and networked systems and devices using any of the vessel’s touchscreen-­enabled chart-plotter screens. Alternatively, users can also run Ship Control on a tablet, smartphone or laptop, provided that they’re connected to the yacht’s Wi-Fi network.

Ship Control employs a graphical user interface that presents users with visual representations of the boat rather than text, along with so-called actionable hotspots. For example, a page view might show the boat’s interior and give users the ability to turn lights on or off, or adjust the vessel’s air-conditioning system. In the case of lights, a single tap of the page could turn fixtures on or off, while double-tapping the icon for the interior lights pulls up a dimmer bar that lets you customize your onboard experience (similar dimmer bars also pop up for other functions).

Underway, Ship Control presents users with a display screen that delivers real-time information from the boat’s networked navigation and sailing instruments, while other pages deliver control over things such as the boat’s stereo. Real-time information about the yacht’s battery bank, as well as fuel, water and holding tanks, can also be viewed, as can engine information.

Ship Control was designed to make sailing more intuitive, and as a result, it also incorporates automation. For example, when nighttime running lights are turned on, the system automatically switches the boat from its daytime to nighttime operating modes. The system even includes a remote battery switch to turn batteries on and off with a single tap.

While Ship Control ­delivers a user-friendly way of controlling all onboard systems, it doesn’t provide any security or vessel-tracking capabilities, nor does it allow users to control networked systems and devices from afar; a control tablet or ­smartphone must be connected to the vessel’s Wi-Fi hotspot. That said, multiple wireless devices can be simultaneously networked to Ship Control. This enables, for instance, the captain to let both watch captains have control over the boat for passages, and it can allow multiple DJs have run of the stereo.

Raymarine Hits the Bricks

While Raymarine’s YachtSense system doesn’t offer security or tracking capabilities—as of this writing, anyway—it delivers significant digital-­switching capabilities for boatbuilders and owners. In essence, YachtSense relies on modules—or “bricks,” as Raymarine refers to them—that are designed to control specific types of electrical devices, such as lights, air conditioners, windows and tank monitors. Think of the bricks as Lego pieces that can each control up to four devices, and that can be stacked together to create an onboard network that’s accessed and controlled via a Raymarine Axiom multifunction display. The system can also include Wi-Fi capabilities, meaning the captain can control and monitor all onboard electrical devices from either the helm or remotely via a smartphone or tablet using the RayConnect app.

The basic system includes a master and power module. To that, various other modules are added, as needed. High-power modules are designed for high-consumption devices such as pumps, fans and refrigeration. Low-power bricks run lights and similar loads. There is a reverse-power module to control things such as hydraulic pumps, sunshades and windows. And there is a signal module for tank, battery and temperature monitors, as well as other sensors.

Three layers of redundancy are built into the network, which also includes a keyboard and LCD screen for running system diagnostics. Should a problem arise, devices can be switched on and off using the keyboard. There are manual fuses that can also turn power on and off, should a module fail. 

Siren’s Call

Monitor, track and ­control technologies might be fairly new, but Siren Marine has been developing this technology since 2011. In 2017, the company launched its Siren Marine MTC system, which featured an embedded 56-channel GPS receiver and 3G cellular modem that gave users the ability to monitor critical onboard data such as bilge levels, to create geofences, and to control networked devices and systems via the MTC’s remote-switching capabilities. The system was run using Siren Marine’s app (Android- and iOS-compatible), and required a Siren airtime plan. 

The only real drawback was the system’s dependence on shore-based cellular networks. 

The company’s next-generation Siren 3 Pro replaced MTC and solved the offshore connectivity problem by adding the optional ability to network the system with a third-party satellite antenna. Once installed, Siren 3 Pro owners can track their vessel and control its networked systems from anywhere using their smartphone and the system’s built-in 4G LTE cellular or satellite modems and Siren’s app. As with Siren’s previous-generation offering, users can add additional wired or wireless sensors to monitor movement and other factors affecting a yacht’s security, or they can bolster their convenience factor by adding shore-power sensors or switched sensors that allow them to control networked items from afar. Plus, thanks to Siren 3 Pro’s built-in GPS receiver, the system alerts an owner if a boat breaks its user-specified geofence and provides real-time location information. 

Siren 3 Pro was also designed to deliver remote-­control capabilities by offering higher levels of digital switching, NMEA 2000 compatibility, and compatibility with CZone digital-switching systems. Owners have the ability to control all CZone-connected systems and ­devices rather than just the items that are directly networked to the Siren 3 Pro. Additionally, users can customize their systems’ parameters. For example, a captain could set alerts for maximum or minimum battery voltages. Or the crew could create automated modes, say, for daysailing, night sailing or night motoring, with a single screen tap. 

David Schmidt is CW’s ­electronics editor.

The post How Smart Is Your Boat? appeared first on Cruising World.

August 15, 2019, Graham Harbor,
Devon Island

Day 261 of the figure 8 voyage

Compared with that roaring river, the Southern Ocean, the north is a cathedral of quiet. From Mo’s remote Arctic anchorage at Graham Harbor (74 degrees N, 88 degrees W), there was such stillness that I could hear my ears ring and the low grumbling of a nearby growler as it jostled the rocky shore. Here, in late summer and yet at the beginning of the Northwest Passage, I would gnaw my fear for an ­evening while awaiting another discouraging ice report. The coming days would decide the success not just of this transit, but of the entire Figure 8 Voyage as well. Three years of preparation and two yearlong attempts would all ride on a few hundred miles of icy water, and the going did not look good.

Often during Mo’s southern circuit, I anticipated with pleasure the anticlimax to follow our second Cape Horn rounding. There, at 56 south, we would be released from the imperative to make easting; we would climb into the hospitable Atlantic, into the unfaltering and floral trades requiring no hand on sheet or tiller, or overnight calls to reef. These would be fit refreshment, I thought, after our arduous time in the wilds down below. 

And what we got on the advance ­toward Recife, Brazil, was warmth aplenty, but also a season surprisingly devoid of steady breezes and a sea clogged with sargasso weed. Where the south had promised—and usually delivered—a gale a week, now we were made to endure as many calms. By the time Mo drew level with Bermuda, we found it difficult to run off even 100 miles from one sweltering noon to the next. Ever so slowly, the lengthy blue ribbon of Atlantic slipped by. Then, on May 31, 2019, the port of Halifax emerged from fog, and here we made our first stop on Day 237 out of San Francisco.

This port call too contained its surprises. For one, as I handed Mo’s lines to Wayne Blundell, dockmaster of the Royal Nova Scotia Yacht Squadron, the man handed back an envelope full of cash—an entry custom I’ve not found typical of foreign ports. “Sent ahead by your friends,” he said, “so you can buy a round at the bar.” 

In Halifax we refitted over the course of a month. Items not even contemplated in the previous 31,000 sea miles—­anchors, chain and windlass, autopilot, depth sounder, dinghy and outboard, the radar, the little red engine—were serviced, run hard, tested and tested again for the coming Arctic trial. And all the while the Canadian ice charts declared only pas d’analyse, nothing to report. Summer solstice had come and gone, and the ice remained unmoved. 

Mo and I departed Halifax for the north on July 2 for an uneventful run to St. John’s, Newfoundland, and then began a slow jog up the west coast of Greenland, more for the pleasure of it than to avoid the famous middle pack. There was no hurry. By July 15, reports showed that ice in Lancaster Sound had begun to flush, but it hadn’t shifted at all in Peel Sound or Prince Regent Inlet. 

In Nuuk, and with the help of local magistrate Jens Kjeldsen, I bought a rifle for defense against the polar bear. The attendant took my cash and handed over the firearm and shells with as much concern as if I were buying a quart of milk. Then I followed Kjeldsen to a birthday party for his Inuit wife. These two had just returned from a circumnavigation via the Northwest Passage. “My wife is the only Inuit to have sailed around the world,” Kjeldsen said. “She made all the newspapers.” 

Below Disko Island, icebergs appeared. Distant white specks jutting above the blue plane grew to gothic spires or became tabular and sheer, all calved brash that flowed away on the current like the tail of a comet. On July 26, we crossed the Arctic Circle in fog and calm airs. Near Sisimiut, a black ooze in the bilge revealed that Mo’s little red engine (a 48-horsepower Bukh diesel) had burst an oil seal. What luck! In the last-explored parts bin of the town’s snowmobile shop, I found a lone replacement. Finally, in Sondre Upernavik, we took fuel by dinghy for the 400-mile crossing of Baffin Bay, filling all of Mo’s 14 gerry cans for the first time. 

The crossing was gray and flat and not much else. On August 9, the approach to Pond Inlet, our first waypoint in the Canadian Arctic, was ice-free, as was Navy Board Inlet and the approach to Tay Bay two days later. Even the run up Lancaster Sound presented glassy, open water, with here and there a brilliant berg. Still, each report from Environment Canada showed persistent close-pack inside the passage. Only slowly was the archipelago releasing its winter wealth.

I am often told by those in the know how much easier a Northwest Passage is today than it was in 1975 when Willie De Roos and his strong steel ketch fought for every mile. Climate change has turned an ice passage into a lake passage with but an occasional frigid encounter, say these experts. There might be truth in this, but it misses the point. 

I bought a rifle for defense against the polar bear. The attendant took my cash and handed over the firearm and shells with as much concern as if I were buying a quart of milk.

For a westbound yacht, the Northwest Passage—especially between an entrance at either Prince Regent Inlet or Peel Sound and the later exit at Cape Bathurst—is a maze of sometimes narrow, often shallow and poorly charted water. Here the pack can become trapped, swirling on local currents but unable to flush to sea; it must melt to clear the way. Moreover, though strong, Mo is not an icebreaker. Pack covering an area from one point to the next can stop us cold, and when that gate opens, allowing further progress into the maze, a gate ahead or astern might close and possibly remain so for the duration. The risk is of finding oneself deep inside enemy territory with no ability to advance or retreat, facing the prospect of a 10-month freeze.

Graham Harbor was eerie. The cove is small, and depths are too deep with a bottom too rocky for good holding; the crowding mountains threaten williwaws and put the boat in a cold shade. Three times the anchor merely clanged across the bottom before catching by a fingernail. I set the drag alarm and prepared for a night of poor sleep. 

After dinner, I reached out to ice guide Victor Wejer for one final consultation. “Prince Regent Inlet remains impenetrable,” he responded. “Absolutely no chance that it or Bellot Strait will be available to you this year. Peel Sound is your only hope.” 

Over the previous few days, the pack had begun to move in Peel Sound, but this was meager encouragement. The color-coded charts from Environment Canada displayed long stretches of orange (indicating surface-ice concentrations of seven- to eight-tenths) from its entrance all the way to Cape M’Clure. Below Franklin Strait, great masses of ice flowed down from M’Clintock Channel, and here the chart remained resolutely red (indicating surface concentrations of nine- to ­ten-tenths ice). Worse, the 165-mile run from the intersection of Lancaster and Peel to the first tenuous anchorage at False Strait provided no secure hiding places.

I knew from Victor that other yachts were having to battle in this section. Inook had punched south of Bellot Strait; friends on yellow-hulled Breskell were in Peel, with Altego and Morgane nearby. These boats had crews who worked the ice from the bow with long poles, wedging through the pack, clawing for every inch. “Alioth is a day ahead of you and reports it took 12 hours to pass from Hummock Point to the Hurditch Peninsula,” he reported. I went to the chart and measured it off: 12 hours to go 40 miles. 

All day as we crossed, the fulmars flew the other way, out from the ice maze ahead, down Lancaster Sound, into Baffin Bay and south. The fall migration had begun.

“This is a difficult year,” Victor wrote. “Most sailboat crews fight tooth and ice pole to get through Peel. But there is no ­option. It is time to take your difficult bite.”

August 16, Lancaster Sound

Mo and I departed Graham Harbor under power at 0400. Already the sun sat two hands above the horizon, brightening the fluted cliffs of Devon Island as we emerged from the darkness of the anchorage. Not a breath of wind. The sea, a navy-blue mirror. I made our course west-southwest for the entrance to Peel Sound, distance 120 miles. 

All day as we crossed, the fulmars flew the other way, out from the ice maze ahead, down Lancaster Sound, into Baffin Bay and south. The fall migration had begun. We were pushing against the stream. 

By midnight, the headlands of Prince of Wales Island had covered the sun. During our 20 hours from Graham Harbor, at least one white chunk had always decorated the horizon, and now being off watch for more than 15 minutes was too long. Given the difficulties of the next leg, I decided to take one last, long sleep. Off Cape Swansea at the head of Peel Sound, I hove to and shut down the engine. Mo drifted slowly northward. I crawled into the sleeping bag, but I could not find sleep. Worry brought me on deck every hour. At 0400, I rose and made coffee and a hot breakfast. By 0500, we were underway.

August 17, Peel Sound

It was clear and calm again. As we motored hour after hour, each notation in the wind column of the log read, simply, zero. Bright sun, warm on face and hands, produced temperatures in the cockpit of 50 degrees F. With no ice in sight, I set about chores: topping off the fuel tanks from the gerry cans, lifting the hydrogenerator, and removing the windvane water paddle from the transom. Neither would be needed for many days, and either could be fatally damaged by a nip from the ice. 

By 1100, we had crossed Aston Bay in open water, but two hours later, Mo moved through long, low plains of two-tenths ice off M’Clure Bay. I disengaged the autopilot and took the tiller. Easy-going: The ice was rotten. Some pieces appeared to be nothing more than floating snow; others had been eaten by the warmth into the shapes of pale green and white mushrooms or were canted at strange angles like Titanics forever on the verge of sinking. I pushed Mo at full speed and kept an eye forward for more. 

From abreast of Hummock Point, I saw solid white on the horizon, which the day’s mirage transformed into the crest of an ivory tsunami rolling toward us. Soon we moved through more ice than water, but with care and concentration, I could always find a lane just when it was needed. Mo, a heavy bird, swooped and dodged through the floes; I exercised the tiller as if it were the handle of an oar. And it was exhilarating, the constant motion, the rapid decision-making. We can do this, I thought. 

Only once did I screw up, and this was by aiming to split two close floes; too late I saw the diagnostic light-green water between them, indicating their connection below the surface. Mo thunked quietly; then there was a clinking sound like ice cubes in a glass. Astern, the floes drifted apart. 

Ice went thin, then thick, then thin again. Sometimes the way ahead seemed closed until we were right up at the pack edge, then a sliver of water. We’d follow slowly, feeling a route as much as seeing it, then a pause. I’d climb to the spreaders, searching the whiteness for dark veins. Then onward and out. I’d heave to for a cup of coffee or can of soup, then we’d be back at it again. Hours passed this way, and I was still working the tiller. 

By 2300, what had been heavy-going began to thin. The water was clear enough that my course changes were slight, mere nudges of the tiller between my legs, my hands in pockets for warmth. I played the dangerous game: How little could I change course; how close to the ice could I safely get? Only occasionally there was a miss, proof being a soft swooshing on the hull and a smudge of black bottom paint on the passing floe. 

Midnight: The western sky burned ­orange, but to the east it was a frigid ­purple with a full moon over a low ­silhouette of hills. Such perpetual dusk made for difficult seeing, but here the floe was odds and ends. I had been hand-­steering for 20 hours. Fatigue weighed on leaden eyes; my thighs were shaking. 

Ahead at last was a long, dark opening as wide as the sound. Clear water. The faint white on the horizon must be a whole 10 minutes distant. I flipped on the autopilot, dropped below, and set the alarm for a five-minute nap. I collapsed against a bulkhead, immediately asleep. 

Then on the fourth minute, a heavy crash. Mo shuddered as if hitting a wall and stopped dead. The engine ground right down. I leapt for the throttle, backed her off and then looked forward. Mo and an ice block the size of a bus were drifting slowly apart. 

At 0200, there were scattered floes, but we’d gotten past the first plug. A sense of satisfaction, and still we motored south. Finally, to the east I saw the expected cut in the land, False Strait, where we dropped anchor at 0600. We’d come 150 miles in 26 hours and were through Peel Sound. 

August 18, Tasmania Islands

At noon the next day, the anchor came up clean, the tip shining bright—another rocky bottom. Over a quick morning coffee, I pulled an ice report and then also noticed a message from the crew of Alioth.

Hailing from Belgium, Alioth is a 55-foot aluminum expedition sloop we’d met for the first time in Halifax. Here I’d gotten to know her crew of three: skipper, Vincent Moeyersoms, with Olivier and Jean, brother and friend, respectively, experienced sailors all. After a day of outfitting, we would meet to compare notes over a beer, and I came to admire Vincent’s thoughtfulness and his careful preparation. Still, one cannot anticipate every eventuality. This morning’s message said that Alioth’s gear box had failed (who carries a spare gear box?). Now she was without propulsion in five-tenths ice south of the Tasmania Islands, some 75 miles from our position. She’d have to sail the 250 miles to the next village, Cambridge Bay, for repairs, and was asking if we would join her as escort. I quickly got us underway.

As we steamed southwest, I could see heavy floe issuing from milewide Bellot Strait as a continuous sheet. How fortunate we were to be heading away from it; how unfortunate that within 10 minutes we had entered an obliterating fog. I reduced speed to 4 knots and began to pick my way through loose pack. It was easy-going enough, but I had no idea what lay ahead or if my lane would remain clear. 

The cold was nipping hard. My hands were in a triple layer of fleece and leather mittens, but the mitt on the tiller felt as thin as paper, and that hand soon ached. Toes were numb in their insulated boots, even after stamping in place. And so painfully slow was our progress! I began counting off the seconds between when ice became visible and when it passed abeam. At first the count was five. When the fog dissipated enough that I could count to 10, I put Mo at full speed. 

We approached the Tasmania Islands in late evening; here the deck lifted and the ice thinned to mostly open water. I knew that I needed a short sleep before encountering the unknown with Alioth, so I decided to risk the pass between the easternmost Tasmania island and the mainland. Depths were not marked on my chart, but I had faint recollection of Bob Shepton having been through here in Dodo’s Delight in 2013, and a divot in the coast catty-corner from Cape Rendel looked like a promising catnap anchorage. 

It was nearing midnight when we made the entrance, and here we passed a solid line of growlers grinding together where tidal streams met. Inside the pass, the current pushed against Mo, and our way slowed dramatically. Worse, the cut was full of brash and scattered floe. With such a current, the anchorage I’d hoped for would be too easily swept. There would be no stopping after all. 

The bottom continued to be uniformly deep mid-channel, but ice kept me at the tiller. In the darkness, fatigue and cold bore down and were moderated only by the sense of risk and the need to keep moving. By 0400, we had exited the pass and were back into the relative safety of the strait. Exhausted and shivering, I hove to, shut down the engine, made a can of soup, and went straight to my bunk. 

RELATED: Sailing the Southern Ocean

Two hours later, I woke to a heavy thud against the hull. Already the day was squintingly bright, the sea a solid white all around as Mo lay gently heaving in close-pack. From the pilothouse, we seemed penned in, but from a perch on the gooseneck winch, I found the floe looked loose enough that we could make slow way to the southeast. Alioth lay to the southwest, half a day away, and where, according to Vincent, she was jogging back and forth under mainsail in the gut of a large opening. Vincent reported solid pack to his north, east and west, but he could see what appeared to be a clean lane due south. That was good news indeed, but would it last? 

By 1400, I’d worked below a solid line of pack separating our two vessels, and then was able to swing due west toward Alioth’s position. An hour later, her sleek gray hull came out of the mist where she was hove to in a cove of blue surrounded by sparkling, icy shores.

“Nice to see a friend,” Vincent reported on VHF. “Our lane seems to be holding, and there is a north wind.” Alioth spread her wings immediately, and we began to make our cautious way. Sometimes our lane would tighten; at others, it would divide, and then Vincent and I would study what we could see in binoculars and negotiate over VHF which path we thought best. Each decision, so made, paid off. Three hours later, the lane became so wide and straight, it was as if Moses had parted a sea of white. Then suddenly, the ice receded altogether. We were below the second plug. Alioth made a close approach to Mo, and we four cheered our good fortune. 

We knew current from M’Clintock Channel had pushed its pack well out into our preferred route, so we continued south until nearly aground on Clarence Island. Then we wore toward Victoria Strait in open water. Overnight, our two vessels sailed in company in a beautiful following wind, and around midnight, Alioth took the lead and kept watch while I rested below. Twice the VHF barked, “Moli, wake up. Growler to port; do you see it?” 

In the Arctic, a sailing wind is rare and short-lived. Thus, the next day came on gray, the sea greasy smooth; with it arose a new problem. We were becalmed 100 miles from the shelter of Cambridge Bay, and though this presented no serious difficulties for the moment, the forecast called for an intense westerly gale to sweep our quadrant two days hence. Our position well north of Jenny Lind Island provided no room for running off or lying to a drogue in a blow that would work to push us back onto the ice we had just escaped. 

I offered to take Alioth in tow, but Vincent refused. He didn’t wish to risk another man’s engine—and by extension, a successful passage out of the Arctic that season—just for the sake of his own. He countered that we should proceed to safety without them, an offer I found equally unsatisfactory. Having achieved stalemate, we drifted in company most of the day, taking a little breeze now and again for a mile or two, and until the evening forecast insisted we acknowledge the coming danger.

Mo pulled alongside Alioth in the ­twilight. Vincent lifted over a yoke and towline, which I took and secured. I throttled up the little red engine; the line came taut, and the two vessels were underway at 4 knots for Cambridge Bay. All night we motored and into the next day. Gradually the sky lowered and grew threatening, but still there was no wind. In the late evening, we entered the long channel to Cambridge Bay. Then we were inside and steaming up the welcome confines of the West Arm. At 2300 on August 21, I cut loose Alioth over her chosen spot, and her anchor splashed down. I moved farther up-bay and let go Mo’s hook in 35 feet. 

In the night, the gale came on as foretold. From my bunk, I could hear the rigging roar as it had not done since the Falklands. Mo started at her snubber, but the holding here was ancient mud and the anchor lay buried far, far to windward. I eased deeper into the down of the bag and fell asleep listening to the blow. 

Homeward Bound

A few days later, Mo and I left Alioth in Cambridge Bay to await spare parts, and at Cape Bathurst, we departed the ice as well. On September 12, we crossed the Arctic Circle headed south; we stopped in Nome, Alaska, the next day, made Dutch Harbor on September 20, and returned to our home port of San Francisco on October 19, 2019, completing the Figure 8 Voyage in 384 days.

Randall Reeves is a West Coast sailor, writer and adventurer. For more about his Figure 8 Voyage, check out his book-length account, available at figure8voyage.com.

The post The Crux of the Matter appeared first on Cruising World.

The sailing community is full of mavens: men and women alike who, after years on the water, are ready in an instant to dole out invaluable advice to an obvious beginner. I’ll speak for myself: I need these experts in my life. And, conveniently, my “skills” seem to attract them.

For instance, the other day, I was bumbling around the cockpit of my newly acquired Cape Dory 25, Delilah, feigning confidence, but really, I was just cleaning. 

“Working on a project?” a knowledgeable neighbor asked. He stood on the dock with his hands in his pockets, looking thoughtfully over my boat. I wished then that I had a tool or a thick novel about circumnavigation—something, anything to authenticate me—but all I had was a Magic Eraser. “Looks like your boom kicker is upside down,” he said. His eyes moved laterally, then tracked up my mast. “And your Windex is backward too. Did you put that on there?”

I was tempted to blame the boat, but instead I fessed up. I welcomed my neighbor aboard and, over a beer, we ironed out these issues. I shared my story, he shared his expertise, and, in the end, I became better acquainted with my sailboat.

See, I’m just getting started at sailing. Don’t be fooled by my Sperrys, my JFK-style sunglasses or my well-kept pocket cruiser. Just watch me tack, and you’ll see what I really am: a novice, an amateur or, as my 7-year-old son says, a total noob.

He’s not wrong.

For me, getting a sailboat last year was about venturing into the new and embracing that all-but-forgotten feeling of being a learner. At 38, I hadn’t been in a classroom in years. I’m too old to take up bungee jumping; I’m not interested in mushroom picking, raising snakes or investing in stocks. But all my life I’ve wanted to sail. In fact, I wanted it so badly that I was willing to fail or look silly if necessary.  

When we were kids, our curiosity compelled us into areas of inexperience. We learned to ride bikes, swim and fly kites. We reached out and held hands with a first love. But, as adults, we often trade in that curiosity for comfort and limit exploration to our areas of expertise. Sure, we learn new facts, but how often do we learn new skills?

For me, sailing is giving this grown-up a chance to grow. And so, who cares if I put my Windex on backward? Who cares if I put my furling line on the primary winch and damaged my forestay just one month into owning a sailboat?

 “Think of it this way,” my wife said. “Every part you break is now a part whose name you know.”

So yeah, I’m learning the names of some overpriced parts. I’m buying my neighbors some beers. My guess, I’ll probably end up trolled in some viral YouTube video, sails flogging as I come fumbling out the channel, backwinding my jib and dragging my fenders. 

As Whitman said, I ­celebrate myself, and sing myself. So here’s to the noobs, wandering amazed. Cheers to the beginners and the dopey mistakes we’ll make: the halyard wrap, the lost anchors, the fresh diesel in the water tank. 

Soak it up. Enjoy it all. In the end, the beginning might be the best part. 

David Blake Fischer lives in Los Angeles. His writing has appeared in McSweeney’s, BuzzFeed, the Moth, Good Old Boat and numerous other publications. Follow his new sailing adventures on Instagram.

The post Fresh Starts appeared first on Cruising World.

Recently, walking down a dock to meet a client, I encountered a marina employee who was snapping an “amp-clamp” digital multimeter around shore-power cords, making notes at each one. She explained: “I’m measuring leakage current at each boat.

We do this monthly and then let boat owners know they have seven days to correct anything that’s not right.” She added that “anything over 30 milliamps” constituted “not right” and that the power was shut off if not addressed.

“Are you an American Boat and Yacht Council-certified electrician?” I wondered.

Turned out she was a retired schoolteacher.

While her intent was noble, if not done properly, the results of such tests are of little value; they could be turning off power to vessels that have no faults whatsoever, which achieves nothing other than angering boat owners.

The 30-milliamp part of the test does have some validity, but it’s nuanced; 30mA is the equipment leakage circuit interrupter (ELCI) trip threshold.

When leakage exceeds that threshold (and it’s from your boat; more on that in a moment), it confirms an ELCI can’t be used, which is a problem. The next threshold is 100mA; in fresh water that signals the potential for electric shock drowning (ESD). In seawater, the figure is 500mA, where heat generation has the potential to start a fire.

All of these readings must be measured on the shore cord of the vessel in question.

Then there’s this: No one should swim around docks energized with shore power. ELCIs can be thought of as a whole-vessel ground fault circuit interrupter (GFCI) for the outlets used in galleys, heads, engineering spaces and on deck, with one significant difference: The latter trip at a very low 5-milliamp threshold and are therefore considered protection for people, while the higher trip threshold for ELCIs technically provides them equipment protection, though they have also prevented countless ESDs. While optional, any vessel may have one. And every vessel built since about 2008, if ABYC compliant, should be equipped with an ELCI, and all vessels, regardless of age, should utilize GFCIs in the aforementioned locations.

The testing the aforementioned marina employee was dutifully carrying out relies on a phenomenon known as inductance; the electricity flowing through the cord creates a magnetic field that can be sensed by the amp-clamp, which is a neat, noncontact means of measuring current or amps. However, if you want to measure how much current a vessel is using to power onboard equipment such as battery chargers and refrigeration, only one energized conductor at a time within the cord can be clamped, something you can’t do without using what’s known as a breakout adapter, which separates the wires for individual clamping and measurement. Clamping an entire shore-power cord, and all the conductors within, will effectively cancel out the magnetic field, yielding a zero or near-zero amps reading.

What good is that, you might ask? In fact, it can be quite useful indeed, because any reading above a few thousandths of an amp means some portion of the electricity going to the vessel over that cord is not returning via that cord, thereby creating an imbalance, which registers on the amp-clamp’s display. Since the current can’t travel through the air, there’s only one other possibility: It’s coursing through the water in which the vessel floats, and AC power traveling through water is never a good thing. While such leakage current usually isn’t a corrosion issue, it is a potential ESD issue.

Here’s where the amp clamp test often goes awry, and it’s what caught my attention about the manner in which the marina worker was gathering her readings: The source of the leakage must be identified by momentarily turning off power to the vessel being measured. If, when doing so, the reading doesn’t change by more than a few milliamps, then the vessel whose cord is being measured isn’t the source of the leak—it’s simply the conduit for leakage from another vessel that does have a leak. That conduit effect isn’t harmful to the vessel per se, and there’s nothing that can be done about it short of installing an isolation transformer: a heavy, bulky and expensive (albeit valuable) piece of gear. However, such leakage remains an issue because it means another vessel has a potentially lethal fault.

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

The post A Shocking Question: Is Your Shore Power Leaking? appeared first on Cruising World.

The late Ted Hood, one of sailing’s most accomplished practitioners, mainstreamed roller-furling mainsails. He acknowledged that a sail being wound into one of his Stowaway Masts had to be cut flatter, devoid of horizontal battens, and lack a big roach. But despite these performance-sapping attributes, he saw the upside it would offer shorthanded sailors: The system demonstrated that performance is also linked to having the right amount of sail area set. And over time, making the mainsail behave like a zoom lens has proved to be as appealing to sailors as the latter has been to photographers. 

Initially, a few innovators attempted to retrofit older rigs with external, behind-the-mast roller-furling systems. In essence, these units were akin to a roller-furling headstay stretched between a beefed-up masthead fitting and the gooseneck. Unfortunately, as the tension between the masthead and gooseneck increased, the spar tended to bow and the luff of the mainsail curved to leeward. This made reefing and furling difficult, and placed excess stress on the spar itself.

Seldén and Schaefer solved the problem by adding evenly spaced track connections that linked the mainsail furler to the mast track. Today, Facnor also offers a refined version of this concept for those interested in converting a standard spar into one that hosts a roller-furling mainsail.

Meanwhile, spar-makers soon recognized that a specially extruded, open-trailing-edge spar could house a furled mainsail. A central mandrel, or furling rod with a luff-tape slot, rotates and retracts or releases the mainsail from within the mast. The design requires a way to support and tension the luff rod and a bearing system to handle rotation under load. The geometry of the sail slot and cavity is vital, as is the cut and construction of the mainsail. 

Hood’s sailmaking ­background and yacht-design ­business put him at the head of the fleet, and Stowaway Masts, with their mechanical, electric or hydraulic roller reefing systems, showed up on vessels from 35 to 100-plus feet.

The furling concept might seem fairly simple, but the devil is in the details. Hood, Seldén and many others eventually worked out most of the kinks, including maintaining proper furling-rod tension. But even so, care needs to be taken when furling and outhauling the mainsail, and that’s especially true when an electric or hydraulic winch does the pulling. The big danger lies in overloading the outhaul due to a hockle, or kink, in the furling line. Too hard a pull by a power winch can wedge the partially furled sail in the exit slot, or damage the drive system or the sail itself. Units with narrower exit slots avoid this “herniated” mainsail condition but add increased chafe concerns. Hood’s furling designs have continued to evolve and are now being produced by Formula Spars.

Just as monohulls and multihulls have their advocates, there’s plenty of partisanship when it comes to in-mast or in-boom furling systems, the latter being another option for those seeking ease of sailhandling. Both approaches succeed at sail-area reduction, and both act as a “force multiplier”—allowing a shorthanded crew to cope with a much larger mainsail. But there are also a few not-so-subtle differences between the two. 

Advocates of in-boom furling call the ability to have a deeper-draft, horizontal-batten-equipped, roach-sporting mainsail an important value-added feature. This means that when comparing equal sail areas, the in-boom option will outperform the in-mast alternative. The boom-­furling mainsail comes closer to matching the performance of a conventionally hoisted mainsail. Another big plus is that if the boom-furler function fails, you can still lower the mainsail conventionally.

As with most good things, there are also a couple of downsides that need to be recognized. The first is the size and weight of the boom, which is typically at least double or more the diameter and weight of a conventional boom. The weight issue raises some tactical and safety concerns. The heavier boom will more actively respond in light air and a rolling seaway, creating trimming issues. It also presents a greater risk to the crew during an unanticipated jibe, so more attention needs to be paid to the preventer or the boom brake. 

Ultimately, there’s a vulnerability to the short portion of track that leads the sail’s luff from the mast to the boom mandrel. The angle that the boom makes with the mast is very important, as is following the manufacturer’s furling guidelines. A heavy-duty mechanical or hydraulic boom vang will help ensure that the correct angle is maintained while reefing. 

Ted Hood was correct: Furling is the future. But a few of us still cling to the simplicity, sail-shaping advantage, and lessened chafe found in conventional slab reefing.

Ralph Naranjo is a circumnavigator, technical writer, former Vanderstar Chair at the US Naval Academy, and author of The Art of Seamanship, among other books.

Mainsail Furler Manufacturers

• Axxon Composites
• CDI
• Facnor
• Hood Yacht Systems
• Leisure Furl
• Hall Spars
• Rondal
• Schaefer Marine
• Seldén
• Sparcraft
• Southern Spars
• US Spars
• Z Spars

The post Mainsail Furlers Lighten the Load appeared first on Cruising World.