Smells like dinosaur poop,” Lyra said, wrinkling her 4-year-old nose as we stepped out of our dinghy onto the delta of the Yellowstone River. “Mom, look! A dino footprint!” 

She wasn’t far off the mark. Great blue heron tracks traversed the mile-long mudflat, the pterodactyl-like claw prints bigger than Lyra’s hand. She skipped ahead to join her brother, who was collecting a bouquet of windblown osprey feathers to bring back to our boat. My husband, Rob, set out to stalk the shoreline with his fly rod, hoping to pull in yet another hefty Yellowstone cutthroat trout.

I surveyed the wild scenery: The 11,000-foot-tall Table Mountain rose just behind a dense swath of green willows, with nary a trace of human life in sight. Behind me, our 1974 Catalina 22, Tranquilidad, gleamed atop a vast navy lake, the only boat for miles. We were anchored where the Yellowstone River empties into its namesake lake in one of the most remote parts of Yellowstone National Park. Nicknamed “the Thorofare” because it’s a major migratory corridor for animals such as elk, deer, bison, wolves and grizzlies, this area includes the farthest point from a road in the Lower 48—which was about a dozen miles upriver from where we were anchored. Fewer than 100 people visit the Thorofare each year; all of them have to move through it by foot, paddle or wind power.

Arriving at this rewarding destination was definitely not simple. Our journey began three years prior, when we found an affordable swing-keel boat and trailer that looked perfect for fulfilling our dream of sailing across Yellowstone Lake. 

The only trouble was that the keel was inside the cockpit instead of attached to the hull. After renting a mini excavator to lift the 600-pound cast-iron fin, building a wooden contraption to slide it under the boat, and then replacing the cable and winch, we were in business. We took Tranquilidad out on a small lake near our home in Missoula, Montana, to test whether it leaked, what needed replacing, and how to stow gear, food and four bodies in a space barely bigger than our couch. 

Our first overnight lake voyage proved that we’d need to wait on Yellowstone until our kids were older. At barely 1 year old, Lyra was a definite liability on deck. And while 5-year-old Talon was slightly more capable, he was way more interested in endlessly casting bobbers off the bow than sitting still in the cockpit.

Two years later, after a dozen more weekend trips and plenty of patching, painting, and reconfiguring the boat, we deemed the family and Tranquilidad ready to traverse the largest high-elevation lake in North America. 

First, though, we had to ­navigate the National Park Service permitting system. Our plan was to launch at Grant Marina, one of two marinas on the lake, then head toward the delta of the Yellowstone River 30 miles southeast. We hoped to camp at least one night each way to break up the sailing time for the kids and to explore other parts of the lake.

The backcountry rules for camping or boating on Yellowstone Lake cover an entire 20-page booklet, which we pored over (literally with a magnifying glass) in March. Some sites are off-limits certain dates for waterfowl nesting. Some require boats to be completely removed from the water, an obvious no-go for us. We researched wind patterns and calculated mileages, then mailed in a list of desired anchorages, dates and backup choices, only to find out that the National Park Service had just changed to an online system for backcountry permits. 

A couple of months later, we received an email that we were approved for the early lottery and had earned a chance to reserve our sites. Next up, we turned our attention to the trailer. 

Hauling a sailboat 320 miles over mountain passes and along winding two-lane roads would arguably be the most nerve-wracking part of the whole trip. Rob greased bearings, replaced the aging tires, and made sure a spare was accessible. 

Then we created meal plans and shopping lists to outfit our family for seven days of camping. We also ­double-checked our safety gear, some of which was required: a handheld VHF radio (since Tranquilidad has no electrical wiring), life jackets, throw ropes, battery-powered navigation lights, a foghorn, flares and bear spray.

On a hot July morning, we departed for Yellowstone, our truck packed with bedding and clothes, food and water, books and games, and gear for fishing, snorkeling and hiking. We made sure to arrive at the park entrance in the evening, in hopes of avoiding long lines of summer tourists who drive at a snail’s speed. 

Our plan worked: Hundreds of cars streamed past us, exiting Yellowstone as we cruised in. The kids pointed at bison lumbering along the road and elk grazing in green ­meadows. We even got lucky as we arrived at Old Faithful, pulling into the parking lot just as the geyser began erupting. “A water volcano! Run, Mom, run!” Lyra yelled, pulling me toward the geothermal wonder as soon as she hopped down from the truck.

That night, we set up a tent at Grant Village Campground because we couldn’t launch Tranquilidad without park ­officials first inspecting the vessel for aquatic invasive species. The next morning, we arrived at the park’s ­backcountry office promptly at 8 for our inspection, and to gather our permits and watch the mandatory video on ­wilderness safety. 

As Rob and I raised the mast and readied the sailboat in the marina’s parking lot, the kids practiced the video’s top recommendation for avoiding bear encounters: Make lots of noise. 

We were underway by 10, a light breeze behind us. The southeast arm where we were headed was nonmotorized, but we’d mounted a 3 hp outboard in case we needed propulsion on other parts of the lake. Our cherry-red Alpacka Forager bounced on its painter in our wake. We used this versatile, 13-pound inflatable raft as a dinghy. 

Four hours and 17 miles later, we made it to our first anchorage. Nesting loons called from a sandy spit, and lodgepole pines sent shadows into the shallows. Rob and Talon fished from shore for cutthroat that were rising amid a thick hatch of mayflies while Lyra and I made a sandcastle crowned with an enormous rack of elk antlers we found in the woods. We even swam a bit, surprised that the water wasn’t as frigid as expected. All 132 square miles of Yellowstone Lake freeze each winter—some parts had thawed mere weeks before we arrived. At 7,733 feet above sea level, the average year-round water temperature is 41 ­degrees Fahrenheit.

I’ve sailed across the Pacific and lived under Montana’s big skies for 20 years, but I’ve never seen stars as dense and as crisp as from atop Yellowstone Lake.

In fact, even though it was midsummer, I’d packed our wool socks, down coats and winter hats. Yellowstone is infamous not only for its cold water, but also for its unpredictable mountain weather. A friend who had sailed across Yellowstone a decade ago warned us: “Watch out for squalls. Waves whip up fast out there.”

But our trip was plagued by the opposite problem: no wind. We’d launched during a heat wave, which left us bobbing slowly beneath scorching sun. Fortunately, Tranquilidad was able to ghost along at 2 knots even when the surface was glassy—a boon because the outboard (which had served us well the past two years) had lost power. We’d forgotten to account for the fact that its tiny carburetor was getting less oxygen at the lake’s high elevation. In between maximizing sail trim in the scanty breeze, we fiddled with a system of tarps and umbrellas to create patches of shade. Although we’ve weathered plenty of harrowing gales at sea and backpacked dozens of miles through the wilderness together, Rob declared Day Three “one of our hardest adventure days yet.” He’d take 30-knot winds and stormy waters almost any day over inching along beneath 90-degree sun. 

The plus side of going slowly was that we had plenty of time to fish from the boat and to watch the jaw-dropping scenery. Yellowstone’s forests are immense. The water is cold and clear. The flower-filled meadows are magical. And all of it we had nearly to ourselves. Over the course of seven days, we saw fewer than a dozen motorboats and only a handful of canoes and kayaks.

When the sun finally set after 9 each evening, we all breathed a sigh of relief—until the mosquitoes and biting flies found us. They seemed to particularly like the cabin, congregating in every corner below to nip at ankles and elbows. We rigged a mosquito net over the kids’ berth while Rob and I each bunked on one of the narrow cockpit ­benches, pulling our hats low and sleeping bags high. 

Sleeping outside was well worth a few bug bites to gape at the stars though. I’ve sailed across the Pacific, camped in Alaska, and lived under Montana’s big skies for 20 years, but I’ve never seen stars as dense or as crisp as from atop Yellowstone Lake. It gave “milky” a new meaning as our galaxy glittered above.

We spent a lovely few days hiking around the Thorofare. Talon chased frogs and caught butterflies. Lyra plundered patches of fingernail-size strawberries. Rob and I took turns snorkeling from the boat, stalking thickets of logs stacked underwater in search of the lake’s namesake cutthroat trout. All of us competed in stone-skipping competitions from the gravel beaches, counting the pings each rock made across the clear green water. While we spotted a few deer grazing on the shore and all sorts of shorebirds, waterfowl and raptors, we never ran across any of Yellowstone’s famed megafauna. The intense heat surely relegated most animals to nocturnal ambles. We did, however, witness a few extraordinary hatches of mayflies—aquatic insects that feed fish and birds. One morning, they coated every lee surface of the boat and our bodies for an hour, thousands of tiny U-shaped creatures with fluttering, gossamer wings.

On Day Five, when we were slated to move to a new campsite a few miles ­northwest, we waited until the wind picked up in the evening. As we tacked back and forth on a close reach, thunderheads built over the mountains and spread purple across the western horizon. Mounting waves were ­beginning to rock Tranquilidad. I glanced at the wide-open shoreline along our designated anchorage and realized that we would be exposed to the full fetch of the lake. 

As we sailed closer to our ­intended anchorage, Rob pointed out a small stream, about 8 feet across, that connected to an interior pond just off the main lake. It looked invitingly calm, protected by a ring of pine trees. I set the anchor and lashed the sails, our rigging rattling in the building storm, while Rob quickly paddled the dinghy over to gauge the stream’s depth. “Two feet, maybe!” he yelled over the wind. With our keel and rudder raised, Tranquilidad drafted just under 2 feet. I motioned him back, calling, “Let’s try it!”

We paddled the sailboat through the small cut, wind at our back, holding our breath. Our bottom didn’t scrape a whit, and we breathed a sigh of relief: We had found a freshwater hurricane hole. Nestled happily in our placid little pond, we dined on ­ramen ­noodles while ­whitecaps frothed in fury across the mighty lake beyond.

As we tacked back and forth on a close reach, thunderheads built over the mountains and spread purple across the western horizon. 

The gale dissipated by bedtime, and morning once again dawned hot and breathless. We settled in for a long, slow meander back to the marina. The kids read books and played cards in the tiny cabin. I did yoga on the bow while Rob listened to a podcast under an umbrella at the helm. Even though the breeze was only a faint glimmer, Tranquilidad moved at a respectable 3 knots.

The marina came into sight around 2 p.m. But as soon as we rounded the aptly named Breeze Point, the wind whipped up quickly and aggressively—just like we’d been warned. It circled 180 degrees and blasted across our nose in 35-knot gusts, sending us heeling hard to starboard. We frantically secured our scattered gear and swapped out the genoa for the storm jib. An hour later, after two dozen tacks and a lot of nail biting from our kids, we tied up safely to the dock.

I handed out pepperoni slices and water bottles while we got our land legs under us again. Rob backed the trailer down, and we pulled Tranquilidad out of the water. 

As the boat dried beneath the pines in the parking lot, I asked, “Who wants to jump in the lake one last time?” Both kids grabbed their nets and raced to the beach, just in case there were any critters worth catching along the way. 

Know Before You Go

Make sure you’re familiar with the extensive regulations and permits required to boat in Yellowstone National Park. These can be found on the national park’s website, along with park-entrance requirements and fees. Here are the highlights.

Season and boat length: The season runs Memorial Day through the end of October. Nonmotorized boats (including sailboats) are allowed on several lakes in the park, including Yellowstone, Lewis and Shoshone lakes. Vessels must be under 40 feet to launch in the park.

Marinas: Grant Marina has a boat ramp, trailer parking and pit toilets, but no slips or overnight moorage. Bridge Bay Marina has overnight slip rentals, but a low bridge to enter might limit sailboats. Both marinas are best accessed from the West Yellowstone entrance in Montana. Expect a one- or two-hour drive through the park (and delays from bison gawkers).

Backcountry reservations: All vessels must have a backcountry permit for a designated campsite each night, even if you sleep aboard your boat at anchor. First, study the map and boating regulations booklet for descriptions of each site (a few even have docks) and the mileage between them to plan your preferred itinerary. Next, apply for a reservation through the early access lottery at recreation.gov in March. If chosen for early access, you will be allotted a two-hour window in April to reserve your itinerary online. Remaining advance permits are available on recreation.gov in late April—and they go fast. A hard copy of the permit must be picked up in person at any backcountry office in the park the day before or the day of your launch date.

Aquatic invasive species: All watercraft must be inspected for aquatic invasive species prior to launch, and are required to have an AIS sticker on the hull after inspection. This can be done at a backcountry office after you pick up your permit. 

Fishing license: If you plan to fish, you’ll also need to get a license from the state of Wyoming and a permit from Yellowstone National Park. Be familiar with fishing regulations for each lake.

Wilderness preparation: Don’t expect to see a gas station, restaurant or rescue vehicle once you’re on the lake. Bring ­plenty of water, fuel, food and tools. It’s also a good idea to bring an extensive first-aid kit, a satellite tracker like Spot or Garmin inReach, and protection from sun, rain, and bugs. Each campsite has a pit toilet, or you can use your boat’s holding tank. You’ll be required to watch a short video on wilderness safety when you pick up your permit before launch. 

Required equipment: The park requires all boats to have PFDs, a sound-producing device (like an air horn or whistle), running and navigation lights, fire extinguishers, ventilation, and flame arrestors for inboard engines. Though not required, the park recommends bringing the following safety gear: an oar or paddle, bailing device, anchor and line, VHF radio, compass, GPS unit, dry bags, a floating throw rope or ring, and a visual distress signal such as flares.

Non-motorized or no-go zones: Certain areas have ­restrictions on speed, motors, anchoring, and/or landing vessels to protect natural resources and nesting waterfowl. Print out the map and boating regulations guide to have these rules on board and to ensure that you follow any special instructions laid out in your permit. Bring along a few field guides and a good set of binoculars to help identify the flora and fauna you’ll see in the park.

Triple-Check Your Trailer

While it might be more fun to focus on rigging your boat for the upcoming adventure, it’s just as important to get your trailer shipshape to ensure that you actually make it to the water. Trailers require constant, careful maintenance to keep you, your boat, and other vehicles safe while on the road.

Avoid flats by inflating trailer tires to their maximum rating, which may be as high as 50 or 60 psi. Check the tread carefully, noting if it’s wearing more on one side, which might mean that the axle is bent. 

Flats are fairly common for trailers. Always bring along a good-quality spare tire, either mounted on the trailer or stowed in the back of the truck, along with tools and a jack to change a flat.

Inspect the wheel bearings and repack them with fresh grease (marine grade) every few years or before a long trip.

Check the brake fluid and brake pads on your truck and trailer (some lightweight boat trailers don’t have their own brakes). 

Make sure the trailer lights work, including signals, brakes and rear running lights. Clean any rust or mud off the ­ground-wire connection with sandpaper. 

Check that the trailer ball hitch is seated properly before you go. Make sure your safety chains are properly connected, and take it slow. Like sailing, you’ll get there eventually.

The post Sailing in Yellowstone National Park appeared first on Cruising World.

At a time of year when cruisers might point their bows south to escape winter in North America, or head to cyclone-free regions across the Pacific, instead they are contending with a wide array of restrictions brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic as a new normal has emerged over the summer. § Looking ahead, top health officials expect the pandemic to increase this winter—and that in 2021, the threat of coronavirus will remain. We hope for a vaccine and yet expect that any success will take time to reach far-flung corners of the world. For the cruiser, or hopeful cruiser, is it possible to plan a safe watery adventure?

Despite a world shrunk by globalization, regional and national responses to coronavirus continue to vary dramatically. There is no crystal ball, of course, so to form a view of what cruising might look like in the year ahead, we reached out to sailors around the world to see what might be possible.

North America

If the mainstream traveler rediscovered staycations, American cruisers are reminded that from Penobscot Bay to the Dry Tortugas in the east, and Puget Sound to San Diego in the west—the United States coastline offers extensive cruising for all seasons. The US border never closed to maritime entry, but a number of states had lockdown periods, and several continue to require different degrees of testing or self-quarantine. A pandemic flare-up could limit movement or require isolating. Other cruisers are placing their bets on a new period of slower-paced Caribbean cruising.

Allan and Lavonne Shelton were bound for Panama after several leisurely months in the Bahamas when borders started snapping shut in March. Making a rest stop in Jamaica en route, the crew learned that Panama had closed. They rerouted back to their home waters in Chesapeake Bay. “We were concerned about the possibility of being stranded somewhere with fewer cruising options than we would have by returning to the US, and we didn’t want to be a burden on another country’s health system.” Lavonne says.

Like many, the added risk of the virus put a damper on their 2021 plans. “We want to be able to socialize freely while cruising. We love hosting visitors aboard Vinyasa, and enjoy visiting others too. Realistically for us, cruising freely means waiting until a reliable vaccine is widely available and we’ve both received it.” The Vinyasa crew plans to sail between seasonal bases in Florida and Maryland until they feel safe to voyage abroad again.

Vivian Vuong and her husband, Nathan Zahrt, call the Compass 47 Ultima home. And 2020 was meant to be their breakout year, leading offshore training passages with John Kretschmer Sailing, but closures in the Bahamas and Florida Keys put a pall on plans. “By July we were finally able to do a training passage from Solomons, Maryland, to Newport, Rhode Island, and had an epic sail in nice weather, full of wildlife sightings. We saw whales, sharks, and pods of hundreds of dolphins feeding on schools of fish,” Vivian says. But they postponed further training passages, and instead shifted to working on superyachts to afford planned upgrades for Ultima. Vivian speaks for ­many cruisers when she says, “The ­hardest part of this pandemic is the uncertainty that it causes,” and in their case, it’s not just where this ocean-girdling couple can go, but the future of their work as well. Looking ahead, they anticipate this winter that Caribbean islands will offer opportunities for their own cruising and, hopefully, voyages they can share with others seeking a life afloat.

Mediterranean

At peak uncertainty when borders closed throughout the region, boats transited the breadth of the Mediterranean without options for landfall. The region later swung hard in the other direction, with uncomplicated movement between most European Union countries with just a few extra steps for clearance. But crews from nations outside the Schengen Area have more to juggle than just the stay limits in member states. If cases surged, how might countries respond? Uncertainty around the answer to this has encouraged many cruisers to focus on a safe harbor where they can make longer-term plans, saving active cruising for a post-pandemic environment.

“Most folks we talk to have a sense of being in a surreal film,” Shannon Morrelli reports from the catamaran Sweetie. They were spending their second winter in Tunisia when cases of COVID-19 surged, and the Monastir Marina ­provided a friendly haven. “It was treated as a single-family residence; cruisers could walk the docks and the marina’s headland during lockdown.” The lockdown started days after Monastir denizens, the American crew of the catamaran Grateful, flew back to the US for a brief visit in March; they weren’t able to get back to Tunisia until September. “Our circuitous return depended on the fact that Turkey (a non-EU country) was happy to have us and our tourism dollars,” Niki Elenbaas says.

When European countries began to reopen borders to their citizens, EU-based sailors left Tunisia for summertime cruising grounds closer to home. It was about another month before non-EU crews were able to sail north. To mitigate uncertainty ahead, Shannon and her husband, Tony, purchased a yearlong marina contract for Sweetie in Monastir; Niki and Jamie Elenbaas have done the same for Grateful. For 2021, they plan to cruise between Tunisia and other Mediterranean countries as restrictions (and Schengen rules) allow— and they expect ongoing changes.

Complexity’s crew, Barbara and Jim Cole, hail from Puget Sound. They have similarly doubled down to reduce their risk from instability in the Mediterranean with a long-term contract at a Cyprus marina. Barbara recalled the stressful passages they made across the Indian Ocean and up the Red Sea in the first months of the year. Although overdue for a trip home, they don’t think a flight to the States is viable given the risks of virus exposure coupled with the possibility of being barred from returning to their Hallberg Rassy 36. “Our resources and health could be taken away by careless exposure; it would be terrible to suffer a devastating illness so far from loved ones,” Barbara says. Meanwhile, the couple purchased a car to better travel the island. These experienced cruisers are upbeat; they don’t talk about being stuck but rather about the historic ruins and local delicacies: “As cruisers do, we are all making the best of our situation.”

Friends aboard the Ovni 41 Xamala empathize. “We have not moved much since our arrival in Crete [via the Red Sea] because of the uncertainty with infection clusters and lockdowns,” Anita Farine writes. Fortunately, as holders of Schengen Area passports, they’re able to extend their stay in Greece. “We feel for our international friends who don’t have many places to go to after the three months in Schengen.”

The Griswold family had just returned to Trifecta in Turkey. “From April through June we lived at anchor with very few boats, cruising the Turquoise coast,” Matt says. Family intentions were to continue west in the Med, then cross the Atlantic as the American family’s sabbatical cruise winds down. Then Turkey closed the border with Greece, and they gained empathy for cruisers who had felt trapped by the pandemic. Malta’s decision to open a corridor for EU access was a welcome relief. “In Malta, we filled out an extra check-in paper on arrival for the health department; otherwise no questions were asked. Life returned to ‘cruiser normal’ in an instant.” They’ve since sailed to Italy, Monaco and France, and are organizing an informal rally of boats bound for the Caribbean for the winter.

South Pacific

Island nations and protectorates in the South Pacific were among the first to lock down borders, and most remain closed. With dispersed populations and limited healthcare facilities, they remain conservative about reopening: To date, only Fiji and French Polynesia have a process for yachts to apply for permission to enter. Most cruisers responded by remaining in place; a minority made a move to Fiji when their Blue Lane Initiative—a program offering cruising boats easier entries, although with strict protocols—to enter a country commenced, and a few are choosing extensive passages to more-distant safe havens.

Like many cruisers, the crew of Maple intended to sail west from French Polynesia in 2020 after enjoying over a year in the islands with a long-term visa. With about two years left in their cruising kitty, they planned a winding path of island hops to reach Southeast Asia before wrapping up to go home to Canada. When the coronavirus stymied this plan, they evaluated how best to make the use of their family time left. Given the closed borders (or unpredictable restrictions) in their original plan, they’ve determined that it will be best to sail a loop through the north Pacific back to Canada. They’ll begin in January with a 5,400-nautical-mile passage from Tahiti to Okinawa, Japan.

“This will be our longest single passage, probably will be for the duration of our cruising lives, but we are oddly looking forward to it,” Darryl Lapaire says. The route will carry them close to islands of closed countries: Tuvalu, Kiribati, Federal States of Micronesia, and Guam. “Some of the islands are quite small, so we will need to be watchful and ensure we are zoomed in on our electronic navigation devices for this segment. Cyclonic storms in the equatorial North Pacific breed in the waters around the Marshall Islands and Micronesia, so from this area to Japan will form the area of greatest risk for us.”

Fiji and French Polynesia have created extensive permissions processes to request entry, making those countries possible options for those crossing the Pacific. Kris Adams and David Frost are longtime cruisers aboard the Kaufman 49 Taipan. Moored in Huahine, their attitude models that of many cruisers in French Polynesia: “We are very content here. We were hoping to be home after 19 years,” Kris says, but “the east coast of Australia is still nearly 3,000 nautical miles and then still a Southern Ocean passage away from our hometown in Albany, Western Australia.” This crew has the chops; they’re just choosing, as are most, to appreciate where they are instead. They can migrate to eastern island groups in French Polynesia for relative safety during cyclone season.

These are the difficult options facing cruisers in this region: Either remain in a hurricane zone for the storm season, or sail significant distances like the Maple crew, or hope for the continued generosity of a host country, or go against prevailing conditions to find an open border—all options fraught with uncertainty of future closures.

Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean

Although most countries in Southeast Asia aren’t welcoming arrivals, those within borders already are largely accommodated. The lack of options for landfall halted Indian Ocean transits early on; these are now easing, allowing cruisers already there a path from the region. But cruisers are challenged by bureaucracy here, as well as a lack of understanding for their situation, in countries that feel particularly far from home. Cruisers sheltering in place must juggle this uncertainty; many who can are sailing on.

The family aboard Dafne has cruised from North America across the Pacific and through Southeast Asia. As cases of COVID-19 surged, they sequestered for months in Indonesia’s Mentawai Islands. But with a teen heading to college and other family tugs to the US, they made plans to cross the Indian Ocean as soon as there were signs of South Africa opening up. “We would have stayed in Asia if we felt positive about being able to move between countries, but that seemed unlikely and now looks even worse,” Lani Bevaqua says. If a family emergency called them home, they’d be stuck: Interisland travel halted, making it impossible to reach a marina where they could safely leave their boat and access an airport, except by sailing Dafne out of the country. “We felt uncomfortable being caught somewhere that we literally couldn’t leave,” she says from their anchorage in Seychelles. They expect to arrive in the Caribbean next spring, and cruise North America in 2021.

In Indonesia, Adamastor’s crew were ­relieved that the state of emergency allowed continued visa extensions in this notoriously bureaucratic destination. But Jess Lloyd-Mostyn was troubled that “once the emergency stay permit amnesty was over, the first thing we were asked was, ‘Why have you not sailed back to England?’ It’s very hard to explain calmly how impossible such a thing (a journey of 13,000 odd miles) would be right now, with three young children, and not feel frustrated.”

Jess, husband James and their little ones intended to leave Indonesia earlier this year to avoid exceeding the three-year cruising permit; with no borders open nearby, they might face a hefty bill to import the boat. Yet Jess remains optimistic as they progress toward a clearance port to demonstrate their intentions to depart when it’s reasonable, and appreciates their relative security. “I think that things are harder for cruisers in Thailand because the immigration laws want foreigners to leave, but the Customs laws state that boats can’t be left unattended. Couple that with all the surrounding borders being closed, and what can you do?”

Interim Models for Cruising

While the options vary by region, there are clear themes. Even under the assumption that 2021 will continue with many countries inaccessible, there will be fluctuating regulations in those that are accessible, and added hurdles for clearance into nearly all locales. Two basic approaches stand out: first, taking longer passages to fewer destinations; second, cruising within a country or region where clearances are easier. More-experienced cruisers are better-prepared for the first, and any can choose the latter.

For most cruisers, the patience born of our adage that plans are made in the sand at low tide is playing out in new approaches. Some are reducing range, or keeping potential passage distances to reach backup-plan harbors in mind when making destination decisions. Others are slowing down, whether forced by quarantine or to enjoy fewer places for longer. And nearly all anticipate more hurdles—for more paperwork, more communications ­requirements and more fees.

What’s gone until the world has a widely available, reliable vaccine is the model for visiting a string of countries in a season or even a year. Bucket listers in search of a circumnavigation can’t count on the access to ports (regulations might change while underway) or access to goods or repairs in a typical fast-track loop.

Starting Under Pandemic

Should those with a long-held dream to go cruising hold off on a 2021 departure? This decision is based on individual circumstances and risk tolerance, just as in any other year. The stakes are just higher now, and the well of patience, perseverance, and skills needed for safe and comfortable cruising tapped further.

On the west coast, the reduced size of a casual rally that annually progresses down the US West Coast highlights this decision. The Coho Ho-Ho is an informal fleet where crews head south from Puget Sound on their own timetable, sharing information and camaraderie along the way. In a typical summer, the fleet is comprised of a few dozen boats; this year, all but two canceled southbound plans. Cruising in Mexico on his Lord Nelson 35 Jean Anne, Steve Olson says: “I was a bit shocked and saddened when I heard that cruisers were opting not to sail down to Mexico due to COVID. Knowing what I now know about Mexico and Mexican cruising, I feel much safer and less at risk of contracting COVID down here than I would in the US.”

Yet for many, the pandemic is motivation to set sail despite the challenges. Yacht brokers report that boat sales are booming. Subscribers to the coaching ­service my husband, Jamie, and I have to help cruisers and potential cruisers ­succeed is running at double pre-­coronavirus levels. One family we’re working with recently flew to Grenada (via a couple of other island hops because there are no direct US flights); they waited out a 14-day quarantine in a beachfront cottage there before moving onto their new-to-them catamaran. Another family flew from the US to Latvia for a 14-day “country cleaning” before heading back across the pond to Martinique to a boat waiting for them. Still others are ­beginning on the US coast, where no international clearance is needed to spread their cruising wings.

While 2021 might not be a good year for new cruisers to strike out across oceans, ranging from a point of ­departure is reasonable. The slower pace and necessity to watch regulations might even facilitate softer landings into the lifestyle, and open experiences missed on a faster track.

Looking Forward

As this issue goes to press, COVID-19 ­cases are rising again in many regions. Lessons from 2020 suggest that advance planning will continue to be difficult, and travel corridors might not emerge. Many common cruising routes—such as exploring the Caribbean chain, sailing coastwise through Latin America, or winding across the South Pacific—include migrations through countries that are more vulnerable to outbreaks, with healthcare systems that sailors might not wish to test. While it is still possible to cruise, it is more complicated.

Cruising now leans on deeper skills and resourcefulness. It requires patience and research, and costs more. But a focus on experiences rather than route schedules can bring fresh perspective into the joys of voyaging. More than ever, cruising will be about sensitivity to the locales hosting our vessels. It will be about taking the time to find empathy for the outlook of the local communities we anchor near.

Aboard Totem, our family’s cruising plans were upended in 2020. Instead of ­departing Mexico to sail to the South Pacific, we self-isolated for months in the Sea of Cortez. As much as we crave a return of passagemaking to faraway places, I expect that 2021 will continue to feature tacos instead of bringing back poisson cru. But for our crew, as for many cruisers, the joy of life afloat stems from experiences within the journey—not chalking up destinations. In the past week, wildlife encounters with a transient pod of orcas, filter-feeding whale sharks, and yipping coyote packs in the moonlight reminded us again that magic exists wherever you choose to seek it, and doesn’t know there’s a pandemic on.

Follow along with Behan Gifford and the rest of the Totem crew at cruisingworld.com/sailing-totem.

New Clearance Requirements

Arriving into a new country just got more complicated. Processes and paperwork vary; this list is based on a common range of requirements among Caribbean islands.

• Have arrival authorization issued prior to departure from a previous port.
• Take a pre-departure COVID-19 test, generally specified to be the RT-PCR (nasal swab).
• Carry proof of health insurance.
• Expect a health check on arrival, including additional COVID-19 testing.
• Expect quarantine days, depending on travel history; some islands credit sea time.
• Carry a supply of approved face masks and a thermometer.
• Use a contact-tracing app while in country.

The post The Outlook for Cruising 2021 appeared first on Cruising World.

Pacific coast of Mexico has one of the world’s best cruising grounds: the Sea of Cortez. Within its 2,500 miles of coastline, the Gulf of California is protected from big Pacific swells by the Baja California Peninsula. It offers hundreds of gorgeous islands and anchorages — and is a great place to buy a sailboat.

I was in the market for a new boat and was keen on the idea of buying one in an area where I wanted to cruise. The Pacific coast of Mexico fit the bill perfectly. My search began in Mazatlán, on the Pacific coast south of the Baja Peninsula, where I looked at a number of boats, including a wonderful Rafiki 37, a double-ender designed by Stan Huntingford. I was impressed by both the maintenance level and inventory of cruising gear aboard many of the vessels.

In my travels, it has seemed that most boats for sale in Mexico are owned by Americans who sail them down from the States, float around the Sea of Cortez for a while, and then don’t fancy the bash home to windward. The boat then gets put on the market (quite often with the threat of divorce explicitly or implicitly made) at a fairly decent price.

Toward the southern end of Baja California is the city of La Paz (which means “peace” in Spanish), whose wide harbor is a mecca for sailors from all over. I went there next, to meet Shelly of La Paz Yachts, who had several interesting boats on her books, including a nearly immaculate Hans Christian 36, which I eventually bought for almost exactly half of what my girlfriend, Jasna, and I sold our modest little steel sloop for in Australia. The Hans Christian is a Bob Perry-designed double-ended cutter; now two years on, we are just beginning to realize what a great boat she is.

Why Buy in Mexico?

Many Americans are wary of Mexico, and this has more to do with the media than with reality. You don’t have to watch TV for very long before an unimaginative director portrays a Mexican as a desperado, drug-addled bag snatcher or cartel boss. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I have traveled and worked all over Europe, the Middle East, Africa and the Pacific, and it would be hard to find a stereotype so profoundly undeserved. In my experience, most folks I’ve come across in Mexico have been industrious, honest, family-oriented and friendly people with an amazing tolerance of the fairly dismissive attitude TV-educated foreigners have toward them (even in their own country).

On top of that, there are loads of nice boats in the country, and the sellers are serious.

During our purchase of the Hans Christian, La Paz Yachts handled the paperwork, titling and escrow seamlessly, and the company has continued to assist us above and beyond the call of duty. The bureaucracy is made easy by the Mexican government (see sidebar), and everyone I dealt with was friendly and helpful. Unlike in some states in the U.S., there is no sales tax. On top of all that, there is no panic to get your boat out of the country (as there is in many nations), because Mexico gives you a 10-year Temporary Import Permit for the princely sum of $50.

Perhaps the best part of buying a vessel in this region of Mexico is that you have the whole Sea of Cortez and Pacific coast to get used to your new boat and sample the delights of what Jacques Cousteau once called “the world’s aquarium.”

Now, if all the above is still not making you want to head for the Aeromexico ticket desk, then consider also the food, music, tequila, beer, weather, countryside, artwork, crystal-clear water, fabulous fishing and the wonderful affordability of it all. We came to buy a boat and stayed for three years (and even became temporary Mexican residents). Come down and see for yourself!

The Details:

Getting There: You likely can fly to Mexico directly from an airport near your home; however, the cheapest way is often to fly to Los Angeles and change there to a local flight to La Paz or Cabo San Lucas. There is also a bus from San Diego to La Paz, which is much more comfortable than you would imagine, and no one seems too bothered by how much luggage you throw on it.

Visas: U.S. residents can have up to 180 days upon entry, but you need to ask for it, as immigration officials will often just stamp vacationers in for a couple of weeks. The visa is easily extendable for another six months. If you want to stay longer, you can become a temporary resident. We did, and it was straightforward, taking two 15-minute visits to immigration.

Taxes: There are no taxes for buying a foreign-registered boat in Mexico (which is pretty much all of them). You need to apply for a Temporary Import Permit, which will allow you to keep your boat in the country for 10 years before incurring taxes. The whole process took us less than an hour and cost about $50.

Language: Both Jasna and I are fairly good Spanish speakers, but we didn’t have the opportunity to use our skills much, as all the brokers and chandleries are set up by or cater to the American market.

Brokers: There are four brokerages on the west coast of Mexico that operate under the umbrella of Mazatlán Marine Center (mazmarine.com): La Paz Yachts, Puerto Vallarta Yachts, Mazatlán Yachts and San Carlos Yachts. We worked with La Paz Yachts, and I cannot recommend them highly enough.

Price: Prices tend to be advertised high and come down a fair amount. We paid about 60 percent of the asking price. While sellers will of course vary in what they will accept, don’t be afraid to put in a low offer — there are more sellers than buyers!

Surveys: Plenty of good surveyors operate in La Paz and mainland Mexico. I used Dennis Ross, who lives on his yacht, Toucan Play. He can be reached on VHF channel 22.

Marinas and Moorings: La Paz is a large natural harbor with good holding. You can anchor for about $1 a day, but be sure to leave plenty of swinging room; the opposing wind and current can create a condition known locally as the “La Paz Waltz,” wherein boats can swing stern to stern. There are a few moorings for rent at about $75 a month. Marina prices vary enormously depending on if you pay daily, monthly or yearly, and whether you want one in a resort or on a budget. We recommend anchoring out or getting a mooring buoy and saving your pennies. La Paz has a definite cyclone season from mid-May through November, and leaving during it is a good idea. Failing that, taking a marina berth for the riskier months (August to October) is a viable option.

Rick Page is currently sailing Calypso back home to Australia with his girlfriend, Jasna Tuta. You can follow along with their adventures on their website ­(sailingcalypso.com).

The post A Bounty of Boats, The Beauty of Baja appeared first on Cruising World.

Every October, yachts by the hundreds leave New England ports and head south for warmer latitudes. This annual migration follows two basic routes, offshore to Bermuda and then on to the Caribbean, or else along the coast, where destinations might include Florida, the Bahamas, or eventually a sail along the Thorny Path to the Virgin Islands and beyond.

In Bermuda, cruisers frequently wait for another spell of fair northerly winds to continue toward the Caribbean. But the island, located east of the Gulf Stream, can be difficult to reach, and isn’t by any means an ideal place to weather strong autumnal lows springing eastward from the mainland, nor an occasional tropical system barreling through in October or even November.

Most “snowbirds” instead stop in Block Island, at the eastern end of Long Island Sound; at the Hudson River; or in the lee of Sandy Hook, New Jersey. From there, they take off southward along the Jersey coast when a cold front is followed by northerly winds. New Jersey ports like Atlantic City and Cape May offer safe escapes when the wind switches to the south, signaling the approach of the next low.

Farther south, cruisers often wait for a break in Ocean City, Maryland, or Cape Henlopen’s Port of Refuge, on the edge of Delaware Bay. Then, somewhere off Cape Charles at the Chesapeake Bay entrance, it’s time to decide the next move. When a sailboat’s mast height exceeds 64 feet, the course around Cape Hatteras is the only option, since ICW fixed bridges have 64 feet of clearance at high tide. Considering that the mighty Gulf Stream flows north at a good clip, southbound yachts avoid it by sailing close to the shores of North Carolina’s barrier islands.

Weather plays a key factor in rounding Hatteras. Ocracoke Inlet — tricky, but the only usable one on that outer coast — can get quite nasty in onshore swells, so most offshore-bound yachts discount it. When conditions threaten the Cape Hatteras route, southbound boats, rather than get caught on the exposed coast, can divert to the marinas in Little Creek, Virginia, 10 miles west of Cape Henry, at the mouth of ­Chesapeake Bay. Little Creek is reached via Thimble Shoal Channel through the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. There, one waits for a good forecast before tackling Hatteras.

Those with a mast height under 64 feet, however, have more options. They can, of course, await a suitable weather window and head outside, but they can also take advantage of the protection offered by the Intracoastal Waterway.

A glance at the chart indicates the ocean route is shorter than the meanders of the ICW. However, when measured from Little Creek as a departure point, to Beaufort, North Carolina — the next important port on the way south — the two routes are about the same, at 190 nautical miles.

So on a recent transit, when the weather forecast rattled out three days of imminent southerlies, we sailed on through the Chesapeake Bridge-Tunnel gate. The waters smoothed out, and the ICW route, which I nicknamed the Great ­Hatteras Bypass, began to look very inviting. We’d move in daylight only, spending nights at anchor. The trip would take a few more days, but my wife, Nancy, and I figured, “Hey, let’s turn this passage into a cruise.” We’d be hobnobbing with nature and visiting a few interesting towns along the way.

The sky turned a livid purple, a sure sign of rain the next day, when, after passing a formidable gathering of U.S. Navy ships, we dropped anchor at Hospital Bight on the outskirts of Portsmouth, Virginia. Portsmouth offers good services to yachts: marinas and a large boatyard, as well as a free-of-charge yacht basin right downtown. A small ferry keeps chugging between here and the Nauticus National Maritime Center, a naval museum, and the battleship Wisconsin on the Norfolk side of Elizabeth River. The area has an industrial air that spans a few miles around it.

With our 7-foot draft, we had to miss a true natural wonder, the Great Dismal Swamp Canal, whose entrance is 6 statute miles south of Portsmouth. (Mileage along the ICW is measured in statute rather than nautical miles.) Our previous boat drew just under 6 feet and had allowed us to take this route on earlier trips. To transit the swamp is to travel through a green tunnel of forest trees with their branches locking overhead, surrounded by resounding birdcalls.

Instead, we chugged on 12 statute miles to Great Bridge Lock. South of the lock, the industrial vistas gave way, and the first sights of nature kicked in as flocks of Canada geese herded fuzzy chicks alongside the moving boats. Great Bridge, or strictly speaking, the town of Chesapeake, Virginia, was an easy place to stock up on groceries for the next few days. Yachts in need of inexpensive fuel and competent boat services of all kinds can dock or haul out at the Atlantic Yacht Basin just south of the lock and bridge. The bulkhead wharfs south of the lock and another south of the bridge welcome visiting yachts free of charge.

The Albemarle-Chesapeake Canal begins here. It’s a gateway to a freshwater passage all the way to Pamlico Sound. Although no tides vary the water levels, prolonged, strong northerly winds can reduce the depths by 3 to 4 feet for the next 100 miles. With our restrictive draft, we paid attention to the wind direction before taking off for North Landing River and Currituck Sound in North Carolina. This is a real osprey alley, with massive nests crowning channel beacons. Currituck Sound merges into Coinjock Bay and leads to the town of Coinjock, North Carolina; it’s a straight channel banked by yacht docks and restaurants famous for prime rib the size of wakeboards. From there, North River winds between shoals and marshes southward to Albemarle Sound.

Finally in the wide, deep waters of Albemarle Sound, sailboats can spread their wings. About midway across, we spotted an armada of lucky shallow-draft yachts running downwind from Elizabeth City after a passage via the Great Dismal Swamp Canal. I noticed no one carried on eastward and then south via Croatan Sound, toward Pamlico Sound, most likely because of the 45-foot bridge spanning that route.

In a fresh northwest breeze, we trimmed up for a fast close reach across Albemarle Sound toward Edenton, 35 miles away and a definite departure from the beaten track. “You go there and you will never want to leave” was a typical line we heard about the charms of Edenton.

A few hours later we tied up inside the boat basin downtown. Two minutes into a chat with a fellow fishing off the pier, he told us, “We came here from Wisconsin — the best move we ever made.” Edenton has undergone a phenomenal transformation since being known as “Rogue’s Harbor” in the 17th century. Within a few generations, in 1722, it ­became the capital of North Carolina. Joseph Hewes, a Northern, Quaker ship owner, moved to Edenton, became the first secretary of the Navy in 1776, and even gave his own vessels to reinforce the young naval fleet. John Adams called him the father of the U.S. Navy. Today Edenton is a genteel town of happy people with great walks among pretty homes that are typical of 19th-century Southern architecture.

A brisk sail two days later took us to the Alligator River swing bridge at the south end of Albemarle Sound, and on to the deep waters (11 feet or more) of Alligator River, its banks pure wilderness. Nature crowded closer in the Alligator River-Pungo River Canal, which cuts through flooded forests. Ashore, bald eagles perched on dead treetops and scanned the autumn-gold marshes for stray rodents. A flock of white geese or maybe trumpeter swans winged westward overhead, an unexpected visual bonus.

On this day of wafting light airs, the forecast announced 40-knot northerlies. Even with our 7-foot draft, there was usually a choice of anchorages among low marshes — good enough for moderate winds. Now we needed more protection. When a long stand of tall pines appeared on the upland shore a few miles east of Belhaven, we headed in and dropped anchor in 10 feet, less than a tenth of a mile from shore. All afternoon boats streamed to the marinas in Belhaven. Breakwaters protect the harbor there from the south, but its funnel-shaped inside waters face north, promising a choppy, windy night. A varnished mahogany 1920s-vintage motor­yacht passed nearby and then vanished into the creeks on the backside of Belhaven, where a hidden boatyard thrives. The yacht’s skipper obviously knew the unmarked vein of deeper water winding through the very shallow approach.

All night, gusts whistled and rattled the rigging, the offshore wind blowing the water out of the bay; by morning the depth sounder read 8 feet, the water having been blown down 2 feet. Eventually the northwesterly eased and gave us an easy run southward under power and genoa, all the way to Oriental, at the western border of Pamlico Sound.

Oriental is a place famed among veteran cruisers. The harbor being too shallow for our draft, we took advantage of a calm, anchored outside the breakwater, and dinghied in. Ashore we slipped a couple of available bicycles from the rack in front of the Inland Waterway Provision Company, a marine hardware store, to tour the streets. Oriental has an irresistible atmosphere with lovely homes and a port with sailboats in the majority, but a few salty trawler yachts and three shrimp boats remain to remind us that this little town began as a fishing village.

The deeper navigable waters of Neuse River, which joins Pamlico Sound off Oriental, end at New Bern. The community was once yet another capital of North Carolina (1776 to 1794) and the hub of commerce during colonial times. Surprisingly for us today, the merchant sailing ship traffic from Europe once reached New Bern through Ocracoke Inlet, then a deep, straight channel leading toward the resources of the New World. On the south edge of the town, a friendly bridge operator let us through to Trent River, with its two large marinas; filled with local craft, both keep a few slips open for transients. And like other coastal towns of North Carolina, New Bern maintains a free wharf and a floating dock in the waterfront park by the swing bridge.

Ashore, this town of 30,000-plus inhabitants is like nothing else on the East Coast. The skyline is right out of a Grimm Brothers fairy tale, with solid brick buildings —churches, banks and schools — that soar into towers that could belong to the castles in the medieval Swiss Alps or German Black Forest. The town founders, religious misfits from Switzerland and Germany who escaped persecution to England, made themselves such a nuisance that Queen Anne granted land in the Carolinas to their leader, a bankrupt Swiss baron. The town celebrated 300 years in 2010 and, since the word bern means “bear” in old German, challenged local talent to create bear sculptures. Now bears — hundreds of them — shaped in all manner of styles and materials dominate the town. A large mosque, complete with a giant onion dome, is such a surprise that one may easily miss a sign nearby commemorating a local chemist who concocted the Pepsi recipe in the 1890s.

We dropped down the Neuse River to Adams Creek, which leads south toward Beaufort, and soon the boat slowed down; the tides were back.

Beaufort would be our last stop on the Great Hatteras Bypass route. From there, we’d head back offshore, the next stretch of ICW being plagued with extremely shallow waters. Strong tides flow through Taylor Creek off the Beaufort waterfront, where a score or two of yachts try to anchor each afternoon. Add a strong wind against the current, and the place gets exciting. Taught by experience, we timed our arrival in Beaufort for late morning. By then, large numbers of moderate draft boats had left to continue on the ICW south of Morehead City.

If you stop in Beaufort, while ashore don’t miss a visit to the North Carolina Maritime Museum, with its unique presentation of traditional shoal-draft craft and a very complete library of maritime literature on yacht design and adventure under sail. A couple of full-service marinas and four boatyards in the immediate vicinity help prepare yachts for their offshore destinations ahead: either crossing the Gulf Stream on the way to the Caribbean, or sailing south along the East Coast to the many other winter destinations that await.

– – –

Tom and Nancy Zydler cruise the East Coast of the United States and Canada aboard their Mason 44, Frances B.

The post The Hatteras Bypass appeared first on Cruising World.

It was just off Cape Flattery, with steep, cold seas sweeping us stem to stern, that the thought crossed my mind that perhaps we’d left a touch early. But however humble, our 36-foot steel cutter, Roger Henry, is a robust little vessel and took the beating in its stride.

I did not. After a winter spent dockside with more sailing stories than sailing followed by a cruise in the placid waters of the San Juan Islands that was topped off with the café scene in the lovely city of Victoria, my stomach took a while to adapt to life offshore. As usual my wife, Diana, was chirpy and disciplined while on watch — deck tours, regular logbook entries, safety inspections and 15-minute horizon sweeps.

As we clawed our way south along the Oregon coast, I reread Jimmy Cornell’s World Cruising Routes. In theory, if we didn’t succumb to the temptation to head off on a direct rhumb line for Hawaii, but hugged the North American coast until the latitude of San Francisco, we would ride the clockwise wind patterns of the establishing North Pacific High. I felt better just visualizing all those glorious aft winds and following seas. But Jimmy does not give guarantees. He only advises as to averages, and alas, this was not an average year.

Against incessant headwinds we took nearly two weeks to reach an imaginary rounding point, 200 miles off San Francisco. But by then we were warm, together, and in that lovely cruising space where nothing exists except our little floating home adrift on a big blue sea. The global recession? What global recession? We have rice, water and wind. What more could a sailor ask for?

Our halfway-to-Hawaii party was a grand affair. Absolutely everyone came. We altered our watches so that we might share a few hours together. Ironically, at sea, in spite of being cooped up together in a small vessel, we each have our duties, among them sleeping when off watch, so we don’t enjoy much overlap. On our previous voyages we’d enjoyed lavish mid-route feasts, and once again we had just one celebratory drink and an unusually sumptuous meal together.

We saw but two ships in 2,500 nautical miles, but we never felt alone. On a late-night watch, two whales surfaced on either side of the boat, so close I could smell their fetid breath. They pressed in toward the hull and seemed to be cradling us up as if we were a fatigued calf. I was quite moved by that encounter, for their majestic mass can only be truly appreciated when up close and personal.

As the days passed, we sailed silently, scanning the horizon for signs of fish, porpoise, and perhaps a new species of bird — some lonely wanderers like ourselves, frightfully far from land. Sadly, however, we did not see the flocks of seabirds we have been used to in years past. Instead of being laden with life, the sea surface was littered with garish flotsam, marring the sense of pristine wilderness. In spite of its almost unimaginable 64 million square miles, the Pacific Ocean is showing significant signs of stress, and can no longer be used as an infinite dumping ground.

There’s a mental gravity that pulls one’s mind forward toward any large landmass. Though we were still many days out from Hawaii, our isolation bubble was burst. Diana began a tally of provisions required while I started yet another long list of maintenance chores.

The Big Island, Hawaii, loomed large in the morning sky. After 24 days of only blue, black and gray, the greenery was an assault on our senses, as were the pungent smells of a lush land laced with the sweet scent of frangipani.

All arriving yachts must check in at the small commercial basin called Radio Bay just to the south of the main city of Hilo. This is a closed industrial port, and since the Sept. 11 attacks any visiting sailors without a MARSEC Level 2 security clearance must be escorted to and from the front gate, no matter the time of day or number of entries and exits. When I heard that we were not even allowed to have visitors onboard, I found myself humming the tune “Don’t Fence Me In.”

Nevertheless, our stay was pleasant. We tied up and called the front gate from a dockside phone. Ten minutes later a uniformed woman rode up on a bicycle.

With a big smile she said, “Hello, I’m pretty.”

She wouldn’t get an argument from me on that score. But she meant Pretty with a capital P, her real name. She escorted us to Customs and Immigration, and then to the Port Office for registration. Everyone we encountered was welcoming and efficient. The Polynesians seem to have an innate sense of well being, expressed with open and humorous warmth. The office attendants were very helpful as they patiently explained how to catch the free buses to town, where to do laundry and how to find the main markets.

The next morning old sailing friends Mark and Dorothy Schneider of the yacht Dirty Dotty (we were told never to ask whence came that name) met us at the front gate. Over the next week they treated us to a guided tour of the spectacular Big Island.

It is said that there is no accounting for taste, but few would dispute that the Hawaiian Islands rank among the world’s most beautiful. Their latitude is tropical but temperatures are moderate. The surrounding seas are rich, and the high mountains and coastal plains create microclimates suitable to most types of agriculture. The prolific volcanic activity has resulted in fecund soil, no doubt lending to the success of the first human habitation, thought to have begun between A.D. 300 and 800. Theories abound as to a single arrival event, with Polynesians carrying pigs, dogs, coconuts, bananas and the now ubiquitous taro. Others state that migrations came in waves, mostly from the Marquesas. In any event, by the time of the first European arrival, perhaps as early as the mid-1500s, a large population with a sophisticated agrarian culture had developed.

Because any earlier European sightings or landings produced no surviving documentation, it wasn’t until 1778 that the intrepid explorer Capt. James Cook definitively and accurately placed the Hawaiian Islands, or as he named them, the Sandwich Islands, on the nautical charts.

Although now implacably within the American system of statehood, for nearly two centuries Hawaii was a colonial football kicked among England, France, Japan and even Russia for a period. Whaling and sandalwood logging were the linchpins of the early extraction economy. With their depletion, crops such as coffee, sugar, bananas and pineapples attracted foreign interest, leading to overwhelming immigration and eventual integration.

Today a mere 10 percent of Hawaii’s 1.4 million people are native or Pacific Islanders. But their influence is felt far beyond their numbers, for their sultry culture remains irresistibly seductive. With the welcoming floral leis, the soft strum of the ukulele and the swaying hips of the scantily clad hula dancers, as many as 10 million tourists per year see why Hawaii is dubbed “the Aloha State.”

We think of Hawaii as the eight main islands, the best known being Hawaii, Maui, Oahu, Molokai and Lanai, but outlying atolls and rocky outcrops extend the territory a full 1,500 miles into the mid-Pacific. This was of extreme strategic importance, as attested to by Admiral Yamamoto’s attack on Pearl Harbor on that “date which will live in infamy,” Dec. 7, 1941. That strategic significance has not waned due to the now internationally recognized 200-mile exclusive economic zone.

For cash-strapped sailors like me, the famed Hawaiian golf courses are officially exclusive economic zones, but not so the many beautiful national parks, the most dramatic being the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Looking down into the glowing crater of Kilauea, I thought it rather ironic that while we are worried about a surface temperature rise of 2 degrees, nothing but a thin, brittle and shifting crust separates us from 10,800 degrees F of molten magma.

We ventured up nearly 14,000 feet above sea level to visit the Mauna Kea Observatories. As night fell, so did the temperatures, and we were soon huddled beneath every scrap of clothing and cloth we could find. The thrill was worth the chill, for this is one of the world’s premier stargazing sites, attracting scientists and astronomers from many countries and numerous universities and research foundations. Sailing and the stars are inexorably linked, especially for an old salt like me who relied on celestial bodies to guide my way across trackless seas. I was transfixed with the clarity of the powerful telescopes and captivated by the informative lectures and documentary films.

For an unstaged and authentic cultural experience, simply visit any one of the many morning markets, as we did in the old town of Hilo. These are colorful, vibrant affairs, where locals sort through mounds of meat, fish, baked goods and fresh produce to select their daily fare. Few leave without a basket or bouquet of tropical flowers.

With all this fresh produce so readily at hand, one is hard pressed to explain why Hawaiians lead the nation in per-capita consumption of a product that might seem to have an indefinite shelf life. Yet annually they enthusiastically devour 6 million cans of that succulent delicacy known as Spam.

Fascinated with maritime history, I have visited the site of Magellan’s great mutiny in Patagonia, the beach in the Philippines where he was murdered, the grave of Christopher Columbus, but most moving for me was the site in Kealakekua Bay, on the west coast of the Big Island, where the greatest seaman and explorer of his age, Capt. James Cook, was murdered. With the cyclone season approaching, we were forced to press on. After clearing Customs we departed the shelter of Radio Bay, and in the growing darkness sailed south along the east coast of the Big Island. On the coastline to our starboard the molten, blood-red entrails of the Earth flowed across the bleak volcanic plain and fell headlong into the steaming sea. We were witnessing nature at its primordial roots, engaged in a cataclysmic state of raw renewal.

Our disappointment with leaving such a beautiful necklace of islands was offset by the anticipation of an adventurous voyage 1,000 miles south to the remote atoll of Palmyra. My cruising motto could well be summed up as “anything atoll” because, although they are somewhat stark, I love their geographic structure and unique environment. Often atolls hang precariously perched on steep seamounts, making their outer coral walls steep, deep and dangerous. For free diving, there’s no more thrilling a challenge. Being so low, they are battered by the tempests of the sea, and I’ve literally felt them shake beneath the pounding forces of a wild surf. Occasionally swept abreast with storm surges, atolls offer little topsoil, and less potable water. Few people have mastered this harsh environment, thus many of the world’s atolls are deserted. This makes them prime locations for sensitive seabird hatcheries.

After seven brisk days at sea, we located Palmyra at dawn by the cloud of frigatebirds, boobies and terns swarming above the blue lagoon.

Palmyra is the last official “unorganized incorporated U.S. territory” — unorganized being the key word until recently. After a complicated series of political claims, Palmyra ended up privately owned but mostly abandoned since World War II. This lack of governance attracted developers, sailors, hermits and a few on the lam from the law, seeking profit, protection or privacy. Being exactly halfway between Hawaii and Samoa, its lagoon historically has offered welcome shelter for the few intrepid sailors passing though these remote waters, and with its coral tentacles extending well out to sea, it has hosted its share of shipwrecked castaways.

In the past, sailors heading north to Hawaii and not willing to comply with the strict animal quarantine regulations there abandoned pets to their fate on the atoll. We met one such dog whose heroic tale of survival was written upon his scarred body. Apparently, Dadu lived on rainwater and sharks he wrestled from the surf. The resident U.S. Fish and Wildlife staff feed Dadu now, but he still can’t help himself when he sees a blacktip shark swim by.

Abandoned cats had an easier time of it due to an infestation of nonnative rats. Ironically, it was the rats that posed the greatest threat to both the avian population and one of the largest remaining stands of Pisonia grandis trees in the Pacific, as they feasted on eggs, chicks and the seeds of the rare trees. In 2000, The Nature Conservancy purchased Cooper Island, the largest on the atoll. It has established a small but significant research facility there. Fish and Wildlife administers the remaining land areas and surrounding waters. In partnership they have refurbished the old World War II infrastructure, reopened the airstrip, cleared some trails and successfully eradicated the invasive rats.

Permits to visit are now required but easily obtained. Normally a yacht’s stay is limited to one week, and to protect the coral we were allowed to anchor in only one small, designated area. We were met at the entrance pass by U.S. Fish and Wildlife officer Amy, who informed us that we must radio ahead when we wanted to land on the island, and had to be accompanied if we wanted to venture into areas where ground-nesting birds were present. None of this detracted from a fascinating stay, and in fact, once Amy and the research station manager, Charlie, felt confident that we understood and respected the fragile nature of the environment, we were given nearly free rein.

We hiked through the green forests, occasionally rewarded with an ephemeral glance at the snow-white fairy terns. Tanklike coconut crabs scuttled through the dense underbrush as we poked out into the dazzling bright coastline, discovering deserted beach after deserted beach.

In peak season the year-round staff of four is joined by as many as 20 scientists. There is much to do, so they tend to pitch in and help each other with their projects. They wanted to do a spot count of four different bird species, which meant they needed every possible person with binoculars and bird books at the ready. Diana and I were asked to stay on an extra day and survey the outlying islands on the south edge of the reef. Walking and wading slowly and silently, we spent a serene day immersed in our own private wilderness.

Perhaps it’s the curse of the curious, for once again the open sea beckoned. With all sail set, Roger Henry slipped silently through the narrow coral pass and stood out on a course of south-southwest in a freshening breeze. A thousand miles over that watery horizon lay Samoa, the land made legendary by Robert Louis Stevenson. But wind and wave permitting, that would come in its own good time. For now we were just where we were, at home at sea, with time to reflect on yet another collage of indelible cruising memories.

Alvah and Diana Simon are presently cruising the North Island of New Zealand, their home waters.

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