It’s never a great start to a very early, very windy Saturday morning when your phone vibrates and the identifying caller ID is “Newport Harbormaster.” But that’s how my weekend commenced early last October.

Gulp. “Hello?”

Tim Mills, who runs the waterfront show here in my Rhode Island hometown, always gets right to the point. Apparently, the deck-stepped spar on “my” Pearson 26 (more on this shortly) was no longer, um, erect. Something bad had transpired when it was gusting 50 overnight. The good news was that, with the shrouds intact, the rig was still attached to the boat, though largely underneath it. Coffee was immediately required. Followed by a quick dash to my yacht club, the Ida Lewis YC, and a launch ride out to the boat in Brenton Cove.

The launch driver, Griff, is an old mate. “Well, that doesn’t look good,” he said. Thanks, Griff. And the water’s still wet, right?

I’ll diverge here for a moment, for there is a backstory to all this. Well, actually, a front story. Because this is a tale all about moving ahead.

The vessel on which I gingerly stepped aboard, though obviously on my mooring, was no longer technically mine. (Sorry, Tim, I was meaning to mention it.) Nope, I’d decided to search for something new this winter, which meant I needed to divest myself of the Pearson. Now, I hate to admit this, but the poor little boat had not fared particularly well under my stewardship. I’d acquired it for basically nothing from a friend when I got my mooring, and had used it primarily as a swim and lunch platform. I decided to try to give it away, to someone more worthy of realizing its potential as a nice little Narragansett Bay weekender. I was hoping to pay it forward, as it were. Naturally, I took to Facebook.

This is where the story takes a happy turn because, through a friend of a friend, I made the acquaintance of one young Stuart Wemple—a talented, sailing-crazed student at Tabor Academy, where he’s on the sailing team, and who was looking for an interesting senior project. Stuart hopes to someday pursue a career as a yachting photographer. He has as a mentor one of the best—local shooter extraordinaire Onne van der Wal, who, perhaps not coincidentally, completely overhauled an old Pearson 36 a couple of years back, which he documented thoroughly in these pages. Stuart reckoned that fixing up the old 26-footer, and recording it all on his blog with photos and updates, would be a cool winter project. And at the end of it, he’d have himself a sweet little cruising boat.

Kismet, no?

Stuart and his dad, who was probably rightfully suspicious of the entire enterprise, had shown up and taken a look, deemed it a not-impossible task, and we’d sealed the deal with a handshake.

All that had transpired a week or two earlier than the unfortunate, untimely dismasting. Once I got on deck, it was quickly apparent that a failed headstay tang was the culprit (it had been one bouncy night), but other than that, luckily, no other damage had been incurred. Somehow, I had not burst Stuart’s bubble. But, man, it was clearly time for him to take the reins.

First, of course, I had to get the mast out of the drink. Which proved to be quite an interesting puzzle, insofar as I’d never given much thought to such a scenario. But an assistant harbormaster showed up on a big RIB (this would likely be a far different story otherwise), and with a labyrinth of lines strategically placed, we slowly and incrementally inched it skyward. At just the right moment, Griff appeared on the launch with a couple of club members he’d unsuspectingly hijacked, and we all grunted the thing on deck, and I lashed her down.

Whew.

Stuart took all this news a lot better than I would’ve, I reckon. Shortly thereafter, he rounded up the boat and almost immediately made some real progress, which he dutifully recorded in fine fashion on his blog.

And thus, the next ­chapter for an old classic plastic begins. Praise Neptune! And I believe there’s one thing we can all agree on: She’s in a much better place now.

Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

The post Off Watch: Bye-Bye Boat appeared first on Cruising World.

In October 1975, while building our 36-foot ketch Carlotta from scratch, I happened to pick up a copy of National Geographic magazine featuring Borneo. On its cover was what appeared to me to be a sexy hippy chick, with a cute female orangutan on her hip and another on the ground in front of her. The standing orangutan was named Princess. It turns out the women’s name was Dr. Birutè Galdikas, a ­primatologist and conservationist, which I discovered as soon as I actually stopped to read the story.

But it was that image that spoke directly to me, not merely because of how foxy the doctor looked, but because of its deep-in-the-jungle exoticness. Though I was 23, dead broke, and the lease on our B Street and Congress building site in Boston was expiring, my desire at that time was to sail to the farthest corners of our world. I saw the entire planet as my classroom. Surely Borneo, where they were teaching orangutans sign language, would be a good place to start to learn.

So, with the brashness of youth, I convinced my wife, Carolyn, that once we launched our boat, we should sail there—without even knowing exactly where Borneo was, except that it was far, far away from chilly Boston.

Of course, life got in the way. It always does. Our daughter was born. Hurricanes loomed. Boats sank and others were refloated. Taxes needed to be paid. More shore jobs were offered than I had the energy to turn down. And I’m slow—slow on all levels. But I’m also tenacious, and I clutch my dreams fiercely. Thus, 26 years later, in 2001, I tossed my anchor in the muddy Kumai River across from a sleepy village on Borneo’s south coast, with a lone barefoot man in a dugout canoe rowing toward us.

His name was Herman Herry Roustaman. He was small in stature but huge in personality. He exuded both charm and warmth, and his lust for living was contagious. “What you need, Skipper—you need diesel fuel?”

I admitted I did.

“No problem, Skip!” he said as he grabbed my two fuel jugs, tossed them into his wobbly dug-out, and graciously cleared a place for me amid the bilge water and floating fish guts.

I grimaced as I sat down (while silently cursing myself for going commando that day).

We chatted. I immediately liked him. He was wildly enthusiastic. His grandiose dream was to lure away the local loggers (and thus stop their habitat destruction) with renewable and sustainable profits from tourism. This was all well and good, but I thought that, perhaps, he should first organize the buying of a pair of shoes.

He rowed me to a 55-gallon drum on the shore. It had some oily black fluid floating it in, along with what appeared to be some leaves and a dead rat.

“How many gallons would you like, Skip?” he asked.

I informed Herry that I could buy only clean, filtered diesel fuel. He frowned, thought about it a second, then whipped off his T-shirt, stretched its cotton fabric over his funnel, and poured away.

How can anyone not love such an entrepreneur?

“You like orangutans?” Herry asked as he poured. “I have friend with riverboat, and he likes to cook. We all go see orangutans?”

Actually, bits of this convoluted tale began in Africa at about the same time we were building our boat in Boston. In the early 1970s, the highly charismatic Louis Leakey, a British paleoanthropologist and archaeologist working in Kenya, took time out from digging up skulls from his African backyard to send three idealistic women into the world to save the great apes. You probably already know the life stories of two of those dynamic women. Dian Fossey (of Gorillas in the Mist fame) studied gorillas in Rwanda until she was tragically killed by poachers in 1985. And Jane Goodall has won a number of prestigious international awards for her work with chimpanzees. However, few folks know the name Birutè Galdikas. Why? Because Goodall and Fossey were forced to shake the Western money tree to fund their research, while Galdikas just nonchalantly climbed into a tree in Indonesia and started teaching orphaned baby orangutans how to build nests in order to survive in the wild.

She didn’t play the ­big-­money fundraising game. She quietly went her own way, did her own thing, and never kowtowed to “The Man”; she let it all hang out from atop lofty, swaying trees.

In order to understand the lifelong dedication of Galdikas, you have to understand orangutans. They live to be more than 50 years old. Their young are entirely dependent on their mothers; the fathers play no role in their upbringing. Up until the age of four, they don’t even let go of their mothers. By seven, if they’ve learned their lessons well, they’ll begin to play farther and farther from their mother, until one day—they’re gone.

They’ve graduated.

How does Galdikas find her wards? What are some common reasons orangutans are orphaned? For some, it’s due to intentionally set or accidental forest fires. Mothers are killed by loggers, or some by palm-oil farmers.

Galdikas’ goal wasn’t to take care of orphaned orangutans—it was exactly the opposite. It was to truly mother and mentor them, to teach the babies how to be themselves and to learn the skills needed to survive in the wild. For ­example, orangutans build a new nest in a new location each day. Thus, nest building is a mandatory, life-enabling skill. Galdikas has built thousands of nests over the years for the edification of hundreds of freedom-aspiring orangutans.

To say this is labor-intensive is a huge understatement. The doctor is nothing if not resolute. She has literally hung in there despite the fact that male orangutans are eight times stronger than their human counterparts, and she often must work with them far off the ground.

No scientist before or since has attempted such a thing for such a sustained period of time, let alone been responsible for 250 clueless baby orangutans returning to the wild as budding adults.

It was into this strange world that we arrived in 2001 with our new buddy-for-life and river-guide-forever Herry at our side. The moment we stepped onto the dock at Camp Leakey, the Orangutan Foundation International’s rehabilitation center founded by Galdikas, we were greeted by a friendly female orangutan making weird gang-member signs at me.

Yes, I’d finally met Princess, who wasn’t merely still alive but in the prime of life.

Herry watched her intently, then informed me. “She’s bored and wants to play. Actually, she’d prefer a snack first. Bananas and milk, perhaps?”

“I can’t believe I’m in the presence of, well, magazine royalty,” I laughed. Then I added, “Where’s the hot doctor?”

“Dr. Birutè is…” Herry said as he pointed a finger to the sky and the dense forest canopy above.

Sure, we could interview her, but only if we could find her. And finding the busy doctor in a rainforest is akin to searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack, assuming the haystack is hundreds of feet tall, thousands of hectares wide, and made of hardwood.

Part of the reason that Galdikas the scientist is so elusive is because the National Geographic article in question helped to spark a giant controversy among linguists over what exactly animal- to-human “speech” and “communication” is. More than one linguist accused her interactions with orangutans as overstepping her scientific bounds.

Back in Borneo, Galdikas didn’t climb out of the trees long enough to reply. After all, why bother when she was riveted by her swaying subjects, not the nitpicking greater scientific community.

Luckily, nobody told Princess of the controversy, and she was able to maintain her sunny disposition.

We spent the ensuing days playing with Princess and the other orangutans, and we met many of the Dayak park rangers, most of whom were just a generation or two away from their headhunting ancestors.

We even met Barry the Gibbon, a small ape that looked more like a monkey without a tail than a great ape. He moves through the dense jungle so fast that you can’t see him, only where he’s been by the shaking of the vegetation.

We were absolutely riveted by the entire otherworldly scene in 2001, but our weather window across the Indian Ocean was opening up. As we departed, never having managed to meet Galdikas, we vowed to return to Borneo ASAP—which turned out to be 18 years later, in 2019, in the midst of our latest circumnavigation.

Now, it is always tricky going back to a cruising ­destination that has touched your heart because you’re almost guaranteed to be ­disappointed. But not this time, not for us. Though we’d heard our beloved Princess has passed, if anything, our second visit was better than the first.

Kumai is now a city of 50,000, not a village of 400. Herry not only owns a highly successful regionwide tour agency, but he is also head of the Green Team, a group of environmentally concerned local river and forest guides who chip in their own pennies to buy buffer parcels of land between the orangutans and the palm-oil plantations.

And yes, Herry finally has a pair of shoes. Even better, his hippielike equation suggesting ecology plus orangutans equals wealth is finally coming true for thousands of Indonesians. Illegal logging is way, way down, and the big surging industry in Borneo that is now doing all the hiring is tourism.

Regardless, getting to Camp Leakey is still a ­challenge. First, we putt-putted Ganesh, our 43-foot Wauquiez ketch, 20 miles up the Kumai River. We took pains to anchor well because the reversing currents are strong and the occasional squalls fierce. Then we engaged an around-the-clock guard to sit in the cockpit, with the boat locked and alarmed. We then transferred to a shoal-draft, narrower vessel in which we motored an additional 20 miles up the muddy Sekonyer tributary, until the dense jungle vegetation leaning in from both banks began to slow our progress.

As the jungle closed in on us, proboscis monkeys tittered at our foolishness. Owls thought we were a hoot. Monitor lizards—all 7 feet of them—slithered on the riverbank mere feet away. Poisonous sea snakes poked up their heads with interest. Oriental pied hornbills ­fluttered. Stork-bill ­kingfishers flew up. And mighty trees shook alarmingly in the distance, a promise of huge beasts to come.

Ah, Borneo! You can’t get more primitive here on Earth without a time machine. Shortly after our third crocodile sighting, we came to a familiar dock. It had barely changed in the intervening 18 years.

I was securing our forward spring line as Princess’ son, Percy, approached. He’s 16 now, and like teenagers everywhere, perhaps a bit wary.

We’d never met.

“I used to know your mother back in the day,” I said, standing stock still.

While I dearly love animals, I’m also a human who has survived thus far because I never forget that a wild animal is a wild animal.

Percy approached. I stood my ground and forced myself not to smile. A show of teeth indicates a desire to fight.

Carolyn was more cautious. She stepped back on the boat.

“Careful,” she hissed to me. “Don’t grin, don’t establish eye contact, don’t act aggressive!”

Ah, the tricky social situations you find yourself in while world cruising!

Once Percy got our ­measure, however, there was no problem, other than his openly coveting Carolyn’s iPhone. He even lazily guided us into the reception area.

I couldn’t help but be proud that we were meeting an entirely new generation of orangutans this circumnavigation—and that in primitive Borneo, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Cap’n Fatty and Carolyn Goodlander are now anchored back in their beloved Singapore, aboard their ketch, Ganesh, swinging through the Asian skyscrapers.

The post On Watch: The Two Cover Girls of Borneo appeared first on Cruising World.

Warm trade winds gusting across the deck, blue sky overhead, a big cat beating across ocean swells along the exposed rocky Atlantic coast of Peter Island. For a tropical birthday bash, this one was getting off to a very good start. Roughly 40 hours into it, and we’d already enjoyed a kickoff dinner-dance party, had an easy sail to Norman Island, gone snorkeling at the Caves, taken a paddleboard tour of the Bight, watched in disbelief as late-afternoon partiers did unspeakable things at the bar aboard the latest iteration of the infamous William Thornton, and danced into the evening at Pirate’s Bight, on the beach. Whew—and we still had nearly a week to go!

For many a sailor, there’s perhaps no better way to mark a special occasion than with a bareboat charter vacation in the British Virgin Islands. So it made perfect sense, really, that the granddaddy charter company of them all, the Moorings, would invite yacht owners and customers back to where it all began to mark a milestone: the 50th anniversary since founders Charlie and Ginny Cary opened shop in Tortola with a fleet of six 35-foot Pearson sailboats.

It’s worth recalling that when the Carys made the decision to ditch the corporate life and start anew in the islands, bareboat chartering—renting a boat and sailing it yourself with family and friends—was a new type of tropical adventure. Fifty years on, the Moorings, along with corporate cousin Sunsail, maintains the industry’s largest fleet of sail and power charter boats, available at bases around the globe.

It was early this past November when I flew to St. Thomas, and then the next morning hopped a ferry to Road Town, Tortola. I’d not been to the Moorings base or the BVI since hurricanes Irma and Maria ravished the islands in 2017. Just two years later, the town was bustling with shops, restaurants and businesses, not to mention construction projects in every direction. Clearly, the islands were back in business and ready for visiting sailors.

If Road Town was busy, the Moorings base at Wickhams Cay 2 was a madhouse on that Saturday morning. Outside, construction crews toiled away at the ongoing facilities’ overhaul sparked by the tropical storms and the need for more of everything: dock space, hotel rooms, provisioning and laundry services.

In addition to the 100 or so sailors who were waiting to get aboard the 30 bareboat and crewed monohulls, sail and power cats taking part in the anniversary rally, scores more were arriving to begin their own charters. Suitcases were stacked everywhere, and already the bar appeared to be doing a brisk business. Around noon, I met up with my shipmates, Josie Tucci, Moorings VP of sales and marketing, and Franck Baguil, VP of yacht ownership and product development, and we headed off to find our ride for the week: the Moorings 5000 Abby Normal To. Jim and Shirley TenBroeck were already aboard when we arrived for lunch, and they were being entertained by Abby Normal’s full-time captain and mate, Richard and Shannon Hallett. The TenBroecks own Westminster Teak and were a sponsor of the celebration. Meanwhile, savoring Shannon’s cooking and deciphering Richard’s strong South African accent as he told tale after tale would be two of the more enjoyable pastimes over the next few days.

That evening, festivities ­began in earnest with the entire rally gathered under the stars for a buffet dinner. Though the Carys are both deceased, others from the early days were on hand, including Tony Rainold, a sailing pal of the Carys in New Orleans, who was a partner with them from the start. Back in the day, he was the numbers man, and also the map guy. In 1979, usable charts and cruising guides were scarce, so to keep charterers out of trouble, Tony collected black-and-white photos of the more-popular anchorages, and then drew arrows to show passes, rocks and the like. In those days, the name of each boat was painted on a board, and strips of masking tape were used to keep track of customers.

“The most amazing thing to me,” Tony says, “is that it was all accomplished before the age of computers.”

After Sunday night’s revelry at Norman Island, it was time for a sail. Outside the Bight, Richard poked Abby Normal’s bows into the wind, and we ran up the main, bore off and unfurled the jib. It took a few tacks to make it through the channel between Norman and Peter islands, but out in the Atlantic, we settled into a near reach that took us to the wreck of the Rhone, the stern of which can be seen when snorkeling off the south side of Salt Island. The surf was lively and our stay was brief. For lunch, we rounded the corner and anchored in the lee off a sandy beach for an afternoon of hikes, swims and paddles. Later, we headed to Peter Island’s Great Harbor, where we dined aboard before heading ashore for what turned into a spirited ’60s party. Luckily, Franck brought costumes to spare, so he, Josie and I fit right in with the tie-dyed, granny spec, bell-­bottom-wearing collection that we encountered at the bar.

Tuesday’s destination was Leverick Bay in Virgin Gorda’s North Sound. We got going early to beat the crowd to the popular rock formations at the Baths. Unfortunately, surf warnings were posted, and Capt. Richard was not keen on us going ashore. Instead, Josie joined another boat for the day, and Jim and Shirley were among a group who decided to jump ship at nearby Spanish Town, and travel the length of the island with Sweet Ice Willie and his pickup-truck taxi to catch the spectacular views as the road winds up and along the island’s spine.

Me? I was sticking with the boat; I can ride in a truck back home. Franck had to depart the party early, so we motored across Sir Francis Drake Channel to drop him at a dock near the airport on Beef Island. Ashore, preparations for the Trellis Bay full-moon party were well underway. En route, we stopped briefly for a swim and lunch at Diamond Reef, which, according to Richard, has some of the best snorkeling in the BVI. He might be right.

That afternoon, I sat at the wheel taking long tacks from one side of the channel to the other. The sailing was lovely. The breeze was steady in the high teens, but toward either shore, it bent around to head us, making our progress slow. Finally, watching the sun dip lower, we fired up the engines and motored the remainder of the way to the anchorage.

Another harbor, another party ashore—this time a Caribbean barbecue that couldn’t be beat. Later, under a full moon, several of us piled into an inflatable for a fast and memorable tour of the sound. With the Bitter End Marina gone, obliterated by Irma, and the resort at Saba Rock still under construction, the hillsides were eerily dark, but boy, what a fun little cruise.

Wednesday called for a morning sail to Anegada and a rollicking afternoon party at Cow Wreck Beach, followed by a dinner of grilled lobsters, served under the stars at the Anegada Reef Hotel. Darned if the dancing didn’t start up again too.

I can no longer say that I’ve never been to the Soggy Dollar Bar on Jost Van Dyke. We got a jump on the day and left Anegada quite early to begin our return trek. For a change, Josie and Shannon did the sailing, and Richard and I navigated to the galley to whip up breakfast along the way. In White Bay, Richard nosed Abby Normal past the reef and anchored just yards off the beach. From there, it was a short swim ashore. Though I had a drybag for my camera and wallet, I put a $20 bill in my pocket just so I’d fit in at the bar. Legend has it, that’s how it got its name after all.

A lazy afternoon on the beach provided a chance to catch up with fellow ralliers such as Nicole and Chip Alger from Colorado Springs, who were first-time sailors and there aboard a Moorings 5800. The charter life? They were loving it. And so were Gary and Betty Greene from Seattle. They have a Beneteau 42.3 in charter in the BVI, and first visited the islands 30 years ago. Now on their second boat, there might be a power cat in their future.

While we lazed about, the Halletts moved Abby Normal to nearby Great Harbour, home to the infamous Foxy’s. To get there, Josie and I hitched a ride on the VIP boat—a crewed Moorings 5800, with Tony Rainold, Peter Robinson from Robertson and Caine, and Moorings yacht sales manager Jean Larroux aboard, along with their wives. Jean joined the Moorings early on, and pioneered the concept of owners buying boats and putting them into charter. He and Tony spun some darned-good yarns about their early years in the Caribbean.

On Friday, we were on station and ready for the paddleboard race off the beach in Cane Garden Bay, where one last party was set for that evening. Our time, though, was coming to a close. Rather than stay with the crowd, we motored back around the island for one last swim at Diamond Reef, and then anchored in Trellis Bay for one last dinner and night aboard, close enough to the Moorings base for everyone to make their flights.

Two old saws come to mind when wrapping up this little tale. To be sure, all good adventures must come to an end, and so the 50th-­anniversary rally did just that. But “you can’t go back again”? I’m not so sure. All you have to do is charter a boat. Once you’re sailing, the BVI will take care of the rest.

Mark Pillsbury is CW’s editor.

Eying the Next 50

While the Moorings’ 50th-anniversary festivities naturally focused on what’s been accomplished over the past half-century, attention at the company’s base at Wickhams Cay 2 this past fall was decidedly on the future. Work to upgrade the sprawling facility—also home to the Sunsail charter fleet—had already begun when a pair of back-to-back Category 5 hurricanes leveled much of the BVIs in 2017. Hundreds of boats were sunk or damaged, along with offices, the hotel, bar and restaurant.

But while the storms caused a devastating interruption to ­businesses in the short run, long term, they wiped the slate clean, if you will, and provided an opportunity to fast-track significant upgrades, according to Peter Cochran, vice president of operations and Antony Stewart, technical director for Travelopia Marine, owner of the two charter brands.

In the marina itself, docks are being reconfigured and expanded to accommodate the growing number of large catamarans that are replacing the smaller monohulls that once dominated. Repairs are essentially complete to public areas of the base, and now attention has turned to modernizing and greatly expanding facilities for services such as provisioning and laundry, both key to the base’s ability to see 800 or more charter starts a month.

Across the street from the base, where the charter operations took over the old Tortola Yacht Services yard in 2009, a full-scale commercial shipyard has sprung up, thanks to a hundred or more contractors who were brought in from more than two dozen countries to get the fleets back up and sailing as quickly as possible. At the height of operations, the yard was packed with wrecks, but now that many of those are back in charter, talk has turned to new service docks, paint and work sheds, a renovated carpentry shop, and other service facilities.

Most impressive, I thought as I toured the upgrades, is that all this work is underway while guests arrive by the busloads to relax.

The post Going for Gold in the BVI appeared first on Cruising World.

Last year, I completed my sixth circumnavigation. Not a ­statement you hear every day. I deliberately chose to make this voyage in Gannet, an ultralight Moore 24, because I wanted a new-to-me experience, and it was. I have sailed an even smaller and more radical boat, Chidiock Tichborne, an 18-foot Drascombe Lugger, most of the way around the world, but Gannet is different, and I learned some things along the way that might be of interest and use to others.

The Unexpected

Gannet has only 2 feet of freeboard. I knew she would be wet, but she was even wetter. Until I installed a spray hood over the companionway in Durban, South Africa, water poured below even with the hatches closed. I have written that there is waterproof and there is Gannet-proof, which is exceeded only by that of submarines, one of which she often resembles.

Fortunately, I do not get seasick, but I have never before stepped ashore after a passage and felt the land move. Gannet’s acceleration is so fast and her motion so quick, that even after a short passage, I always felt the land move for several hours—most noticeable when I closed my eyes in the shower.

Biggest Improvements

I made the most significant major improvement after I reached New Zealand, when I removed the traveler bridge from the cockpit, put the traveler on the cockpit sole, and installed a pedestal for the main sheet and backstay control line. Stepping over the bridge was always inconvenient, and at sea sometimes hazardous. Removing it opened up the cockpit and made sailing Gannet easier and safer.

The second major ­improvement was adding the spray hood. I made several unsuccessful attempts to reduce the ingress of water around the companionway, but it was not until a Dutch sailor sent me photos of a simple spray hood he had built for his own boat that I found a design that would work and still be easily and quickly raised and lowered, even from inside the cabin. After it was in place, some water still made its way below, but much less.

The third-biggest ­improvement was made both in New Zealand and in Marathon, Florida, when I ­replaced my sails. I had used the same sailmaker for many years, but he made serious mistakes with my last two orders. He is now retired.

In New Zealand, I replaced the asymmetrical with a North Sails G2. I wanted a sail that I could use beam reaching as well as running. I chose North because they had a loft at Opua, in the Bay of Islands. When the sail arrived, I was impressed by how superior the workmanship was over the old sail, and when I used it, how superior the performance. Cut lower than the old sail, it did not furl evenly with my Facnor gennaker furler, so I replaced that with a ProFurl Spinex top-down furler on which the sail has always furled perfectly.

By the time I reached Marathon, Florida, three years and more than 20,000 miles into the voyage, the mainsail was showing signs of UV degradation, so I decided to replace it and the furling jib. Having had a good experience with the G2, I contacted North and bought from them a new main and jib made with their 3Di process. Again, the workmanship is excellent.

North’s 3Di sails are ­laminated, not sewn, and I have never had anything like them. When I first bent them on, they were like sheet metal. They have since become more pliable. I even got the jib back into a sail bag in Panama. They show no wear after 7,000 miles and seem to be almost indestructible.

A fourth modification was the addition of running backstays. For decades I have often sailed my boats under headsail alone but always on masthead rigs. Gannet is the first fractional rig I have owned, so after reaching Honolulu, I emailed Buzz Ballenger, who made Gannet’s spars, asking his advice, which was to add running backstays to keep the mast from pumping.

I did, and used them during passages whenever I did not have the main set, and sometimes even when it was. Whether this was critical I do not know. But the mast stayed up through many gales and several masthead-in-the-water knockdowns.

What Worked

Most equipment functioned properly. This is about that which functioned especially well.

Sheet-to-tiller steering: I have written about this before in this magazine. It is simple, inexpensive, and steers the boat from a close reach to a broad reach. Sheet-to-tiller steering was used for more than half of the 30,000 miles Gannet covered during the circumnavigation.

Tiller pilots: This will come as a surprise to those who know how many tiller pilots failed during the voyage. I am going to include them in what did not work too.

I had two different makes of tiller pilot on board, a Pelagic and numerous Raymarines, some ST1000s, some ST2000s. I like the design of the Pelagic with the electronics in boxes below deck and the motor mounted in a tube above the housing for the tiller arm. In my experience, tiller pilots fail when water gets into the housing through the opening around the tiller arm, which cannot be totally watertight.

The Pelagic worked in ­gale-force conditions, which killed the Raymarines. However, mine, being a prototype, suffered from gremlins that I expect will have been eliminated from production models. The past two times I tried to use it, it began to operate properly, but within minutes, spontaneously went into standby mode, which rendered it useless.

RELATED: A Slow Journey North

I do not know how many Raymarines failed. I usually had four on board. I once sent three at one time back for repair under warranty. The first gave me false confidence, lasting 4,000 miles from San Diego to most of the way through the passage from Honolulu to Apia, Samoa, when it was swamped in a knockdown (see “Most Dangerous Moments,” p. 49). The last withstood almost all the way from Balboa, Panama, to San Diego before it quit one night. After reaching San Diego, it resumed functioning. If they can be kept reasonably dry, Raymarines do a good job, particularly in air too light for sheet-to-tiller steering.

I did not put a self-­steering vane on Gannet because the cost of reinforcing the transom and the vane would have been as much as I paid for the boat. I thought I could buy a lot of tiller pilots for that amount, and I did. I also knew that I could use sheet-to-tiller steering.

I do not regret the decision not to have a vane.

Solbian solar panels: I had six 25-watt panels of a different brand, all of which failed (see below). Tired of replacing them, in Australia I bought two Solbian panels. They are slightly larger than the 25-watt panels but are rated at 50 watts. When the remaining Aurinco panels failed, I replaced them with two more 50-watt Solbian panels. They have functioned properly, and none has yet failed. Each panel is wired to its own voltage booster/regulator, thanks to excellent advice I received from Tom Whitehead at Ocean Planet Energy.

Yellowbrick tracker: I bought the Yellowbrick tracker so that my wife, Carol, could follow my passages. Others seemed to like to do so too, and I have found that after passages, I enjoy viewing Gannet’s track. Although the devices are waterproof, again Gannet is wetter than waterproof, and after water got into the charging port when the unit was mounted on the stern pulpit—a problem fixed free of charge by Yellowbrick although my unit was no longer under warranty—I mounted it in the cabin near the companionway where it has a view of the sky. It has since been totally reliable. I have only to set it to transmit our position at the interval I choose, and turn it on at the beginning of a passage and off at the end.

Yellowbrick’s support is outstanding. In addition to the charging-port repair, I had occasion to email them questions two or three times. In each instance, I received a useful reply in hours.

iPhone and iNavX: This combo was my primary chart plotter, and completely satisfactory. In South Africa, a sailor introduced me to iSailor, which I also installed. It too does everything I need, but the charts for Gannet’s circumnavigation would have cost hundreds of dollars more from iSailor than iNavX. I also had the apps and charts on an iPad, and C-Map 93 charts in my MacBook, but I primarily used the iPhone. I made my first two circumnavigations navigating with a sextant, and I have one on Gannet, just in case.

Velocitek ProStart: The mast-mounted ProStart was my on-deck source of speed-over-ground and course-over-ground. In the Great Cabin, I read its data on my iPhone. I found it accurate and readable from anywhere in the cockpit.

Jetboil flash stove: I do not cook beyond heating water. The Jetboil does this quickly. Mine is not gimbled. I set it on the cabin sole and hold it with one hand for the minute it takes to boil 2 cups of water. I bought a case of 24 gas canisters before I left San Diego; I still have six left.

Pelican cases: Everything on Gannet is subject to getting wet, and if it can be damaged by water, must be stored in at least theoretically waterproof containers. Pelican cases have successfully protected my MacBook, iPad Pro and some camera gear. Cases made by Plano have also been effective.

Torqeedo outboard: Gannet does not need to power far or fast, and the electric Torqeedo meets our needs without the hazard and smell of gasoline and oil.

Usually I wait to mount the Torqeedo until I reach smooth water inside a harbor. However, the morning I expected to reach Durban, South Africa, the ocean went flat for an hour, and I took advantage of the calm to mount the Torqeedo. After doing so, I tilted it out of the water, which necessitates removing what Torqeedo calls the tiller arm. Doing so exposes the connectors on the battery to the tiller arm and the drive shaft. The calm soon turned into a 55-knot gale that caused us to lie ahull for 36 hours, during which those connectors were repeatedly inundated. Not surprisingly, they subsequently failed. I bought a new Torqeedo, and it has always functioned properly.

UE Boom 2 Bluetooth speakers: These are waterproof and nearly indestructible, with good stereo sound via their app.

GoPro Hero 5 Black: This is the first GoPro I have liked. Linear mode gets rid of the distorted wide-angle curves, and the touchscreen makes going through menus painless. At the request of others, I began to shoot video halfway through the circumnavigation. I wish I had started from the beginning.

I also shot with my iPhone and a Nikon AW1. On the last full day of the voyage, I started to shoot a video with the Nikon. After a few minutes the battery died, so I shot the rest on the GoPro. Comparing the footage from both cameras afterward, the GoPro’s is dramatically superior.

What Didn’t Work

Aurinco solar panels: I had six 25-watt deck-mounted Aurinco solar panels. All failed. I replaced several. All replacements failed. Aurinco is no longer in business.

Tiller pilots: See above.

Raymarine wireless wind system: In part, this was due to the masthead going in the water three times, for which no instruments are designed. But replacement units also failed without being dunked.

Invaluable Kit

Three things I am glad I had and glad I didn’t use: a Jordan drogue, emergency rudder and a Stohlquist drysuit. Each of these cost about $1,000. Had I needed them at sea, the money would not have done me any good in my checking account.

The Best Passage

The best passage was the first, from San Diego to Hilo, Hawaii. This is to be expected. Once Gannet broke free of the coastal weather, it was trade winds the rest of the way, and she had her only 1,000-mile week.

The Worst Passage

The worst passage unquestionably was the last, from Balboa, Panama, to San Diego, which saw five of the six slowest weeks of the entire circumnavigation (see “The End of Being,” January 2020).

My Biggest Mistake

Despite the fine sailing on that first passage, my biggest mistake was sailing to Hawaii instead of the Marquesas Islands because it changed the wind angle for thousands of miles afterward, causing us to have the wind forward of the beam, when from the Marquesas on across the Pacific, it would have been aft.

The Most Dangerous Moments

The most dangerous ­moments occurred during the voyage’s first year. At just after noon, 350 miles north of Apia, Samoa, I was standing in the companionway when I saw two 10-foot waves coming at us, high above the average 4-foot waves. They were steep and close together. As the first one hit, I ducked below, sliding the companionway over me. However, the vertical slat was not in place and not reachable. The second wave exploded into and over us, knocking down Gannet, masthead almost in the water.

With Gannet heeled 90 degrees, I braced myself from falling and stared down at the ocean. Gannet’s lee rail was below water, the ocean only a few inches from entering the cockpit. The wave was gushing in and pressing us down. It was a matter of whether the ocean would reach the cockpit before Gannet came back up. Time slowed almost to a stop. Probably a few seconds passed. Gannet came back up.

The other most dangerous moments came during the gale the morning we reached New Zealand. Winds were measured at 55 knots ashore, and 10- to 12-foot waves slammed into our beam. I was hand-steering with only a scrap of furling jib set. Often the waves knocked me from where I was sitting on the starboard side of the cockpit to my feet where I was looking down at the ocean. I could not leave the tiller to go below for my safety harness, so I tied a sail tie around my right wrist and the other end to the toe rail. As long as my arm remained attached to my body, I would remain attached to Gannet.

In the 55-knot gale against the Agulhas Current off Durban, with waves reported at 20 feet, I did not feel in danger. Lying ahull, Gannet is a cork. I was wet and tired after a 6,000-mile passage and wanted the gale to end, but it was only a matter of waiting it out.

The Best Moments

The best moments were countless. Feeling the little boat catch a wave or a puff of wind and instantly accelerate from 6 knots to 10 or 12. Standing in the ­companionway listening to music and sipping a drink as she sped smoothly into the sunset. The clear night sky. The beautiful days. The purity of solitude. And the last morning, when at first light I looked across at San Diego’s Point Loma, 200 yards away, and felt the quiet satisfaction of having persevered and endured and completed the course.

Webb Chiles is a writer and sailor who has completed six ­circumnavigations in a variety of boats. You can read more about his adventures and stories at his website, inthepresentsea.com.

The post Lessons from the Sixth Circumnavigation appeared first on Cruising World.

You know that sickly feeling you get when you leave your home in the morning, come back in the afternoon, and it’s gone? No? You don’t?

Well, I do.

It was a hot, calm morning on the western edge of the Yucatan Channel. The moderate easterly breeze that had carried us here from Cabo San Antonio, Cuba, had faded, and now the flat sea and hotel-filled skyline of the Riviera Maya baked under the bright blue sky. I was on deck hiding in whatever shade I could find as Desiree, my fiancee (now wife), spent her off watch asleep below. The tightly sheeted mainsail gently slatted back and forth as Atticus, our 1963 Allied Seawind 30, motored through the glassy water. Fishermen waved as they sped past in their heavy wooden pangas bound for Isla Mujeres, our destination and port of entry into Mexico.

Our adventure began two months earlier when we sailed from Florida to Cuba with only $2,000 and the goal of working while we cruised. We both had plenty of experience working on boats, but we were still intimidated by the gigantic leap of doing freelance boatwork for other cruisers in foreign countries. How much would people be willing to pay us in a developing nation? How would we source materials? Would people even hire us? As we dropped the hook upon arriving to Isla Mujeres, these questions led us to seriously wonder if our goal was achievable. I could already feel my nightly bout of anxiety beginning to build in my chest.

That night, the humid stillness of the day was blasted away by a cold front with sustained 25-knot winds that howled through the anchorage from the northwest, its only exposed quarter. As newbie cruisers, it was our first experience being anchored out in a blow with the Q flag still up, and I was under the impression that it was illegal to delay checking into a country once we had arrived. The next morning, we figured the best course of action was to go ashore first thing, officially check in, and get back to the boat as quickly as possible. We duly headed in and, after a four-hour bureaucratic runaround, we were casually informed that there was some trouble out in the anchorage and that we should go check on our boat. So while Desiree finished the check-in process, I walked back to the dinghy dock telling myself over and over that I had nothing to worry about.

Conditions in the harbor had gotten sportier, and I had to be careful in our 8-foot RIB to time my approach up and over each wave. As I slowly made my way downwind through the anchorage, I struggled to climb the crests one at a time and then plow down into the trough. Motoring past the last boat in the group, I laughed at myself for somehow slipping right past Atticus. I turned around and started back the other way, my palms beginning to sweat as I pounded into the chop. Motoring into the wind, my clothes soon became soaked, the salt water stinging my eyes as I searched. By the time I made it to the other side of the anchorage, my pulse began to quicken. I stood up in our dinghy, balancing against the chop, desperately looking side to side, scanning the relatively small anchorage.

That’s when I felt the floor pull out from under me. Our home—and all our possessions, the sum total of our meager life savings and the culmination of three years of hard work—was nowhere to be seen. Then I heard a loud whistle from the boat next to me. A man popped his head out from under his cockpit enclosure.

“Looking for your boat?” he hollered.

“Yes!” I yelled back over the wind, trying to hide my desperation.

“It’s at El Milagro,” he said. “Over there.” He pointed to a nearby marina. “It’s tied up just beyond that sailboat on the left.”

To my horror, there was Atticus, listing 20 degrees and pounding broadside into a shallow sandy area just off the marina, a spiderweb of lines keeping her from being pushed farther onto the beach. As I approached, I could hear a heart-stopping creaking sound coming from those lines with each passing wave. My first glimpse of damage was a stanchion that had been severely bent like a piece of steamed oak. I was in too much shock to properly analyze the situation, and I assumed that the damage was prolific. My fears were confirmed when I saw the stern rail, a corner of which had been crushed into a V shape.

On the verge of panic, I noticed that a crowd had assembled on the dock. Atticus seemed to be staying put, so I dinghied over to ask for advice and/or assistance. Embarrassed and in shock, I climbed onto the dock, pointed to Atticus and declared, “I’m that guy.” The crowd directed me to Eric, the owner of the marina. I walked over to him fully expecting to be barraged with anger, insults and perhaps a lawsuit. I began to apologize profusely, but after a minute of blabbering, he interrupted.

“OK, man, just calm down,” he said. “Don’t worry, the damage to the other boats is minimal—literally one scratch in some gelcoat, that’s it.”

Minimal damage…one scratch… I was slow to match his words to their meaning.

“Your boat, although not ideally moored, isn’t going anywhere. Stay here for the night until the winds die down. You’re welcome to use the showers.”

Showers?

“Also, we’re having a barbecue tonight. Normally it costs $15, but the food is on me. Now have a beer and relax.”

Barbecue?!

Only a couple of weeks earlier, we’d awoken to our first morning in Havana’s Marina Hemingway. We ate a quick breakfast and stepped out into the crisp tropical winter air to hail a shared taxi, locally known as a maquina. We didn’t know how to identify one, so we asked a passerby which cars to flag down, and he pointed at an old, beat-up, darkly painted Ford sedan from the early ’50s, and said any car that looks like that is a maquina. We raised our hand and the jalopy pulled over. We both crammed into the front seat with the driver and were whisked away toward Old Havana.

We spent the day rambling around the narrow streets and crumbling colonial buildings, taking in the vibrant colors, strong odors, and overall vivaciousness of a city that was literally falling apart. We approached one old colonial building with 10-foot-tall wooden doors, above which stood half a balcony, slanted at a precarious angle with red stains running down from the rusting rebar; the other half of the balcony was at our feet in a pile of rubble. We assumed the building was condemned, but inside we found a functioning nail salon with a young girl sitting with her hands laid out on a table, gossiping with the nail technician who turned toward us and asked, “En que puedo servirle?” What can I do for you?

As the afternoon wore on, we took a ferry across Havana harbor, and with the sun dropping low in the sky, I urged Desiree to hurry up toward the Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabaña, which was still another mile up the hill. As we passed a large statue of Jesus, Desiree asked if we could stop to check it out.

“No, it’s getting late,” I said picking up the pace.

“What’s the rush?” Desiree asked, her face damp with sweat.

“Just want to make it for sunset,” I replied. “That’s all.”

We rushed through the fort’s large gate, speed-walking past the gift shop and lookout posts, the stone walls passing by in a blur. “Where are we going?” Desiree asked, out of breath.

We made it to the western wall that overlooks the city, with a picturesque view of the sunset.

“Let’s get a photo,” I said.

Desiree stood in front of one of the fort’s large old cannons, with the city behind her and the sun about to touch the horizon. I set the camera down on another aged gun, framed the shot, and hit the red video record button. Then I awkwardly skipped over next to her, got down on one knee and, ring in hand, asked her to marry me. I think we both knew that I was asking her for something more: to commit to a life of insecurity and perhaps even financial instability, but also adventure. I was really asking her to commit to a life at sea. As the last rays of the Havana sun turned the scene a soft orange, she said yes.

Soon after, we set sail from Havana to cruise the northwest coast of Cuba. Although we had done a fair bit of sailing aboard Atticus back in Florida, the next couple of weeks was our very first experience cruising a foreign coast, with the constant fear of bad weather and poor anchorages, with reef passes and rounding headlands, with living on the move in unfamiliar waters. Those weeks rank among the most stressful I have ever experienced…and possibly the most thrilling of my life.

One night, after running aground for the first time while making our way into a very protected mangrove lagoon, Desiree and I turned off the lights in the boat, and sat in the cockpit in complete and utter darkness. There was no moon that night, and the stars were covered by an overcast sky with zero light pollution in such a remote part of the coast. The air was so still and the night so silent that I felt as though the universe had melted away, and all that was left was the sound of Desiree’s voice and the feeling of her hand in mine.

The next day we continued west and spent several days anchored at Cayo Levisa, where our daily routine consisted of breakfast, equipping the dinghy for a long day of exploration, snorkeling, spearfishing, cleaning the fish, rinsing the gear, cooking dinner and going to bed exhausted. One morning we awoke before dawn and, in the twilight, motored our dinghy to shore for a sunrise beach walk. With the dark sky giving way to dim hues of red and yellow, we walked through sand, damp underfoot with the evening’s dew.

Desiree wrote the word “Atticus” in the sand which, along with our footprints, were the only imperfections on the untouched beach. As the sky lightened and the sun broke the horizon, we walked on, and Desiree gave me a detailed description of the plot of Dirty Dancing, which she could not believe I hadn’t seen. About 30 minutes into her story, I stopped to watch a dozen hermit crabs busying themselves along the shoreline as little wavelets broke upon the calm shore.

“And that’s when Patrick Swayze walks over to her parents and says,” she yelled, pointing an accusing finger, “‘Nobody puts Baby in a corner!’”

I had never been happier.

When I finally got a chance to survey the damage sustained by Atticus after our dragging incident, I was astonished to find that the bent stanchion and stern rail were the only casualties. I was thrilled that the damage was so minimal but doubted that we could afford even these minor repairs. A few days later we went to speak with Johne, a welder and fellow cruiser, to get a quote from him. As we walked down the dock, I wondered if we should just return to the United States and give up this stupid notion that we could make money while we cruised. We found Johne sitting with his wife, Aeon, on the aft deck of their 61-foot trawler, Second Star.

“Been there, done that,” Johne said.

“You dragged anchor here?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. We went ashore one day about seven years ago and came back to find the boat tied up to a marina,” he said. “It’s a mistake that many cruisers make early in their career, not prioritizing staying with the boat in a blow. People just don’t realize how terrible the holding is here until they experience it for themselves.”

“So, welcome to the club,” Aeon said.

Desiree laughed and said: “Thanks! Now I don’t feel like such a loser.”

“Oh, you’re still a loser! But at least you know there are a lot of other really cool people in that really cool loser’s club with you,” Aeon said, smiling.

“Sometimes you watch the show,” Johne said, “and sometimes you are the show.”

Eventually the subject came up of our work experience, specifically all of the fiberglass projects I’d done refitting Atticus over the years. It also came up that we were running low on cash and were hoping to find work.

“Well, that’s what we’ve done. For the past seven years, we’ve been cruising the Caribbean and working along the way,” he said. “And I can tell you there’s more work out there than you can shake a stick at.”

“I sure hope so,” I said. The ­desperation in my voice was palpable. Johne looked at me silently for a moment, obviously thinking.

“Listen, I’ve got a job building a new rudder for a guy who hit a reef in Cuba,” Johne said. “I’m not a fan of grinding fiberglass, so if you want to help with the glassing, I’d be happy to give you the work. Can you start tomorrow at 0800?”

“Yes!”

“He’s a perfectionist, so he’s a huge pain in the ass to work with,” Aeon said. “You sure you want the job?”

“That won’t be a problem,” I said, smiling.

It took us three weeks to complete the rudder, with Johne handling the welding, me doing most of the glassing, and both of us shaping the foam. We worked well together and became fast friends. Through that summer, Johne and I built a total of four rudders for cruisers who had found the bottom in various parts of the western Caribbean, and we began to refer to our unofficial business as “The Utter Rudder.”

Meanwhile, Desiree was getting more boat canvas work than she and her little Sailrite Ultrafeed LSZ-1 sewing machine could handle. So we moved Atticus to the same dock as Second Star, and Desiree struck a deal with the marina owner to use a vacant room in the hotel as her sail loft, as well as to waive our slip fee in exchange for labor.

While working together, I discovered that the secret to Johne’s professional success was his merciless work ethic. One of his favorite sayings was, “If you don’t stop moving, you won’t get stuck.” In my limited experience, I had still seen a lot of potential cruisers get “stuck” and, after seeing so many people give up their cruising dreams, I began to question if cruising long-term was even possible for someone of modest means.

But Johne showed me another way. His experience sailing the Caribbean was quite different from most cruisers. While others were at the bar, he was at the boatyard. While others were touring ancient ruins, he was scouring tiendas and sourcing parts. But through his hard work and sacrifice, he was doing more than just making money; he was building and maintaining a cruising lifestyle, one that he could enjoy for the rest of his life. Johne taught me many things, but most important, he taught me how, through focus and sacrifice, not to get stuck.

That fall, we took on a massive project, building a 7-foot swim-platform extension for a 58-foot Bertram. One morning at 0750, as our crew trickled into the boatyard for another day’s work, Johne and I leaned against a work bench sipping our coffee. The sun had not quite risen above the trees and the air was not quite hot yet as we gazed at the red and pink fairing-covered extension, dreading the moment when we would both don our gloves and dust masks, grab our long sanding boards, and begin sanding the large extension by hand under the tropical sun.

“Having any fun yet?” Johne asked with a smirk, for possibly the 500th time.

I turned from Johne and stared at the arduous task that lay before us. I began to think of all the years I had dreamed of cruising, all those countless hours I spent reading the Pardeys, Hiscocks, Beth Leonard, Hal Roth and so many others. All those nights sleeping in the V-berth, on the hard, dreaming of the cruising lifestyle, and the weeks that we spent blissfully exploring in Cuba. Through it all, I had been haunted by a single question: How was I, a young man who had thrown away everything to live and work on boats, ever going to afford to cruise?

I put down my coffee, and grabbed my gloves and dust mask.

“I sure am,” I answered.

After working in Isla Mujeres for over a year, Jordan and Desiree Wicht saved enough cash to sail south to explore the western Caribbean. To watch the video of Jordan proposing to Desiree (S02E06) or to see Atticus dragging anchor (S02E11), check out their YouTube channel, Sailing Project Atticus.

The post Dragging to Freedom appeared first on Cruising World.

My first introduction to the cruising lifestyle came many years ago during a break from college. Three buddies and I flew to the Abacos, Bahamas, for a grand adventure: We’d chartered a 32-foot sloop for a one-week learn-to-sail trip. Since our previous experience ­included only a bit of dinghy sailing, it would be quite an escapade. After two days of training with a skipper/instructor on board, we returned to Marsh Harbor, where our teacher promptly jumped ­onto the dock, waved goodbye, and announced, “You’re ready!” We all looked at each other, wondering who he was talking to. Ready or not, off we sailed for Hope Town. We did manage to arrive at our ­anchorage unscathed, and were immediately invited to a potluck dinner ashore that evening. Not having a lot of supplies aboard, we decided on an easy sweet: ­citrus bars, which were always popular at home potlucks. Limes are plentiful and delicious in the Caribbean, so we opted for those, though this recipe can also be made using lemons, oranges or even grapefruit.

Potluck Lime Bars Recipe

For the crust:

• 2 cups flour
• 3/4 cup powdered sugar
• 1/2 tsp. salt
• 1 cup unsalted butter, chilled

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Combine dry ingredients in a bowl. Cut butter into small pieces and gradually add to dry mix, blending well with a pastry cutter or food processor. Alternatively, use your hands and knead together as if you were making bread. Once ingredients form a crumbly dough, form into a ball or balls, cover with plastic wrap and chill for 15 to 30 minutes. (Dough will be a bit crumbly.) When dough is slightly chilled, press evenly into a well-greased 9-by-13-inch shallow baking pan. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, or until crust is very lightly browned.

For the filling:

• 6 eggs
• 3/4 cup (12 Tbsp.) lime juice (about 6 limes if using fresh)
• 2/3 cup flour
• 2 1/2 cups sugar
• 1/2 tsp. salt
• 3 Tbsp. lime zest (optional)
• Powdered sugar, to taste
• Additional lime zest, for ­garnish (optional)

Lightly whisk eggs in a small bowl and set aside. In a ­medium-size bowl, combine lime juice, flour, sugar, salt and 3 tablespoons lime zest, if using. Add eggs and blend until smooth. Spread evenly over baked crust. Return to oven and bake until filling is set but not browned, 15 to 25 minutes (ovens vary; check periodically). Remove from oven; chill or cool for at least 2 hours. Before serving, dust with powdered sugar, cut into bars, and garnish with a bit of lime zest. Yields: about 20 2 1/2- by-2 1/2-inch bars.

Preparation: At anchor

Time: 2 hours chill time

Difficulty: Easy

Cook’s Notes: If you have baking paper, line your greased pan before adding dough, letting edges overlap pan. The grease will help the paper adhere well to the pan; paper makes it easy to remove the finished lime bars.

The post People and Food: Potluck Lime Bars appeared first on Cruising World.

Voyaging

Two years ago, I was on a voyage to the fiords of southern New Zealand as crew aboard Sahula, a 40-foot Van de Stadt cutter owned by an Australian singlehander, David Haigh. He had been voyaging for 10 years and was just a few thousand miles from completing a circumnavigation that had started in Townsville, Australia. During that time, Haigh sailed with various crew he picked up along the way who were on board for up to three months at a time. Despite sailing solo for long stretches, Haigh never crossed an ocean alone.

Coincidentally, a few months later, while we were waiting for a break in the weather at Doubtful Sound, Fiordland, I met Ralph Robe-Curry, another Australian with extensive cruising experience. Robe-Curry had five “pickup” crew with him on Bomoh, his S&S-designed 52-foot sloop. I found Haigh’s and Robe-Curry’s experiences interesting. Each had different ways of selecting their crew, and handling the finances and voyage details. But each agreed that being a single sailor should not be used as an excuse to put off cruising. And their lessons apply to anyone—couples or even families—looking to add a hand or two for transoceanic trips.

Only one obstacle lay in the way when, at 60 years of age, Haigh retired from his job as a senior law lecturer in Queensland with the dream of setting sail. That obstacle was his three daughters, who worried about him setting off completely on his own. “It’s the primary reason I made sure I had crew on board for passages,” he told me. For the first year of his cruise, along the coast of Australia and ­onward toward Indonesia, Haigh had a full roster of friends and family members who were interested in joining him for a few weeks at a time. Airfares to and from their homes were quite affordable, and distances and the time required to travel to and from the boat were relatively short.

But as he ventured farther afield, fewer of his friends could take the time to join him unless it was for two or three weeks to a destination they were eager to explore. Furthermore, Haigh was ­reluctant to plan an exact itinerary, preferring to be open to spur-of-the-moment ­destination changes, not something that works well for friends back home. Plus, people with jobs needed to have exact dates and destinations well in advance to book flights and organize vacation time. And few had the flexibility of the time frames needed to cross oceans. So, he found it necessary to get what I call pickup crew.

“It was easy,” Haigh said. “I asked my daughters to canvas their Facebook friends, and if that didn’t turn up someone, I just posted a note at the local backpacker’s hostel. I enjoyed and preferred having young, eager people with no sailing experience. That way I could teach them to do things the way I prefer. I promised them they would have enough knowledge by the time we crossed an ocean to sail their own boat or be really good crew for someone else.”

On board Sahula, Haigh took on only one crew per voyage, who was expected to pay for half the food expenses, plus half of marina and fuel costs. Shopping was done jointly so the crew could add any special treats they wanted to have on board. “I wasn’t taking crew along to finance my voyage, just to stand watches and be company. But I must admit, by splitting some of the expenses, my trip up the Danube River from the Black Sea and on through the canals of Eastern Europe was financially easier than it would have been if I had paid for it all on my own.”

As for the actual ­accounting, Haigh asked the crew to keep track of their expenses but never asked to see the figures. “I wanted them to feel I trusted them. They told me they were amazed I was so easygoing,” he said. “But it worked out well because they seemed to go out of their way to be evenhanded.”

Crew were given the ­complete forepeak with its large V-berth. There are doors to shut off this area from the rest of the accommodations. Spare foul-weather gear and PFDs were available on board. Crew were expected to share cooking and galley cleaning. Other than standing watches, they were not required to pitch in with boat work, but most willingly did. No alcohol was served at sea other than for a very special occasion such as crossing the equator. In port, the cost of an occasional bottle of wine was shared. Smokers were not invited.

It was made clear to new crewmembers that they were expected to share any grievances at 1800 as they joined in evening sundowners. “By setting a definite time for discussions, it seemed to remove any tension,” Haigh said. “I also let them know that if we got on well, they were welcome to stay on for a few weeks of island hopping or coastal exploring after we’d completed the ocean passage, as sort of a reward. But as much as I also enjoyed this time, I was always pleased to have the boat back to myself when they left.”

During the course of Haigh’s voyage, over 20 different pickup crew joined Sahula, some of them staying on board for up to three months at a time, and others returning for another passage. Concerned about potential problems, Haigh avoided inviting single women to crew, with one exception: a long-term friend of his daughter named Charlie Priestly, who sailed aboard Sahula from Tonga to New Zealand, and later around New Zealand, where I met her. A professional diver and keen outdoorsperson, she added a lot of zest to Haigh’s voyaging.

Robe-Curry, the owner of Bomoh, works and resides in southern Australia, and doesn’t cruise full time but instead heads off to specific destinations for up to a year. Thus, he has a more organized approach than Haigh, regarding both his cruising plans and finding crew. A highly gregarious man, Robe-Curry said: “I’d done thousands of miles sailing on my own. I began to feel that singlehanding presents a lot of unnecessary risks for both me and my yacht. I also came to the conclusion that being a self-reliant sailor is a desirable trait, but it is not lessened by sailing with crew.”

Robe-Curry had fallen in love with a boat that he knew stretched his budget, and one not set up for singlehanding. He discovered that having crew on board not only made exploring faraway places safer and more enjoyable, but it also helped contribute toward the expense of long-distance ­cruising. He set a general itinerary several months in advance, then invited five people to join him and pay a set, daily sum to cover all onboard expenses, including food, marina and fuel costs. Robe-Curry found that this covered his general cruising costs but left little extra for boat maintenance. His itinerary had to be relatively rigid, including departure dates for each leg of a voyage, so people could come along for just parts of it if they wished. He allowed for delays such as weather or unexpected boat repairs by adding time in various ports where crew could make relatively easy connections for arrival or onward travel.

Crew were recruited with relative ease through online sites, including crewbay.com and findacrew.net. Robe-Curry also told me: “I placed notices at hostels, bus stops, on telephone poles, anywhere. Sometimes I had instant results. Once, after I’d done a lap of Ushuaia, Patagonia, dispersing a wad of ‘Crew Wanted’ notices, I returned to Bomoh to be greeted by a small crowd of potential crew!”

Robe-Curry also said that sailing experience is not necessary, but he does not specifically look for novices. He also tries to vet crew who might have to fly in from overseas as to their overall suitability, especially for ocean passages. When the crew are novices, he uses a two-person watch to ease people safely into tasks with less stress. This came about after one crewman wanted to leave the boat earlier than planned. “When I asked why,” Robe-Curry said, “he said he was terrified of being alone at night at sea.”

The daily sum Robe-Curry charged each crew for the voyage around New Zealand, including exploring Fiordland and the Marlborough sounds, was roughly $20 a day. As this was a daily fee, there was no need for anyone to handle the accounting. It also let the crew budget for their travels in advance. “Expenses ran a bit high on this trip,” he said. “Extra time in marinas, higher- than-normal fuel costs. So I ended up probably a thousand dollars out of pocket. But I got to see another place I wouldn’t have explored without crew.”

Bomoh has three separate cabins, plus bunks in the main saloon. Robe-Curry uses one cabin as his private domain. When we were sharing anchorages with them, there were two women and three men on board. This might have presented a slight problem because the best bunks were doubles. But fortunately for this crew, two of them struck up an almost immediate romance, and after only three weeks sailing together, were planning to continue traveling onward once the voyage was over. Otherwise, Robe-Curry said, “the first one on board gets first choice.” He said folks rarely had issues with this, but having a couple on board did make it a bit easier because they could share the other double cabin more willingly.

Meals on board were tasty and simple but ample. Robe-Curry also had the crew come along to shop for provisions: “That way, if someone really wants to eat steak, they can add that to the basket. It also gives me an idea of what people expect to eat or what special needs they might have. It ensures everyone is happy with the menu.” Crew on Bomoh take turns in the galley.

Haigh and Robe-Curry are good illustrations of two different approaches to finding crew. Over my past 50 years of voyaging, I have seen both of these methods at work. I have also noted one potential hiccup for those who choose to use a financial contribution scheme like Robe-Curry’s. Because the crew hands over a set amount of cash when they come on board, a few have expectations more like a paying client; they might complain if the food served is less fancy than expected, or not want to pitch in with work on board as readily. When expenses are tallied up along the way and then split, as Haigh does, this dynamic changes completely.

Robe-Curry admitted that this had been an occasional problem aboard Bomoh. He tried to alleviate it by having the crew pay when it suited them, usually at the end of each leg, in hopes of promoting trust and goodwill. He said: “I have had two or three people who thought of themselves as passengers, sitting and doing nothing while the rest of us got underway, or ­refusing to pitch in when meals were being prepared. And a few did walk away ­without paying.”

For this reason, Robe-Curry suggested that anyone deciding to use pickup crew also be prepared to handle their boat completely on their own, just in case. But his overall success rate was extremely admirable; he has had only a handful of disappointments among the more than 100 crew who have joined him for voyages around Tasmania, through the southern islands of Polynesia, and across the South Pacific to the Patagonian Canals, among other destinations.

The two skippers I came to know in Fiordland had quite different personalities: Robe-Curry being very open, Haigh more reticent. But they had certain traits that made their pickup crew experiences work well. Both really enjoy being with people at sea and ashore. Both have a willingness to share their space with strangers and to accept that someone’s annoying habits might show up only once they have been on board for a day or two.

When I asked both of them to review this manuscript, they each suggested I include two final items: taking on couples as crew can be problematic, and having a woman on board changes the whole dynamic of a cruise…for the better. “Since I’m married, for diplomatic reasons, I took only men as crew on board Bomoh for the first few voyages,” Robe-Curry said. “Then a female friend asked to join in. I was amazed to see how the rest of the crew reacted. The boat was tidier, the whole male-macho thing calmed down. Language was more subdued. But best of all, other cruisers who were mostly couples or families started including us in their social life.” Haigh confirmed this latter aspect of cruising life: “The minute Charlie was aboard, I began getting more invitations from cruising ­families I met along the way.”

As for couples, Robe-Curry told me there was only one time when he was happy to see someone leave the boat. Two crew who flew in for the Fiordland trip first met when they came on board. They bonded instantly, fell in love, asked to share the double cabin, and then seemed to disengage from everyone else on board. This last comment reminded me of the one rule my husband, Larry, and I had when we were choosing crew for deliveries of big boats, over 45 feet. We never took couples on board either. As Robe-Curry discovered, they can become a divisive factor. Plus, if one decided they weren’t happy and wanted to abandon ship, we actually lost two crew at the same time. The one time this happened to us was the day before setting off across the Atlantic, exactly when we most needed a full complement of pickup crew.

Lin Pardey is a two-time circumnavigator and co-author, with husband Larry, of a dozen sailing books, including the recently published third edition of Self Sufficient Sailor. She’s currently in Tasmania, continuing her adventures aboard Sahula.

The post Finding Crew for Offshore Passages appeared first on Cruising World.

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

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

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

“Excuse me?” I muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Try it, you’ll like it!

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

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

Perched on Yahtzee’s high side with my back resting against the ­lifelines, I watched the early morning sunlight spread across the Gulf of Alaska to the south and the verdant mountains of the Kenai Peninsula to the north. Sailing closehauled for Kodiak Island in a fresh breeze and steep chop, green water washed over the foredeck and under our overturned dinghy while my wife, Jill, and I soaked in the scene.

Then, in what seemed like an instant, my face fell from a happy “We’re sailing!” smile to a sudden “Oh, no!” bug-eyed panic. We’ve all had this ­feeling before.

Rushing down below, I pushed quickly through the galley and saloon to the V-berth, where my fear was quickly confirmed: A lot of that water I’d been watching pour over the foredeck was now spraying like a saltwater hose into the boat. I quickly dogged the partially open hatch, surveyed the watery scene and rushed back to the cockpit, spewing choice words all the way. Though the rest of that 80-mile sail was picture-perfect and the forward cabin was no worse for the wear, I couldn’t quite shake my failure to ensure that hatch was closed.

I was disappointed in myself, because securing all ports and hatches is one of the last boxes I tick when making my rounds before heading offshore or even out for a daysail. Why I had forgotten to complete this small yet important task bothered me, and I later realized that, in this particular instance, I was still working into my groove of being underway again. Actually, our whole family was adjusting.

After a nearly two-year hiatus to top up the kitty in Seward, Alaska, and work on our beloved 1984 Grand Soleil 39, our family of four had set off a mere 10 days prior to return to the cruising life. In ­many ways, we were all finding our footing, clearing out the cobwebs of life under sail. And it certainly wasn’t just the instance of forgetting to close a hatch.

Days earlier, we’d made an error that rarely would have happened before and hasn’t happened since. In the excitement of being out exploring new places, we switched anchorages before adverse weather moved in. When it did, we began swinging uncomfortably close to a lee shore and decided to move to a more suitable spot. Ultimately, we would have been fine, but it was stressful because we’d known the weather was coming, and we weren’t on a schedule and didn’t have anywhere to be. We’d essentially gotten caught up in the moment.

Even seemingly routine things that we’d taken for granted before stopping in Alaska were being relearned and adjusted to. No longer being weekend warriors with the crutch of a nearby marina, life aboard with no shore power, abundant fresh water or a nearby fuel dock meant getting used to managing our onboard resources carefully once again.

Don’t let the faucet run too long! How many gallons of diesel do we burn per hour? Can we turn off the fridge tonight to save power?

Even the task of properly organizing the boat down below for life underway took some adjustment and revisions. Fortunately, these instances amounted to nothing more than minor annoyances, and we know it is all part of life underway on a cruising sailboat. We roll with it and learn as we go.

Personally, as an experienced sailor and cruiser, I took some of these mistakes hard because they were missteps that I pride myself in not making. In that vein, you can consider me humbled by the sea. The ocean doesn’t care about our sailor pride or ego. The best we can do is swallow it, learn from our errors and oversights, and move forward in a positive direction. Now, several months and thousands of miles later, I look back at those first two weeks of cruising with a smile. Those moments of frustration have passed far astern now, like so many miles under our keel.

The post A Return to Cruising in Alaska appeared first on Cruising World.

A freshening breeze, ­building from near calm to the midteens, brought perfect conditions for a morning sail on the new Beneteau First Yacht 53. With sails up, our speed over the ground effortlessly matched that of the light breeze, and when things got puffy out on Chesapeake Bay a bit later, well, we went soaring.

Standing atop an angled fold-up helmsmen perch at the starboard wheel, with the lee rail close to buried and the windward rudder completely out of the water, I had the otherworldly feeling of flying across the water, and it was absolutely a thrill. Think high-end sports car winding through the gears on a twisting mountain road, and, well, you get the idea: Power on and knuckles white, but it was a ride you’d not want to miss.

Beneteau introduced the First range in 1977, with racing sailors in mind. Most recently, the French builder refreshed the line with several smaller, sporty models it acquired when it bought Seascape Yachts. The 53, though, is a whole new concept entirely. Luxury ­performance is how it’s put in the marketing material, and, in all honesty, that’s a pretty apt description.

Walking the docks at the US Sailboat Show in Annapolis, Maryland, this past fall, the First 53’s plumb bow, slight reverse sheer, dark metallic hull, and broad deck and coach roof all covered in teak made it instantly stand out from the sea of white production cruisers. Even tied up, the boat looked ready to rip.

The First’s performance potential comes thanks to Biscontini Yacht Design and Roberto Biscontini, who earned his drawing creds over the course of two decades of America’s Cup campaigns. And the luxury? Well, Beneteau turned to Lorenzo Argento for deck and interior styling. Argento has been involved with a number of high-end projects, including Wally Yachts. Together, the pair created a vessel that’s easy to look at and riveting to sail.

A quick peak at the 53’s ­performance ratios, as well as a few other numbers, begins to tell the story. Its displacement-length ratio is a very sporty 118 (a fast-cruising X-Yacht clocks in at 161), while its sail area-displacement is a whopping 27.1—right on par with an all-out racer such as the Jeanneau Sunfast 3300’s SA/D of 27.6. And that’s for the standard First 53, which comes with an 8-foot-2-inch cast-iron T-keel and 85-foot aluminum mast. You can up the muscle power further by ordering the boat with a carbon-fiber rig that’s a full meter taller, and a 9-foot-10-inch performance T-keel with a lead bulb down deep, where it counts. Owners can choose sails of their liking, but Beneteau offers the 53 with a set from North Sails that includes North Panel Laminate main, 105 percent genoa and a code zero, so right out of the box, the boat’s regatta-ready.

On deck, the layout is at once simple, elegant and purposeful. All lines, including the double-ended mainsheet, run under panels back to twin helms, where controls for the electric below-deck jib furler, fold-down bow thruster, swim platform, house- and ­navigation-lighting systems, and matching sets of engine controls are mounted on pedestals, along with B&G plotters and instrument displays. Just forward of each wheel, a pair of Harken Performa electric winches sit adjacent to banks of line clutches.

The open transom is ­enclosed by lifelines, with a sturdy handhold on the centerline and solid stanchions and rails that curve around each quarter. With the boat heeling, these provide places for the crew to brace themselves if standing, or act as handholds when navigating the boat’s 16-plus-foot beam—a formidable amount of open space between steering stations.

Forward of the wheels, long cockpit seats await the crew. Each has its own teak table that does double duty as a sturdy place to grab if moving about. Beneteau has introduced a neat feature on this boat: The cockpit coamings drop to pass under the winches and past the wheels, giving crewmembers a place to sit when trimming, and the skipper a seat while steering. They don’t run all the way to the transom, though, which allows crew to pass behind either wheel and take an easy step up onto the deck when going forward. It was a detail I liked quite a bit, along with the 25-inch lifelines set atop 3-inch bulwarks all around.

Underway, I found that I had just about everything to maneuver the boat at my fingertips. As I said at the outset, conditions were light at first. In just under 5 knots of wind, we cranked along closehauled at nearly 6 knots. Later, with the breeze up to 15 or a little higher, the speedo hovered in the 8-to-9-knot range, and I saw 10 and a little more when we cracked off to a reach and unrolled the code zero.

My Beneteau-dealer shipmates suggested reefing the main at 13 to 14 knots. We didn’t, of course, and though we were overpowered a bit, judging by the angle of heel, the boat seemed to like it just fine, and so did we. And when it came time to tack, feathering up even a little quickly tamed things. There is no traveler available for the 53. Instead, the mainsheet runs through a centerline block mounted just forward of the wheels, the theory being that anyone paying in the $1.2 million ballpark for this size boat likely will spend more time cruising than racing.

Down below, Argento and Team Beneteau came up a refreshingly new approach to accommodations. White lacquered bulkheads and panels, coupled with a teak sole and molded wood furniture, kept the interior quite bright. In place of the traditional large dining area found in most boats these days, a well-equipped galley, complete with a home-size fridge, and a small dinette (expandable to seat six or so) took up the port side of the saloon. Opposite was a large L-shaped couch and small table for entertaining. Fiddles on counters and handholds were plentiful. And throughout the boat, lights and other electrical equipment were controlled by Beneteau’s proprietary Ship Control electrical system, which can be accessed using a smartphone.

The owner’s cabin was ­forward, and featured a split head and shower. Two more cabins were aft, with a shared head to starboard at the foot of the companionway. A three-cabin, three-head layout is also available, but it would cost you space in the galley.

The First 53’s hull and deck are cored and infused, with solid glass wherever hardware is mounted. An inner hull liner takes up loads from the mast, chainplates and engine. An 80 hp Yanmar diesel and saildrive come standard; the boat we tested was powered by the optional 110 Yanmar with shaft drive. Beneteau offers several other electronics and equipment packages as well.

If a boat is to be judged by how well it meets its design brief, the First Yacht 53 is already a winner. And did I mention? The sailing was out of this world.

Mark Pillsbury is CW’s editor.

SPECIFICATIONS – Beneteau First Yacht 53

Beneteau

410-990-0270

beneteau.com

The post Boat Review: Beneteau First Yacht 53 appeared first on Cruising World.