O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting …

The opening lines of Walt Whitman’s poem “O Captain! My Captain!” perfectly capture that magic moment in any sailor’s life — landfall! — the glorious culmination of years of saving, working, planning and now safely closing an oceanic passage. But beware! This is the most demanding and potentially dangerous phase of your voyage.

First and foremost, while most inexperienced sailors fear the unknown expanse of the open ocean, it is a relatively benign environment, affording time to think and the room and depth to maneuver. You are now approaching the crusty coast, and it is here the water shoals, the rocks rise and the passageways narrow.

Do not break with ship routine at the first sight of land. I once sighted the Marquesas Islands from 70 miles away. My crew and I sat at the helm in excited anticipation. Waning winds and contrary currents conspired to keep us from actual landfall for an entire day. We arrived far more exhausted than necessary.

Even the smoothest of voyages demand 24 hours of your mental attention and physical effort. The excitement of a new destination can mask a deep underlying fatigue, and that exhaustion undermines your otherwise good judgment. Outside a pass, you must stop, look and listen. Form a plan. Communicate that plan, and take these specific steps to ensure that, ultimately, your vessel will find safe haven.

Whereas you choose the weather and timing of your departure, you generally arrive when and where nature allows. This can be mitigated by speeding up or slowing down the vessel upon approach. The speeding up is seldom the best course of action, for it is better to slow down or even heave-to and arrive early the next morning (with up to 16 hours of daylight) than attempt a late-afternoon race against the cloak of darkness.

Before entering any pass after a long voyage, test all motoring functions. Is the day tank pumped up? Is the shaft break off? Are all fishing lines in? Has the transmission seized from disuse? Is the propeller compromised due to fouling?

Loosen up the windlass, for it may have sat in salt water for up to a month. Flake out a portion of chain, which may have piled up upon itself in the rough motion of a storm. Pull out fenders and mooring lines, as equipment may have shifted and buried them during the passage. Lay out the binoculars and the foghorn, and if the situation demands a late entry, the spotlight. Check the VHF and determine which channel Harbor Control operates on. Now is the time to hoist the quarantine and courtesy flags, not once in the thick of action.

If time and tide permit, sit outside any entry and watch the local vessels. Note where and how they enter, but do not necessarily assume that this is the safest entry for you. A shoal-draft fishing punt might be slipping over skinny water that a deep-keeler could not, whereas a container ship would certainly be safe to follow. Use their passage to confirm which marking system is in use because red-right-returning is not universal (see Red Right Returning.) Never rely on informal markers; it is a lottery as to whether they mark a danger or the route around one. Extrapolating another ship’s course can help locate range markers and low-lying navigational aids.

We can become so focused ahead that we forget to scan the horizon behind. Being chased up a narrow channel by a 50,000-ton freighter is best avoided. On that note, remember, given container ships’ size, speed and limited maneuverability, there is no such thing as right of way. Always consider yourself the burdened vessel.

Next, take time to note the weather and winds. Do not assume that your offshore conditions will continue once in the influence of large landmasses. Their thermal properties can override prevailing conditions, causing onshore and offshore breezes as the land heats and cools throughout the day. In steep terrains, katabatic winds can thunder down upon you from any direction. Develop natural literacy. Interpret the landform; look ahead for tell-tale signs on the water. If line squalls are coming through, sit still to watch their frequency, ferocity and shifts. Halfway through a coral pass and all the way out of visibility is not for the fainthearted.

Use your chart plotter, GPS, radar, depth sounder and any other modern navigational aid possible, but do not neglect to simply stand up and look around because, especially in reef-strewn waters, the charting can be inaccurate, extreme weather events can take out aids and channels might shift. Confirm your modern data with correlating depth soundings, water colors and flow patterns.

Always have the sails ready to go if not already in use. It is an immutable law of nature that if your engine is to fail or your propeller is to pick up a semisubmerged fishing net, this will happen smack in the middle of a tortuous channel. Because it is always easier to shake out a reef than to put one in, I take a tuck before entering a strange harbor, even in light winds. The emphasis here is on safety, not speed.

Unless other marine traffic prevents it, always enter any pass favoring the windward side. In the event of trouble, you can quickly jibe out with maximum room, instead of relying on a successful tack with only half a pass available.

Check the local tide tables, and ensure that you have the right time zone and any correction for daylight saving time. Slack water does not always coincide with high or low tide. Check the chart and/or tide tables for anomalies. Remember that in the case of coral atolls, even on the flood tide the current is usually flowing out the pass. This is due to a higher sea level within the atoll caused by waves continuously breaking over the enclosing reef. If possible, time your entry for slack low water. In the event of grounding, you will have the full effect of a rising tide to refloat or kedge off. Shoaling is also easier to spot at low water. Silly as it sounds, watch the birds on the water: Are they swimming or wading?

The position and height of the sun is of primary concern, especially in coral environments. Try to place the sun behind you, moderately high but not dead overhead. If the pass is twisting, anticipate sun strike, and plot out a route in your mind before you lose color perception. Wear clean, polarized sunglasses, even on an overcast day, because they pierce the glare on the water’s surface and exaggerate color differential. Find an elevated yet safe position to keep watch ahead. Even a little extra height will dramatically improve visibility through the water. Take every opportunity to practice interpreting local colors as they relate to depth.

Upon your entry into the anchorage area, you probably will be spotted by friends on other boats. They will be excited and want to chatter on as to how your voyage went. Remember, your voyage is not over just yet. Politely shout to them, “We’ll talk soon, as soon as the boat is safely anchored.” They will respect that. Take extra caution in anchoring. Strange ports with unknown holding ground can be crowded with vessels of differing scope. You will sleep the sleep of the dead the first night in, and probably not be as tuned in to any wind shifts or water changes as you normally would.

However well intended advice from strangers might be, never do exactly as told by people on the dock unless you, as captain and solely responsible for the safety of your vessel, have determined that it is the best course of action. Only you know your draft, maneuvering characteristics, and the agility of your line handlers. When coming dockside, use your own lines. If someone dockside has offered assistance, do not be afraid to instruct them as to exactly how you want the lines run and made fast.

Do not break quarantine by letting someone jump on board or by leaving the vessel, even if told that local procedures are very casual. This wonderful voyage is officially completed only once the Q-flag comes down.

Congratulations — you’ve done it! You will experience a profound sense of relief, joy and pride. Now is the time to pop that cork and toast yourself and your crew on a job well done.

Two-time circumnavigator and author Alvah Simon is a contributing editor to Cruising World.

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What is it about Cape Town?

One of the world’s great landfalls under any circumstance, it’s all the more so when the Tablecloth — that seasonally permanent cloud that continuously spills over the side of Table Mountain — is set.

Generations of westabout circumnavigators have faced a consequential choice when they reach the Indian Ocean: keep Africa to port and transit the Red Sea to Europe, or turn left and eventually tangle with the treacherous Agulhas Current until rounding the Cape of Good Hope, also known as the Cape of Storms.

Readers of Dove will recall that Robin Lee Graham originally chose the Red Sea route. But the 1967 Six-Day War, between Israel and Egypt, sent him south instead, spurring nine months of South African travel with his new bride that constitute some of his classic book’s most idyllic passages. By the early 1990s, most voyagers, including participants in the early World ARC round-the-world rallies, bypassed South Africa in favor of the northern route through Europe. The balance tipped again in 2009, when pirate attacks off Somalia compelled Lloyd’s of London and other marine insurers to declare a war zone and withdraw yacht-insurance coverage for large stretches of the northwestern Indian Ocean. Since then, round-the-world rallies and greater numbers of individual voyagers have chosen the southern route.

The payoff here is undeniable. Sure, the weather can get big off South Africa’s Wild Coast, but seasoned sailors learn to pick their windows, hopping southward down the coast between blows. The South African Weather Service (weathersa.co.za/home/marine) provides excellent forecasting, and Durban-based Cruising Connections (cruisingconnec tions.co.za/index.php/weather) compiles daily synoptic charts.

In Cape Town, the highlights span from the mundane to the magical. World-class marine services are available here, and provisioning is relatively inexpensive and abundant. At press time, U.S. dollars go further than ever before, with an exchange rate near 15 rand to the dollar. Cape Town is a cosmopolitan city, with restaurants and shopping that hold their own with Paris and New York.

And you don’t need to go far outside of town to find the magic. It’s there at the top of Table Mountain, and throughout the whole Table Mountain National Park (sanparks.org/parks/table_mountain), stretching over 100 square miles down to the Cape of Good Hope, a destination that deserves a place on every sailor’s bucket list. Home to 8,200 distinct plant species, the park includes the Cape Floral Region, designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Penguin colonies, chacma baboon families, great white sharks and orcas — all these inhabit the cape.

Yes, there’s something about Cape Town, something that deserves a long, deep look.

— Tim Murphy

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The Marquesas

Twenty-six days after sailing Del ­Viento away from the ­arid tip of Mexico’s ­Baja Peninsula, we dropped our 66-pound Bruce anchor and 300 feet of chain into 140 feet of water. It was the end of the longest passage we’d ­ever made. I’d not slept well the night before, and upon making landfall, I tried to record my first thoughts and impressions. I detected jasmine and gardenia and an earthy must in the air. I worried we’d never retrieve our primary anchor if it got stuck down there. Then, I thought of penises.

We’d sailed 3,000 miles to reach this place, a narrow anchorage cut into the small ­island of Fatu Hiva, smack dab in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It’s one of a group of 15 islands that the Polynesians who settled here around A.D. 1200 named Te Fenua Enata, meaning the Land of Men. Locals still use this name, though the rest of the world calls these islands the Marquesas, after the patron of a 16th-­century Spanish explorer. But in this bay in particular, where I was now recording my thoughts and impressions, the earliest residents thoughtfully considered the ­phallic spires of black basalt rising from the head of the bay and declared it the Bay of ­Penises. It was a place name befitting the Land of Men, but it made early missionaries uncomfortable, and they quickly corrected things. Today the French call this storied landfall Baie des Vierges, or Bay of Virgins.

Sounds exotic, doesn’t it? It definitely stirs thoughts of a South Pacific paradise, rather than simply the first waypoint on a trans-Pacific crossing, as it is for most. Had I been given the task of naming this place upon arrival, I might have gone with Baie de Paradis, but I am no more to be ­trusted than the missionaries. After all, any port reached after 26 days at sea can seem to a sailor like paradise. So you have to wonder: Is this the reason for the superlatives often used to characterize the Bay of Virgins and other Marquesas landfalls?

The Marquesas are among the youngest of the South Pacific archipelagos. Not enough geologic time has passed for fringing coral reefs to have formed. Compared to the tranquil, turquoise lagoons of the nearby Tuamotus and Society Islands, the water off the Marquesas is rough, deep and murky. The snorkeling, diving and surfing here are downright unremarkable. Because these islands rise from the depths, raw and exposed to ocean swells that travel thousands of miles to crash on rocky shores, even the best anchorages on the leeward sides are plagued by refracted waves that cause boats to roll uncomfortably. Dinghy landings are often either in surf or at surge-inflicted, inflatable-eating quays composed of jagged rock, rough concrete and rusted metal. When available, Internet service is slower than the average cruising boat, and the imported food seems to have been priced by a high-end retailer. Still, we spent six weeks exploring these islands. We wished we had six months.

Taste of the Cruising Life

On the windward side of Fatu Hiva, the trade winds hit a tall ridge and pushed upward to form the moisture-heavy clouds that spilled down toward us as we dropped anchor. A rainbow arced across the sky. The topography of these young islands ­reflects the dawn of time; the exquisite drama of the islands’ violent, volcanic origins has not yet been smoothed and worn. The mountainous backdrops demanded that I set a new bar for using words like “steep” and “jagged.” At the head of the V-shaped Bay of Virgins is a rocky beach fringed with coconut palms and mountains bearded in deep green, reaching steeply for more than 2,000 feet.

I looked around at the boats anchored nearby. Nearly all were French-, Dutch-, or Australian-flagged. Most had stalks of green bananas hanging from the rigging and cockpit hammocks bulging with fruit. I’ve seen thousands of boats in all kinds of anchorages, but this detail, combined with the backdrop, echoed the images I’ve returned to for decades, the ones of ­Wanderer or Dove or Joshua anchored in a similar ­setting, the images that for me define cruising. I was eager to launch our dinghy, go ashore and get my own stalk of ­bananas to hang in Del Viento’s rigging. Maybe I’d bring a machete.

Among the Marquesan islands, Fatu Hiva is remote and sparsely populated; about 600 people are spread across three ­villages. There is no airport on the island. We’d dropped anchor in front of Hana Vave, the village at the head of the Bay of Virgins.

Upon landing, we received a Kafkaesque welcoming — that is to say, a jarring and disorienting one, especially for wide-eyed sailors stepping ashore for the first time in nearly a month. The tiny quay was ­empty except for a big, heavyset boy in swim trunks who barked at us sternly and ­urgently in Marquesan. We smiled and said hello. He pointed and grew increasingly agitated at our inability to understand him. “Does he want us to move our dinghy?” my wife, Windy, asked.

The boy began grunting. Then he began poking his index finger at Windy’s shoulder. I began to sense he had mental health issues. Salvation appeared in the form of a large woman walking toward us. She had a green grapefruit in her hand. “His mom is coming,” I said to Windy.

I greeted the woman. She smiled broadly. I waited for her to rein in her son a bit. She didn’t seem to notice him. She locked her stare on me, her smile fixed, like a young girl in love. The boy poked us and grunted. Then we found ourselves in negotiations to buy her grapefruit. She thrust it at us. The boy was suddenly her English–speaking agent, translating numbers for her, poking the grapefruit. She only smiled and nodded. Now I began to sense she had mental health issues. “Let’s go back to the boat,” I said.

“No!” came the chorus from our daughters.

We treaded lightly with our girls in tow, wandering, taken by the smell of flowers and marveling at the trees and plants hung heavy with fruit. Our reception -began to make sense. Who else did we expect to stand at the waterfront and greet us? There were 20 other boats in the anchorage, 20 before that, and 20 before that — we were just another dinghy-load of visitors in a season–long procession. The people of -Hana Vave have no real need for visiting voyagers, and we’d long ago ceased to be the curiosity that early cruisers like Sterling Hayden, Robin Lee Graham and -Bernard Moitessier presented.

There was no litter anywhere. There were no signs either, and we walked up the narrow concrete road past a string of residences, a church, a school, a soccer field and a small but immaculate magasin offering a food selection similar to a 7-Eleven back home. Houses built by their owners stood on defined, ordered lots abutting one another, each with its own satellite dish. We offered smiles and a “ka oha” — hello in Southern Marquesan — to the few people we saw on a quiet Monday morning.

A woman in her yard waved us over. She said something in French. We looked at each other. She repeated herself, slowly. We heard the word échange, and she pointed to the grapefruit and mandarin -oranges hanging from the trees in her yard. Our Mexican citrus was long gone and -sorely missed. She motioned at a pile of five coconuts arranged in a pyramid. She held up a jar of viscous amber liquid and pointed to the humming hives at the side of her house. Then she pointed to the Teva sandals on our feet and said the word “corde,” while I flipped through our pocket-size French-English dictionary — corde (noun): rope.

We shook our heads no, we didn’t have shoes to spare, but yes, we had corde. I fumbled again with the dictionary and -promised we’d be back in two hours. We waved goodbye — au revoir! — and made our way, greeting other residents, even arranging a second trade. Then we dinghied back out to Del Viento, gathered things to trade and returned ashore, my backpack filled with an old halyard, clothing our girls had outgrown, and some of the children’s art supplies we’d stocked up on before leaving Mexico.

During the 10 days we spent in Hana Vave, our daily adventures took us about the island and our fruit hammock grew to bulging. We swam with manta rays next to our boat, we hiked to a waterfall that stretched to the sky, we made friends, and we learned we all love grapefruit. When we finally bid adieu and set sail on an overnight passage for the Marquesan island of Hiva Oa, we did so with a massive stalk of green bananas hanging in our rigging.

Read Part 2 here.

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