Buddy’s Crabs

Breakfast:
Chick & Ruth’s
165 Main St
(410) 269-6737
chickandruths.com

Sophie’s Crepes
1 Craig St
(410) 990-0929
sofiscrepes.com

Happy Hour:
Boatyard Bar and Grille
Favorite of local sailors, happy hour and pint drinks.
400 4th St, Eastport
(410) 216-6206
boatyardbarandgrill.com

McGarvey’s Saloon and Oyster Bar
The boat-show crowd hangout. Order the Maryland Crab Soup, French Dip, and Bloody Mary.
8 Market Space
(410) 263-5700
mcgarveys.net

The Chart House
Best harbor view.
300 2nd Street, Eastport
(410) 268-7166
chart-house.com

Ram’s Head Tavern
Best beer selection.
33 West Street
(410) 268-4545
ramsheadtavern.com

Armadillo’s
Best margarita.
132 Dock Street
(410) 280-0028
armadillosannapolis.com

Pusser’s
Best painkiller.
80 Compromise Street
(410) 626-0004
pussersusa.com

Dinner:
Davis’ Pub
Best burger, and local sailor favorite.
400 Chester Avenue, Eastport
(410) 268-7432
davispub.com

Cantler’s Riverside Inn
Go by boat for the crabs!
458 Forest Beach Rd
By boat: On Mill Creek, off Whitehall Bay: a trip of two or three miles
(410) 757-1467
cantlers.com

Severn Inn
Best river view.
1993 Baltimore Annapolis Boulevard
(410) 349-4000
severninn.com

Buddy’s Crabs & Ribs
Best crabs downtown.
100 Main Street
(410) 626-1100
buddysannap.com

Market House
Open late Friday and Saturday.
25 Market Space
(401) 263-7949
markethousemerchants.com

O’Leary’s Seafood
Best upscale seafood.
310 Third St
(410) 263-0884
olearysseafood.com

Lewnes’ Steakhouse
Best steak and key lime pie.
401 Fourth St
(410) 263-1617
lewnessteakhouse.com

Tsunami
Best sushi, worth the walk! Make sure to order the moving Yomatos Tofu.
51 West St
(410) 990-9868
tsunamiannapolis.com

Harvest Wood Grill
Mid-priced seafood and burgers.
26 Market Space
(410) 280-8686
harvestwoodgrill.com

Middleton Tavern
Go for the oyster shooters
2 Market Space
(410) 263-3323
middletontavern.com

Lemongrass
Awesome Thai food!
167 West Street
(410) 224-8424
lemongrassannapolis.com

The Blackwall Hitch
In Eastport; Great rooftop deck
400 6th Street, Eastport
(410) 263-3454
theblackwallhitch.com

Red Red Wine Bar
Convenient location right on Main Street, open late 189 Main Street (410) 990-1144
redredwinebar.com

Level
Interesting cocktails and tapas-style “small plate” food
69 West Street
(410) 268-0003
lannapolis.com

Metropolitan Kitchen & Lounge
Cool multi-level spot – worth the walk
175 West Street
(410) 280-5160
metropolitanannapolis.com

Special thanks to Eddy Lavino and Tim Murphy for their suggestions!

The post Where to Eat and Drink in Annapolis appeared first on Cruising World.

That’s what my boss at the time said when I told him that Green, my husband, and I bought a boat to live and cruise aboard. I think he feared that I was about to turn in my notice and head over the horizon from our home port of Newport, Rhode Island.

Alas, nearly four years later, as I looked around the harbor from our mooring in Newport, his words rang in my ears as an ironic reproach. Although lovely, Block Island, a 25-mile sail away, was as far as we’d made it yet aboard Lyra, our Reliance 44 ketch. With the summer waning, we were staring into the face of another winter aboard with no real summer cruising under our keel. This wouldn’t do.

To be fair, these last few years have been busy — new baby, new jobs, a new business — and we’ve done plenty of daysails and weekend jaunts, but we were understandably getting itchy feet. So Green and I formed a plan. Getting away during the height of the summer is difficult for us, since Green’s profession as a daysail charter captain keeps him busy, so we decided on a late-in- the-season two-week cruise to Maine — a lofty goal.

One truth about modern families is that clearing everyone’s schedule for two weeks is difficult at best, and such is the case with us. Two weeks were whittled down to 10 days, and suddenly the planets would have to align if we were actually going to make it to Maine and back. But we didn’t give up, and we even lined up Green’s mom, Troid, to join us for the adventure and to lend a hand with the kids, Caitlin, 7, and Juliana, 2, for the passage to Maine.

As it turned out, the planets didn’t get my message. Fortunately, we had a backup plan. A benefit to our not having gotten much past Narragansett Bay is that the rest of southern New England’s cruising grounds are still new to us and can easily occupy us for 10 days.

Dutch Island

We left Newport in our wake, finally, and sailed around the southern end of Conanicut Island, peeked out at the sloppy conditions outside the bay, and decided to head up the West Passage to anchor off Dutch Island for the first night. One of the best things about cruising New England, in my book anyway, is the sunsets, and this night’s was stunning. After a hike early the next morning around the island, which once had a Dutch West India Company trading post on it, we were ready to head out.

Block Island

The plan for Day Two was to head directly for Cuttyhunk, the last in Massachusetts’ Elizabeth Islands chain; however, the seas were still quite bumpy, and the wind was just right for Block Island. Perhaps it was time for yet another grand entrance.

During the heat of the summer, Block Island is a busy place, and the wide, protected anchorage and mooring field, accessed through a narrow channel, is chockablock with hundreds of boats. Sailing during the late season, however, offers a more laid-back experience. The beaches surrounding Block Island’s Great Salt Pond are a magical place for kids, and the girls spent hours exploring the tidal pools.

Cuttyhunk

After an entire day of moseying about Block Island, we finally made tracks to Cuttyhunk. The day started wet, cold, foggy and windless — providing an opportunity for us to tune the radar and warm up the diesel — but fortunately it changed to warm sunshine and light breezes. And that’s just how it goes in New England. It seems as though the temperature on any given day can vary by 20 degrees or more. When the breeze filled in, we enjoyed some of the best sailing on our trip. Green — who loves any opportunity to experiment with the sail plan — set up the mizzen staysail, and we easily gained a knot.

We’re a family that’s always on the go, but once under way, we had a chance to settle into the cruising rhythm. Someone once told me that the perfect age to go sailing with your kids is when they learn how to read. Now I see the wisdom in that. Our second-grader, Caitlin, will curl up with just about any book she can get her hands on. Juliana requires more parental interaction. Much more. While Green and I are hardly cruising neophytes, we’re new to the cruising-with-toddler thing. My mother-in-law, who raised two kids aboard and knows a thing or two in this area, proved invaluable. Could we have done the journey alone? Sure.

Would it have been as fun and relaxing? No way.

The entrance into Cuttyhunk is a little daunting — a narrow channel with rocky beaches on either side, lots of current, shifting sand — and the small harbor doesn’t offer much wiggle room. Indeed, watching other boats anchor here is a popular amusement. But this place is so worth it. The surroundings are idyllic, the tiny town is welcoming, and the hike up to the top of the island offers great views of Vineyard Sound and Buzzards Bay. My girls also found the island’s still-operating one-room schoolhouse to be a very cool spot.

Martha’s Vineyard

After leaving Cuttyhunk, we thought that it’d be fun to spend a day exploring Martha’s Vineyard, which requires sailing from Buzzards Bay through a pass between the islands to Vineyard Sound. These passes, such as Quicks Hole, between Nashawena and Pasque islands, have a shocking amount of current, so we did our best to synchronize our forays with slack tide.

Once in Vineyard Sound, we had a speedy sail to Vineyard Haven, where we anchored in the lee of West Chop. Since the forecast called for benign southeasterlies for the next day or so, this wasn’t a bad place to be; however, if the wind clocked to the north, we’d be completely exposed.

Martha’s Vineyard is the quintessential American summer getaway, yet we found it to be very accessible and even affordable for visiting sailors. With our sights set on a full day ashore, we got an early start, tied the tender to the dinghy dock next to the ferry terminal, and found coffee and breakfast sandwiches a short walk away. The island has an excellent bus system, which made exploring easy. We left tracks from Edgartown at one end all the way to Aquinnah and the Gay Head cliffs at the other. Juliana loves lighthouses, so we paid admission to climb to the top of the Gay Head Light.

Traveling by sailboat truly makes you appreciate distances, and it felt like we’d come a long way, so I’ll admit to feeling a tiny bit disheartened that I could see the top of Newport’s Claiborne Pell Bridge from the lighthouse. Ah, well.

Woods Hole and Hadley Harbor

At this point, we were well into our cruising New England voyage and had really adjusted to its rhythms. Unfortunately, we knew that our time was running out, and as much as I love the late summer in New England, the weather isn’t quite as settled as it is during July and early August. With the wind switching to a northerly, we knew we needed to head somewhere else, so we set a course for Hadley Harbor.

Hadley Harbor is located just west of the Buzzards Bay entrance to Woods Hole, and the surrounding land is privately owned by the Forbes family, so this isn’t the place for shoreside adventures. But Hadley offers something else to the visiting sailor: peace and solitude. On the day that we arrived here, the wind was still ripping on the sound and the current through Woods Hole resembled rapids, but tucked away in pondlike Hadley, you wouldn’t know it.

The next morning, Green and I took the girls for a dinghy ride to the town of Woods Hole, home of the eponymous oceanographic institute. A difference in traveling with kids — and I definitely consider this a benefit — is that even though we grown-ups would be quite content to relax on the boat with a book all day, the kids are looking for more things to do and have energy to burn. This leads us to explore places a little deeper in search of playgrounds and museums, and our dinghy ride to town was in search of the Woods Hole Science Aquarium, a very cool place that’s free to the public. In the summer months, you can also take a tour of the institute’s docks and restricted areas to learn about the research that’s performed here.

Home Again

With our weather forecasted to deteriorate, we started making plans to get back to Newport. Our long-awaited summer cruise was coming to an end, although it felt like it was just starting. After leaving Woods Hole, we sailed down Buzzards Bay and stopped in again at Cuttyhunk, but this time we stayed aboard. The next morning, we made our way back to Newport in cloudy and breezy conditions. A screaming sail up Narragansett Bay topped it all off, and then we were back on our mooring. Ten days may not seem like much, and compared to many other adventures, it’s not. But you don’t need a circumnavigation or an open-ended cruise to reap the benefits of this life, and indeed, even though we never made it to Maine, we got exactly what we wanted. Grand entrances and all.

Recommended Guides

For sailors unfamiliar with this area, New England can seem a tricky cruising ground, so good guides are key. Take a look at A Cruising Guide to the New England Coast by Robert C. Duncan, Roger S. Duncan, Paul W. Fenn and W. Wallace Fenn ($50; 2002; W.W. Norton & Co.),_ Dozier’s Waterway Guide Northern 2013_ ($40; 2013; Dozier’s Waterway Guide), Embassy Cruising Guide: New England Coast (10th edition, $45; Maptech), and A Visual Cruising Guide to the Southern New England Coast by James Bildner ($40; 2009; International Marine), and you’ll ply these waters like a local.

Harbor at Cuttyhunk

The post Cruising Southern New England: Home Waters appeared first on Cruising World.

Great Lakes Sailing

As many good sailing yarns start, the fog had crept up out of nowhere, devouring our chartered 2013 Hunter 40 and making even the bow appear a distant place. It seemed all too cliché, fog engulfing the sailboat with no radar, but that was just the start of the drama. Soon it would be dark, adding to the sudden stress. Our crew, along with those on five other boats behind us in the Unsalted Island Hopping flotilla, had just entered the shipping channel in the Straits of Mackinac. Frequently, 1,000-foot lake freighters funnel through these waters at a pretty good clip. Even on sunny days smart sailors steer clear of them. It would be a long, tension-filled night until we exited the shipping channel at the south end of Gray’s Reef about 27 miles ahead. The Mackinac Bridge loomed ahead of us; at least that’s what the chart plotter was showing, and Mackinac Island was only several miles to the north, making for a good option to ditch. While our three other crewmembers were below getting some rest, the captain and I had a serious discussion about our next move. Decision time. Push on or ditch at Mackinac Island — it was that bad. Four of the boats trailing behind called in to say they had had enough and were headed to the island and a liquid dinner to settle their nerves. As safety was always our first concern, we also concluded the intelligent call was to pull the plug — the fog had trumped us. However, the one boat still behind that hadn’t turned north hailed to tell us he saw our boat on radar. He offered to be our eyes through the soup if we wanted to keep going. Suddenly the decision was easy: Press on.

Shortly thereafter, as if confirming the decision was the right one, the upper component of the fog unexpectedly lifted, while the setting sun illuminated a golden hue on the steel support towers of the Mighty Mac. However, below the bridge, fog was still a solid wall that looked like we were about to sail off the end of the world; it was the point of no return. Motoring under the bridge a short while later, our boat pushed through the curtain, popping out the other side to reveal a whole different world. There were lights on the far shore, red blinking buoys scattered in the distance and stars above, all becoming more visible by the minute. And just like that, the stress began to swirl down the drainpipe as if someone had pulled the stopper.

My wife, Marianne, and I had joined the Unsalted Island Hopping event earlier in the week. “How many islands can one flotilla tag in a week?” That was the challenge thrown down by Great Lakes Sailing Co. of Traverse City, Michigan. Unknown to most, there are plenty of islands on the upper Great Lakes just begging to be explored. Dave Conrad, owner of Great Lakes Sailing Co., has always enjoyed exploring the many islands north of Grand Traverse Bay; so, he wondered, why not turn it into an event? We had our marching orders and were ready to sail.

There are two distinct differences between the islands on the upper Great Lakes and those most anywhere else sailors cruise. One, the water is not salty, or as the local sailors like to say, it’s “unsalted.” It’s a nice feature. And two, there are no crowds. In fact, “crowd” isn’t even the right word, as the lack of any people at all is closer to the mark. Uninhabited also comes to mind when thinking about many of the islands. Surprisingly, as in the warmer cruising waters of the tropics, many of the upper Great Lakes islands have clear, beautiful turquoise water in the sandy shallows. Anchoring for the most part is easy, as there are no rocks to snag.

When Great Lakes Sailing Co. created the event, it wanted to try something different. Why not add new sailors who were studying for their ASA charter certifications to the mix? What a perfect way to get new sailors excited about cruising while checking off the ASA boxes that would allow them to charter boats for themselves. The Unsalted flotilla started off with four privately owned sailboats and four instructor-captained charter boats with students. The fleet was a blend of knowledgeable sailors and sailors eager to learn.

The group was an assorted bunch of enthusiastic people mainly from the Midwest, with some hailing from landlocked locales such as Bloomington, Indiana, and Lansing, Michigan. One fellow, Jerry Hardin, who hails from Dayton, Ohio, sailed his Catalina 400 from Port Clinton, on Lake Erie, to Grand Traverse Bay, Lake Michigan — roughly 500 miles solo — just to join in. Jerry — I like to think of him as “Sailor Jerry” after the rum — claimed the Unsalted Island Hopping was on his route anyway. Over the next two months his plan was to journey to Chicago and back, and the Island Hopping event was the halfway point. Stopping also gave his family the opportunity to jump onboard for the week. To strengthen the image of Midwest mariners, one night Sailor Jerry told the group about the great sea battle on Lake Eire against the British. What? The first thing I did was ask Professor Google, and sure enough, The Battle of Put-in-Bay took place during the War of 1812. It wasn’t a good day for the Brits.

Foggy conditions made for a tense time on approach to the Mackinac Bridge.

With sailing, things almost never go as they are supposed to. Maybe that’s the allure. The weather had its own ideas about the Island Hopping tour, and sent powerful Midwest freight train-like fronts our way even before we left the dock, as if to say, “You really ought to try something else, foolish sailors.” The fleet captains, whose first priority was safety, were wavering about even getting to some of the islands, and considered sending the flotilla to shoreside marinas where they wouldn’t have the worry of dragging an anchor in the middle of the night. Plans changed rapidly until we actually left. Then with a smirk on its face, the weather decided that rather than pound us with fronts we should try a little fog and no wind for a week of gray, damp motoring. Regardless, the Island Hopping was off and running, with our first target north to Beaver Island.

Beaver is a fairly large island by Great Lakes standards. It’s about 6 miles wide by 13 long, with an almost perfectly protected little harbor on the north end that’s surrounded by the only town, St. James. The basin is just big enough to anchor a handful of boats, and our little fleet fit nicely in there, anchored to the sandy bottom with plenty of swing room. The clear water made seeing the bottom easy, but still our boat nailed the only patch of weeds twice, which prevented the hook from holding.

The majority of the island is deep forest with very few homes and even fewer businesses. Remote is the best description I can think of. In 2010 there were approximately 650 year-round residents. I was curious what they did for work because with a two-hour ferry ride across buzz-saw waves, no one is making a daily commute to the mainland — except the guy driving the boat. The harbormaster in St. James said most of the jobs were in construction, building summer homes. Of course that slowed way down in 2008, so much less building is happening these days. Many residents now cater to tourism, which being that far north and in the middle of the lake, is a pastime with a small window of opportunity. This lack of diverse employment tends to keep Beaver Island a remote treasure for the adventurous visitor.

Our next island to conquer was the celebrated Mackinac Island, where cars are not permitted and fresh fudge is a major food group. Anchors came up and our fleet was off. But first, because many of the sailors in our group were training for various ASA certifications, it was time for a quick man-overboard drill while motoring.

Without warning, flotation cushions were flung over the side of each boat while students took the wheel to hone the rescuing skills they had only read about in books. Three of the boats, ours included, started making crazy lopsided circles and figure-eight patterns while trying to recover their fallen comrade, Red Cushion. I can only imagine the comments coming from the powerboaters who were eating breakfast and watched the sailboats scatter about like frightened gazelles. “Crazy sailors. I always knew they weren’t right in the head,” is probably not far off.

After hours of motoring through the fog, the fleet finally completed the passage from Beaver to Mackinac Island. On the way, the ASA couple on our boat wisely took advantage of our extensive motoring and cracked open their books to study.

Finally, after a long day of windless gray, and just before we tied up in the Mackinac marina, the fog lifted. There was still no wind, but there were things to see. The weather was having a good laugh on us, as if to say, “Look at all the great things you missed while you were in the fog.”

After a night on Mackinac, our flotilla targeted the town of Hessel, Michigan, as the next stop. If you know anything about upper Lake Huron geography, you’ll know Hessel does not even remotely resemble an island. Yet because it’s known as the gateway to Les Cheneaux Islands, with 36 islands just beyond the town, we decided it merited a visit. Besides, there were no rules for Unsalted Island Hopping; we were making things up as we went. The weather was making amends by offering wind and sunny skies for the day, allowing us to sail at last.

Les Cheneaux Islands are locally famous for wooden boats and the boathouses they are kept in. While uncommon on big waters of the Great Lakes, in the northwest corner of Lake Huron the traditional boathouse is thriving. They can survive the ravages of Great Lakes storms and the surge of winter ice because the islands here are packed tightly together, giving the feel and protection of the inland waters of the north woods. Our flotilla motored single file through the narrow channels between the islands — the channels are plenty deep and well marked with red buoys — not a problem for our shoal-draft fleet. But it was important everyone paid close attention to “returning” (as in every sailor’s favorite saying: “Red right returning”) because at some point when motoring all the way around an island you are not returning anymore; you’re leaving.

Inclement weather didn’t stop author Mike Lee, left, Paul Davis and Dick Chulski from sailing and having a good time.

After clicking off two more islands in our Hop, the final island night was to be spent anchored off High Island, due west of Beaver. But first the flotilla planned to travel through the night, past Mackinac Island by way of the Straits, under the Mighty Mac bridge, and finish off by exiting through the narrow channel of Gray’s Reef to get to High Island. No big deal; it was sunny, clear and breezy, so this had the makings of a fantastic passage. Three hours from the bridge, I went below to catch a nap before my night watch started. But when I popped up an hour later to check on things, the boat was socked in tight with damp, heavy fog. I’ve sailed in a lot of rough weather, but being blind in the fog is something I’ll always be uneasy with. We did, however, survive the shipping channels without incident, and eventually anchored off High Island and waited for the rest of the fleet to catch up.

High Island feels like it’s from a different time. Although it’s currently uninhabited, a small population called it home until 1940. The only things that currently exist on the island are thick forest and huge, nearly 200-foot-tall sand dunes on the western shore, with one or two hiking trails to get to them.

That final evening, our boat’s crew was invited over for steaks on Sailor Jerry’s Catalina. He had miscalculated their meat consumption-to-refrigeration ratio and something needed to be done. With seven of us all snuggled into the cockpit happily munching on beef, conversation turned to the excitement of motoring through the Straits of Mackinac’s foggy, dark shipping channels. That first night that we were considering bailing for the safety of Mackinac Island, it was Sailor Jerry who had said with confidence that he would guide us through the murk. But tonight, with a sheepish grin on his face, he confessed that the blip they had seen on radar was actually some other boat. They were certain of this fact because 20 minutes after our radio conversation, the blip turned and headed for safety on Mackinac Island. We had run down the highway with our eyes closed.

The weather had had its own idea about how the Unsalted Island Hopping flotilla should play out, and like all trips remembered years down the road, it’s usually the unplanned moments that make it memorable. In my mind, I had envisioned most days with sails full, making our way to three or four islands each day, and landing on them Shackleton style. Instead we had very little sailing, but still managed to step ashore on a few interesting islands, and came away with some good fog stories.

Who says you can only island hop in the tropics?

Mike Lee has been in the sailing industry for 26 years and is the author of a new e-book for young readers, The Boat Thief.

So Now What?
by Jen Brett

You’ve taken all of your certification courses and have passed your tests. You want to take your family and friends on a bareboat charter vacation, but you feel that you still could use some support. Or, you’re an experienced sailor but are interested in chartering in a new, more challenging location. If this sounds familiar, consider joining a sailing flotilla. A flotilla brings together several boats sailing independently with their own crews and a head boat with a flotilla leader who knows the area well. The flotilla leader is available to assist with navigation and to offer local cruising information, such as which marina has the best night life or which cove has the best snorkeling.

The American Sailing Association has recently launched a website called FindMyCharter.com. It is designed to be a resource for sailors of all experience levels to find a sailing vacation, from learn-to-sail opportunities to flotillas to bareboat and crewed charters. “After certification, we suggest to students that they consider joining a flotilla so they can increase their comfort and confidence levels before heading out on a bareboat charter,” says Kathy Christensen, membership manager for the ASA. Upcoming flotilla locations include Croatia, the Bahamas and the British Virgin Islands. You can read about Cruising World Deputy Editor Elaine Lembo’s recent experience on an ASA flotilla in the Pacific Northwest.

The post Unsalted Island Hopping in the Great Lakes appeared first on Cruising World.

“After all,” I said, “I’m neck deep right now in a refit of Roger Henry.” Roger Henry is our well-traveled 36-foot steel sloop.

“It would mean time away from home,” I continued.

The editor cut in. “It includes a tour of the Emirates Team New Zealand America’s Cup base and a very good chance of a ride on the AC72 catamaran.”

“When do I leave?”

The answer was soon. My next problem was convincing my wife, Diana, that this constituted actual work. The “sure it’s hell, but somebody’s gotta do it” routine didn’t wash once she saw the itinerary, which would make a hardened hedonist blush. My guilt at leaving her behind and alone could have ruined the experience — well, almost. Fortunately, the good people at Tourism New Zealand agreed that Diana should come along as my photographer and minder, especially in regard to those winery tours.

For the sake of full disclosure, I must confess that I have a thing for Kiwi girls, one in particular. Having kept Diana at sea for several decades, at least subconsciously I must have known that one day she would have to return to her native hearth and home of New Zealand. Thus I have lived in and cruised out of the lovely little island nation for many years now. Nevertheless, I was determined to be as objective as possible and bring my Yankee judgment to bear in reporting on the attractions and attributes of “The Land of the Long White Cloud” as a cruising and chartering destination.

If you caught Chicago on a calm day, you might wonder why it is called “The Windy City,” but there is hardly a day in the year when Auckland’s moniker, “The City of Sails,” would come into question. As we entered the city on the arching North Harbour Bridge, Waitemata Harbour was awash in white canvas set off with bold splashes of colorful spinnakers — a keel boat regatta here, a youth dinghy-training fleet there and a classic schooner ghosting in between. Beneath Auckland’s signature Sky Tower lies Westhaven Marina. With nearly 2,000 slips and moorings, Westhaven is the largest marina in the Southern Hemisphere. It does not just dominate the city’s waterfront, it defines it, for with one boat for every three households, Auckland easily boasts the highest number of sailboats per capita in the world.

One reason for this is that New Zealanders suffer from two consuming obsessions: rugby and sailing. I say suffer because they are very proud to, as they say, punch above their weight. This nation of a mere 4 million people has dominated both sports to such an extent that victory is their default expectation, and even a single defeat is crushing. When New Zealand loses a major international sporting event, the value of its dollar can drop, and the nation plunges into a period of morose despair. When it wins the big game or race, well, you need to set aside a week for the victory party.

But for all their reputation as racers, most Kiwi sailors are avid cruisers also. Perched right on Auckland’s doorstep is the stunning 1,600-square-mile Hauraki Gulf. A busy boat owner can drop the lines from any one of a multitude of city marinas in the morning, and, with a moderate breeze, be tied up to a chic art café on Waiheke Island in time for lunch. If time allows, an intrepid cruiser can venture out to Great Barrier Island, which rivals even Bora Bora for the title of the world’s most beautiful island. To the east lies the mountainous Coromandel Peninsula. To the north rests Kawau Island. The gulf, dotted with 47 islands, is fringed with white sand beaches and verdant native bush. Because the region is semi-tropical, the sailing season runs throughout the year, but the highlight is, of course, those sunny summers, which last from November to April.

We were invited to lunch with Steve Burrett, commodore of the Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron, the country’s oldest and most prestigious yacht club.Coincidentally, the club can trace its origins back to 1851, the very year that a vessel named_ America_ won an invitational challenge around the Isle of Wight. And so the America’s Cup began. The RNZYS has not taken its eyes off the Cup since, twice displaying the Auld Mug in the club’s overflowing trophy case.

However plush and prestigious the club may be, stuffy it is not. When the commodore heard that lunch with him conflicted with my chance to get that ride on the AC72, he said, “Get down there right now. Crikey, I’d leave you standing here with sandwich in hand if I had that chance.”

I took his advice and his leave. Diana and I were ushered through the tight security of the Emirates Team New Zealand entrance, and other than being asked not to photograph certain mysterious appendages on the 72-foot catamaran, were given access to the entire base. No child in a Willie Wonka chocolate factory could have been as awe-struck as I, for this sailboat race, with all its acrimonious history, litigious sideshows and overblown personalities, still presents to the winner the oldest trophy in sporting history, the America’s Cup.

The AC72’s translucent wing mast is larger than the wing of an Airbus. The catamaran itself is a sprawling complexity of space-age materials and exotic curves. The design room was abuzz with dozens of engineers manipulating 3-D images on massive computer screens, crunching infinite numbers looking for that final nth of an nth of a degree of efficiency.

I was here for one reason, but alas, the forces of nature conspired against me. There was zero wind on the day I was scheduled to go out on the 72. The next day held sufficient breeze, but a generous corporate sponsor was awarded the seat that was mine or so I thought, and I was relegated to the chase boat. I thought I might die on the docks of disappointment, but I need not have despaired, for it was an exhilarating day nonetheless. The chase boat is equipped with 1,200 horsepower, and afforded a ringside seat for the stunning performance of the catamaran when up on its foils.

I also had the pleasure of lengthy interviews with ex-Whitbread/Volvo racer and team director Grant Dalton, and the Emirates Team New Zealand skipper, Dean Barker. In spite of their international accomplishments and fame, I found them both to be open, honest, humble and generous with their time. I am over the fact that Diana took exactly one photograph of me and 35 of Dapper Dean.

We stayed in the Auckland Hilton, which in keeping with the national fascination with anything afloat, is shaped to look like a steam liner, smokestacks and all. That night, looking out over the sparkling harbor lights, I thought that perhaps only Sydney and San Francisco could compete with Auckland as premier harbor cities.

In the morning we made our way to the airport and hopped a plane for the South Island, or as the southerners like to call it, “the Mainland.” Jo May, of Destination Marlborough, met us at the airport. She is a dynamo, and wanted to optimize our short stay in her beloved neck of the woods. She kept us hopping with tours of an interesting World War I aviation museum, two wildlife recovery centers and a list of fine wineries long enough that I will have to consult my diary to accurately recall them.

From tip to tail, New Zealand is as beautiful as a national park, but the Marlborough region is unarguably a star attraction. Along with world-class sailing in the extensive Sounds, the inland areas boast the nation’s finest vineyards, accompanied by five-star restaurants and luxury accommodations to match. Although rural, in terms of food, music and the fine arts, the area is sophisticated in a way reminiscent of Napa, Sonoma and Mendocino counties in California — but with better anchorages.

We started with a two-night stay in the Bay of Many Coves Resort. We were met at the dock by proprietors Nick and Pip Goodhew, both sailors whose travels eventually landed them on these shores. They escorted us to our private luxury cabin overlooking the sea and confirmed our reservations for dinner.

I have too often proclaimed to Diana that “Our cruising should be an adventure, not a vacation.” I would raise my finger into the air for effect. “We are not here to sip gin and tonics on the aft deck at sundown. We are here to test the mettle of our endurance and bravery.”

Diana would not actually call me an idiot, for she did not need to. She can speak with her eyes.

It was after my complimentary therapeutic massage and halfway through a five-course epicurean meal that I experienced my epiphany. In my case it was not a burning bush but a burning candle, which lit up the smiling face of my lovely wife across the starched white linen tablecloth. With almost three decades of hard cruising behind her while putting up with my rather peculiar outlook on life, it struck me that she deserved this pampering, and plenty more. And there was plenty more to come.

The following morning, stepping onboard the brand new Beneteau 54, Voila, in no way diminished the standard of our experience. With owners Dave and Yo McGill, and old salt Capt. Bill Hannah, we cruised Queen Charlotte Sound for the next two wonderful days. Of particular interest to me, we visited Ship Cove, where Capt. James Cook twice careened his vessels during his epic world voyages. We ducked into the innumerable bays, secret coves and long arms fringed with pungent native bush. Had we the time, we could have sailed west through the 1,600 square miles of fractured coastline, through the Pelorus and Kenepuru sounds, toward the cutest little sea town south of the equator, Nelson, ultimately home to many of the world’s most accomplished cruising sailors.

Perhaps the defining experience of the Marlborough Sounds is referred to as the “dawn chorus.” Because New Zealand historically knew no mammalian predators, the bird life was and still is unique and prolific. In these unspoiled areas there is a background symphony composed of the calls of the enormous indigenous wood pigeon, the mocking imitations of the tui, the sweet songs of bellbirds and fantails, the crackling protests of the parrotlike kaka and kia, and the lonely thumping of the iconic kiwi.

We reluctantly disembarked in Picton, the terminus for the ferry system connecting Wellington and the South Island. It is hard work having fun, but Jo showed no mercy. She dropped us off at the Herzog Estate near Blenheim. We toured the wine cellars with the world-famous Hans Herzog, a humble man of the soil with a passion for producing distinctively different wines. That passion is matched only by the devotion his wife, Teresa, has for fine dining. She runs the award-winning restaurant and the small guest cottage on the vineyard grounds. This is a sailing magazine, so I shouldn’t go into too much detail regarding the epicurean Everest we climbed that evening. Let me just say that somewhere between the smoked Marlborough salmon and the organic quail au jus, I had to admit that this beat chewing on burnt fruit bat around a jungle campfire.

All this culinary chatter does serve to demonstrate the diverse nature of sailing in New Zealand. Because of its large size and small population, one can cruise from truly pristine wilderness waters into the lap of modern luxury on a single tack.

But my cruising concept that comfort and luxury are not the sole drivers of experience is at least partially correct. Because the geography is diverse and dramatic, this is a country almost frenetic in its ethos of outdoor activity, be it sailing, hiking, skiing, climbing, diving, fishing or bungee jumping. Bring your sporting goods, for it is on the reefs and ridges that you will meet most Kiwis.

Because it is ethnically diverse, New Zealand offers interesting cultural experiences. Auckland is the largest Polynesian city in the world, and the South Auckland Sunday market is an authentic slice of Samoa, Cook Islands, Tonga and Niue. Just north, in the city center, you could be excused for thinking you were in Hong Kong. Native Maori traditions are so vibrant and alive that they permeate the entire culture and have come to symbolize New Zealand internationally. But at its heart, New Zealand is an agricultural country, thus the overall experience of visitors can be eclectic yet quirky, ranging from sophisticated art fairs and concerts to sheep-shearing competitions.

In summary, the land is green, the waters blue and the beaches white. The country and its people are warm and welcoming. All personal bias aside, I promise you that, whether you arrive on your own bottom or charter a boat here, your only regret will be that you did not stay longer.

New Zealand Yacht Charter Companies

Bay of Islands
Fair Wind New Zealand Yacht Charter
The Moorings

Auckland
CharterLink

Marlborough Sounds
Charter Link Yacht Charters Marlborough
Compass Charters
CharterWorld (including Voila)
Sailing Yacht Voila

Travel Information
Location: South Pacific Ocean; 1,300 miles southwest of Tonga, 1,300 miles east of Australia
Flight time to U.S.: 12 hours, direct from Los Angeles or San Francisco
Time zone: GMT + 12 hours
Visa: Three months, extendable in country
Language: English
Cost of living: Moderate to high
Seasons: To avoid Southern Hemisphere cyclone season, mid-November to mid-April
Temperature: 75-86 degrees F
Major ports of entry: Opua, Whangarei, Auckland, Tauranga, Wellington
Travel tip: Sailing south from Tonga, consider a midway respite in the submerged Minerva Reef.

Cruising Guide and Online Resources New Zealand Cruising Guide, Central Area, by Keith Murray; Steven William Publications
Tourism New Zealand
New Zealand Charter Guide
Hauraki Gulf & Islands

Cruising Hot Spots
Whangaroa Harbour and Cavalli Islands
Bay of Islands: Visit historic town of Russell.
Hauraki Gulf: Don’t miss Great Barrier Island.
Marlborough Sounds Golden Bay: See Abel Tasman National Park.

Famous New Zealand Foods and Wines
Bluff oysters
Marlborough salmon
Greenlip mussels
Wild boar
New Zealand lamb
Marlborough sauvignon blanc
Otago pinot noir

Winery Tours

North Island
Mission Estate
Coopers Creek
Villa Maria

South Island
Giesens
Brancott Estate
Cloudy Bay
Herzog Estate

Additional Activities
Marlborough Falcon Trust
Lochmara Lodge Wildlife Recovery and Art Center
Omaka Aviation Heritage Centre (sponsored by Sir Peter Jackson)
Lord of the Rings tours or www.hobbitontours.com

This article first appeared in the February 2014 issue of Cruising World.

New Zealand Map

Watching Emirates Team NZ

Voila Sailboat

New Zealand small-town marina

Sailing in New Zealand

The post New Zealand: Land of the Long White Cloud appeared first on Cruising World.

charter-galapagos.jpg

charter-great-lakes.jpg

charter-seychelles.jpg

charter-croatia.jpg

charter-antigua.jpg

charter-san-juan-islands.jpg

charter-cabrera-spain.jpg

charter-bvi-anchorages.jpg

charter-french_canals.jpg

charter-bahamas.jpg

charter-st-eustatius.jpg

charter-chesapeake.jpg

charter-turkey.jpg

charter-apostle-islands.jpg

charter-tonga.jpg

charter-culebra.jpg

charter-101.jpg

The post Best Charter Destinations appeared first on Cruising World.

Pacific Northwest Sailing

What a perfect coincidence. It was June 22, the day of the Summer Sailstice, the worldwide celebration of sail on the solstice. Aboard Raven, our Catalina 42, not only had my mates and I remembered to bring along the event’s burgee, we actually remembered to raise it too, letting it fly during a light-air sail from the base of San Juan Sailing in Bellingham, Washington, to Sucia Island, one of the San Juans group.

With a couple of kayaks lashed to the deck, and daylight that lasted well past 9 p.m., our crew and the crews of eight other boats in the flotilla organized by the American Sailing Association were bursting with anticipation. Not only were all of us thrilled to be out sailing, with the promise of all the attendant rewarding activities like hiking and making new friends while exploring new places, we were bursting with anticipation of another phenomenon that had grabbed the headlines: the Super Moon, so called for the enhanced appearance of the orb due to its position at perigee.

And was it ever. Later, snug on moorings at Echo Bay, after paddling, dinghy racing — yes, dinghy racing — cocktail hour and dinner, we took in with awe the giant white light of the moon. What a calming end note to a jam-packed day. And what a great way to start what would culminate in a terrific adventure for our group of 35 new and veteran sailors.

Our route for the week, as scoped out by Roger Philips, flotilla leader and two-time ASA instructor of the year, led our mixed fleet of monohulls and multihulls north from Bellingham through the San Juans to the Pacific coast of British

Columbia, Canada, and included stops in the cosmopolitan city of Vancouver, as well as its lush, rural opposite, nearby Bowen Island, before heading back south. Clearing in with Canadian and U.S. customs officials was, of course, part of the itinerary.

While Roger, who has partnered with San Juan Sailing for six years on this trip, relies on the resources of the base, its fleet and staff, he’s the hands-on guide, the one who oversees a pile of helpful details, from reminding sailors to bring along their passports to putting crews of varying skill levels together.

When I was introduced to him before our short flight to Bellingham from Seattle, I had a chance to gain some insight into the ASA flotilla experience.

Flotillas, Roger said, were a way to take the experience of formal ASA curriculum instruction to the next level. “It’s primarily a fun thing and an adventure for people,” he said. “You learn, but then what? Going with a group is more fun. It’s nice.”

Without realizing it, my flotilla leader had just issued me an order.

On the spot, I decided that wherever we made landfall, I’d invite myself over to the other boats and ask my fellows in this fun cruise in company who they were, how they were doing, and why they’d come along.

Kim Reinbold, part of the crew who’d chartered One World, a Lagoon 400, happily stood out as a perfect example of the ambitious learner.

“Any day on a boat is a good day,” said the biologist, who works for the Environmental Protection Agency in Ohio. “Being on the water has been a passion all my life. I grew up close to Lake Erie and my dad had Thistles. At a Discover Sailing event, I sailed on a 36-foot Hunter, and it was the first time I was on a bigger boat under sail. I was hooked! Karl, my husband, and I can retire in eight years, and we want to sell it all and move aboard. This is a test to see if I can handle it and like it. There are only so many times you can do this, living in Ohio. We have a huge learning curve. We’re looking forward to more learning. The dream is still alive!”

Kim’s colleague Ken Mottler isn’t a sailor, but was invited to join the rest of the One World crew. “It’s a little bit like taking a sip from a fire hose,” he said. “The learning is so much fun.”

For many, the Pacific Northwest destination was uncharted territory. Globe girdlers Rick Waters and his wife, Sarah Beran, aboard Liberty, a Hunter 41, had come home for three weeks from the Middle East, and were eager to reunite with friends and family and catch a break from 120-degree heat.

While the couple had ASA certification and had chartered in the Caribbean and Thailand, they’d never sailed in the Pacific Northwest, where Sarah is from. “We weren’t that comfortable with cold-water sailing, tides and currents,” Rick said. “And we also wanted to be around experienced sailors so we could learn more from them. This is great. The briefing was thorough. We like the radio calls and the chart briefings. We like both sailing and exploring, so this is a nice mix. And it’s nice we can do things on our own.”

While most boats carried mates who knew each other, a few carried crew who didn’t. “We talked by Skype video to each other, and in the spirit of helping people go sailing, I decided to do it,” John Kvederis, the captain of Salus, a Jeanneau 40, told me before we set out.

As days went by, I was eager to hear how things were progressing aboard Salus. I visited the crew while they were lounging in the cockpit on a rainy morning, the fleet having docked at Fisherman’s Wharf Marina on Granville Island, in Vancouver, the previous night.

“I’m from Seattle,” said James Smith, a young man with a long beard who sported bright yellow foul-weather gear from head to toe. “I just finished college, and I’m headed to California to open a bakery and restaurant. This was the last part of what I wanted to see and do in the Pacific Northwest. I was looking for more time on the water. As for sailing with strangers, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I really enjoy these guys.”

The cruising ground straddling the 49th parallel that separates Canada and the United States in the temperate Pacific Northwest region offers up a range of challenges: little wind to sudden and intense wind: tidal fluctuations from 2 to 12 feet; currents and countercurrents of 2 to 6 knots.

There’s more, the kingpins at San Juan Sailing, owner Roger Van Dyken and manager Rick Sale, had advised. Throughout the week, we kept in mind their handy boat-handling tips and their warnings to stay on the alert for shipping lanes, rocks, fog, logs, and crab and shrimp pots. We avoided distractions, refrained from complacency, and made our own decisions.

We were so good at doing what we were told that I started thinking we were behaving more like a classroom of shy, attentive schoolchildren than a salt-stained crew of rum-swilling swashbucklers, but so be it. While scanning the majestic skyline of dark emerald forest and mountain, we stayed on guard for ships, logs, rocks, frothy tide lines full of bull kelp, fog and fluky winds. Reward came in numerous sightings of seals and Dall’s porpoises, puffins, kingfishers and bald eagles, and, while kayaking, purple sea stars and plump anemones closer to shore.

When it rained, I was grateful the deluges washed a touch of our wholesome tendencies away. “Let’s meet at a bar for happy hour,” suggested Judy Croyle from Cat’s Paw, a Gemini cat, while we were still in Vancouver. Word circulated, and hours later, damp crews from several boats bonded at Bridges, a local restaurant, swapping sea stories and learning from each other how sailing had drawn them to this point and place in their lives.

The tale of how former motorcyclist Erin Laird, crewmate aboard the Catalina 42 Hula Kai, came to the flotilla is poignant and hinted at new beginnings. “I can’t ride anymore,” she told me, “so I’m looking for something new.” Injured in a bad accident a couple of years back, Erin said she has recovered to the point that she can participate in a new activity, and she’s exploring sailing and its liveaboard lifestyle.

I’d accepted an invitation from flotilla leader Roger to take the short 10-mile hop from Vancouver to Bowen Island without realizing that Erin was part of the crew, so I was looking forward to getting to know her a little during our sail.

As we got under way, the wind filled in, blowing a decent 10-15 knots from the south. Roger directed his crew to fly wing and wing, with Erin, who’d been soaking up his instruction like a sponge, at the helm.

For a new sailor, off-the-wind sailing can be challenging, and staying in the right slot to keep the sails filled nerve-racking, but Erin stayed focused. “This is cool, really cool, but I have to concentrate,” she announced. “It’s hard.”

“It is hard, but you’re getting it,” Roger said, adding, “Hey, we’re sailing!”

“Finally!” Erin exclaimed.

“My job is done!” said Roger.

And with that Hula Kai and crew glided gracefully toward Bowen Island, ahead of the bulk of the fleet. Once all the boats were in and tied up at the docks, we struck out for Doc Morgan’s, where a spread awaited on the pub’s suddenly sun-drenched deck.

CW deputy editor Elaine Lembo writes about chartering. This article first appeared in the March 2014 issue of Cruising World.

The post Convoy in the Pacific Northwest appeared first on Cruising World.

Lost Island

The search for an island off the Chilean coast turns into a 5,000-mile wild goose chase that unfolds oh, so slowly.

My Wanderer III is a small boat, and Klaus is a big man. For him to climb out of the uncomfortable cockpit, down the companionway, and into his narrow bunk is strenuous in this rolling sea, the remnants of what must have been a hard blow down in the Southern Ocean. Being becalmed in this 4-meter swell requires physical, as well as mental stamina. Once lying down, he admits that he hadn’t imagined passagemaking to be quite like this: The sails slap unbearably, an incessant, maddening clanging comes from the lockers, and from somewhere else an annoying squeak. Finally in the bunk, the back muscles protest against the constant motion, and often all this misery is accompanied by snoring too.

“It’s a madhouse,” says Klaus.

“A mad boat,” I correct him.

We haven’t even come very far yet, only about 400 nautical miles on our circuit of all Chile’s oceanic islands in the East Pacific, from Puerto Montt back to Puerto Montt. Five thousand nautical miles in three months, that’s the plan. But whenever I include Isla Podestá in our itinerary, Klaus calls me crazy. “An island 900 nautical miles west of the Chilean mainland? You must be joking,” he says. “Between Isla Róbinson Crusoe and Easter Island? Never!”

Klaus has been Chilean for 68 years and had never heard of the place, except from me.

I first encountered Isla Podestá half a year earlier, by chance, on the fifth day of a Southern Ocean storm. My wife, Kicki, and I had been stuck at 40 degrees south, 1,000 nautical miles from Chile’s coast, for days. We were beset by headwinds instead of the usual westerlies that are normally so dominant around the East Pacific High. We lay powerless in our sea berths, drifting backward under bare poles, pitching heavily into seas that broke over us. It was our 62nd day at sea. We still had fresh water, but not a lot. With consistently low barometric pressure, I was looking for alternatives. To fall off for Easter Island to the northwest meant retreat, defeat and still promised no safe harbor. I measured 800 nautical miles on my chart — a well-used specimen with coffee stains, old position marks and taped-on bits of paper to enlarge the ocean. That’s when it caught my eye, not as an alternative, but as a dot: Isla Podestá. That was my first awareness of it.

Klaus’ well-worn Chilean nautical pilot book describes Podestá as an island two-thirds of a nautical mile in circumference, with a sand bank that reaches 2 nautical miles to the southwest and a height of 12.2 meters. That’s not even the height of Wanderer’s mast.

What would one find there? Probably a mysterious collection of flotsam, I’d guess.

“Something for Christie’s auctioneers,” Klaus reckons. But that’s if Podestá actually exists. And in the end, it’s fairly immaterial, since we can’t load much of anything onto the 30-foot-long Wanderer.

Podestá’s elevation, as recorded in Klaus’ book, dates back to an observation from 127 years ago. How high might it be today? Isla Róbinson Crusoe, at 915 meters high and perfectly visible, doesn’t require such speculation. It’s the first we encounter of our Chilean ocean islands, and colder than in my childhood dreams. It’s there that we drop the hook for a visit.

It’s raining, and three of us sit on the veranda of the Villa Green Hosteria talking and letting the time pass.

“I’ve studied everything: in libraries, private collections, in South America, in Europe, letters, reports, charts,” Bernard Kayser, an American from Chicago, tells us. Punctually at 6 p.m., dusty and dirty after a day’s work digging for lost treasure, he comes to relax on this veranda. He spins a convoluted tale of British pirates and much gold, a burial, a deadly shipboard explosion in Valparaíso, a code, a plan and several-hundred-year-old notes with a reference to a tree that has long since become victim to erosion. He is speaking of a treasure for which he has been digging for five years. He is the second largest employer on the island each summer.

To me, his Róbinson Crusoe treasure and Isla Podestá share at least one thing: vagueness. His probings are like those of the Chilean navy, the Armada. Ships were sent in search of Podestá several times:_ Pinta, Pardo_, also in 1957 the sail training ship Esmeralda. They initiated a systematic, 1,350-kilometer-square grid-search around Podestá’s alleged coordinates of 32 degrees, 14 minutes south and 89 degrees, 8 minutes west.

The Armada had good weather and excellent visibility, probably just like what we have as we prepare to put to sea. “No wind and clear skies,” reports the meteorological chart in the Róbinson Crusoe harbormaster’s office. For weeks I’ve been keeping a skeptical eye on the windless East Pacific High, 550 nautical miles distant. It’s centered where Podestá ought to be. I know all too well that such conditions are impossible to counter with just 40 liters of diesel in our tanks.

For much of this voyage, the sea is a flat calm, and the crew lounges on deck.

But right now in this harbor there’s a breeze that pulls us on. So I find myself in front of an Armada official who, like his counterparts throughout Chilean waters, is noting down our destinations precisely. They are all islands that are seldom visited and without anchorages: Isla Más Afuera, known today as Isla Alejandro Selkirk, San Ambrosio, Sala-y-Gómez. Isla San Félix is forbidden because it’s in a military exclusion zone. And Isla Podestá is not known to him.

That’s exactly what I find so fascinating, that nobody knows about it, even though I’d plainly seen it on various charts. In order to point the island out to him I turn to the topographical wall chart that I recall from an earlier visit as being behind me. I had seen Podestá on it when we arrived here. But as I turn, there is nothing but bare stucco. I’m confused; how could I not have noticed? What happened to it? Within this past week the deep blue chart — and Podestá along with it — had been taken down, leaving a blank wall.

The summer sea, the sky, the horizon, everything has become gray. One hundred nautical miles west of Isla Róbinson Crusoe, Isla Alejandro Selkirk is a 1,600-meter high, 1.5 million-year-old mass of the same hue. There isn’t a sign of the 17 families that fish crayfish here from September to April. But over the VHF radio we are warned about anchor-swallowing rubble. So we let Más Afuera, as the island is known on older charts, slip astern and soon allow the windvane to control the course.

For days, under an endlessly bleak cloud blanket, the southerly blows us northward. Away from the windless center of the East Pacific High, the Walker Log counts the miles, birds instead of fish eye our lure, and Klaus’ Tahitian sun cream — his South Seas thermometer — remains as hard as rock. So far we’re getting no closer to understanding Podestá’s either physical or cartographic existence.

Meanwhile Klaus and I have started discussing the length of a nose. Pinocchio was the name of the Italian captain of the vessel Barone Podestà, who discovered and described Isla Podestá in 1879. Maybe it was a mere figment of his imagination, something to ensure his immortality? If so, he succeeded, as the island was handed on from chart to chart since it was sighted. Imagination has always played a part in the history of cartography.

Klaus’ imagination has sprung to life too. He dreams of a playa at Isla San Ambrosio, and of celebrating Christmas with lobster. Around New Year’s, seasonal fishermen usually camp there, his pilot book says. He is full of hopes. Those dreams disintegrate in sight of San Ambrosio’s eastern cape. Rough swells crash on vertical volcanic rock. Farther along the northern cliffs we find a wedge-shaped inlet with foaming water, 40 meters deep. The rocks beyond obviously are what is referred to as the beach, and we see Spanish names hewn into them. To the right, there’s a rusty metal bar for lifting and lowering fresh water and the catch. We spot an old oven crumbling out in the open, and then nothing else. These are the remnants left by fishermen perhaps 100 years ago. Clearly, no one has been here for a while. And now, it’s me who is doubtful.

“I can’t trust the translations of your pilot books anymore, Klaus,” I chide him. “They’re all dreams, these Chilean handbooks.”

Our presence near the island is discovered the next morning from the 10-miles-distant San Félix. During the border conflict with Peru, San Ambrosio was part of the forbidden zone, and together with San Félix’s airstrip and navy base, it continues to be off limits to visitors. Citing ornithological interests, we ask at least to be allowed a rounding of the nearby towering Roca Catedral de Peterborough outcropping. Permission granted.

Pushed on by the trades, Wanderer III_ closes on Islas Juan Fernández, off the coast of Chile._

The wind has turned easterly and is pushing our poled-out sails. The bleakness of Chile’s ocean, with its untouchable islands, is receding behind us. The gray is breaking up and the sun is coming through. After a week under leaden skies, the South Seas shimmer, and a tropical feel mixes into our lives. To be pushed westward by the trades is a well-known pleasure, but on this occasion it’s more short-lived than I remembered. Already, just three days into it, a deep red sunrise heralds a calm.

While we still have a breeze, things are more civilized than in a long time. Klaus serves coffee with a soft-boiled egg and freshly baked bread. All is tidy and calm.

Back on Isla Róbinson Crusoe, Leo Pisas, fisherman and mayor, had come aboard and answered my query about Podestá hesitantly, saying, “Maybe that’s the island we call Isla Blanca.”

So our search continues. Something exists, or existed, beyond the horizon — it’s just not certain whether Pisas’ Isla Blanca is identical with Podestá.

Could Podestá instead be Yosemite Rock, sighted in 1903, and looked for, but not found, in 1904 and 1909? Or Emily Rock, last seen in 1873? There is also Sefton Reef, sighted in 1908. But what, I wonder, precisely distinguishes an unconfirmed rock from an unconfirmed island? Perhaps the answer is that every seafarer will take pains to avoid a rock, a reef or a shoal. But islands attract; one wants to reach them and explore them.

We want to explore Podestá, if we can. But instead we drift for days in an endless calm. The only sound is the pensive slapping of the sails, and louder, the ticking of the clock. We’re at a crawl. It’s as if the Pacific were miserly and can only give us warmth to melt Klaus’ sun cream, but not wind to be on our way. This too is different from how Klaus imagined passagemaking. Not to be in control, to rely on whims, worries him, the airplane pilot. Slowness is incapacitating.

A slightly crinkled ocean surface gives the pretense of movement, but actually it’s masking lethargy. Klaus counters this windlessness with a bucket. On the foredeck he pours seawater over himself several times a day.

This water is full of single-celled creatures. Here in the ocean’s upper layer I see countless floating bits: plankton, simple life. But among them I see something else. Upon careful inspection I discover tiny particles of plastic. I wish I were imagining it, but the deep blue sea surface is strewn with a loosely woven carpet of civilization’s rubbish. In 1947 Thor Heyerdahl drifted near here on_ Kon Tiki,_ through a trash-free ocean full of life.

One can see this carpet only in a calm. Once the wind blows and the waves come, the carpet rips apart and the ocean sparkles. Motion hides so much, pollution included.

Incredulous, I lean over the railing and stare deeper into the sea. Fifty meters under the keel, details fade into the deep blue. It’s rare that I contemplate the abyssal landscapes while I float above them. But Podestá’s mystery has caused me to pull out the Chilean sea-bottom chart showing the Nazca Plate. The many volcanoes on it appear cloned. As part of an underwater mountain range called Cordon Roggeveen, I see a dot on a perfect cone: Isla Podestá it says, and below it in red letters: Chile. This dot, now 350 miles distant, is our nearest neighbor for weeks.

We eat, we drink, we read, we’re silent. At times we travel at a knot, sometimes a knot and a half, often less. Our movement comes always without any ocean gurgling, and so is nearly unnoticeable. To preside over motionlessness during night watches is tiring. Daytime is easier. Then, seen from the shady oasis of the cockpit, the ocean becomes a stage with an uninterrupted array of world premiers. To the rest of the world, we mimic Podestá. Nobody knows where we are.

For 17 days the windless dome of the East Pacific High unites us with Podestá, without any chance of reaching it. Podestá remains untouchable. It eluded the Chilean Armada, and remains today as a phantom island, not seen since Capt. Pinocchio.

But what if Capt. Pinocchio actually did discover an island in 1879, only for it later to disappear? Geophysical phenomena might explain its coming and going. The oceans change, after all, even within the course of a century. Instead of biodiversity, we are surrounded by plastic rubbish; instead of a 12.2-meter-tall island, nothing?

In the buzz of our modern world we act as if the oceans are full of life; perhaps this is as real as Podestá on our charts. Not finding the island is not the same as its not existing. Capt. Pinocchio saw something back then, on the ocean, where fantasy so easily blends with reality. Edges blur when wind and sea fall quiet. The days with and the days without wind melt together. Hours strangely lengthen, relationships find new forms. The eye sees solid rock in puffy clouds, or a threatening reef in a school of jumping fish. And when moonlight paints the sea with surrealistic hues, islands appear everywhere. There is no limit to potential deceptions.

Wanderer III lies at anchor in the still-rough lee of Easter Island.

But the presence of frigatebirds offers orientation. Eventually on our journey, their screeching becomes part of our days and there, small and rocky, we slowly make out a darkened lighthouse, red and white striped. Sala-y-Gómez is real. It offers minimal protection, and we anchor on bands of sand and coral in 30 meters of water.

Later we spend 13 nights under the supervision of a moai in Hanga Piko, the tiny harbor at Easter Island, another tangible reality.

Yet having left Easter Island on a course south of the East Pacific High, at the end of a 5,000-nautical-mile circle in search of an unseen island, absolutes are again relative. Dense fog at the Chilean coast swallows all certainty of our position. Like Capt. Pinocchio, we lack electronic instruments and we depend on sextant sights, which we aren’t getting. So everything remains approximation, assumption, possibility. I hear unnerving sounds: gurgling water, bird cries, then sea lions in the night.

Many months later, back in Puerto Montt, I sit at a computer and explore Google Earth. In front of the screen I become a navigator on a totally different journey. Clicking the mouse I advance with ease. Without coming upon the East Pacific High, I find answers. Podestá stands clearly before me. Hardly 4 miles from its charted position, at precisely 32 degrees, 18 minutes, 01.91 seconds south and 89 degrees, 08 minutes, 07.78 seconds west.

Is this fantasy or reality? For a phantom island, the position is absurdly precise.

Thies and Kicki Matzen, aboard Wanderer III, are now on the Atlantic coast of South America. This article first appeared in the January 2014 issue of Cruising World.

The post The Lost Isle of Podestá appeared first on Cruising World.

Balearic Islands Sailing

My interest in one day visiting Spain’s Balearic Islands was piqued again after we published a story in the February 2014 issue of Cruising World by William Fitzgerald, who took his Mahé 36 catamaran to the nature reserve of Cabrera, which lies about 30 nautical miles south of Mallorca. So it was a stroke of great serendipity that while I was in Paris for Salon Nautique I stumbled upon the booth of Alquila Vela Charter.

Or maybe it was a sign of great fatigue. My French is rusty and after a long day of pumping my brain in an effort to remember a phrase here and there, I was tired. But I perked up when I heard English being spoken by Luis Fernández Bucy, who was greeting customers interested in chartering Mediterranean destinations.

One thing led quickly to another, and in a month I’ll visit the Alquila Vela Charter base in Denia, on Spain’s east coast, to learn more about sailing the Balearics and the Canary Islands, where the company has its other bases.

Bucy is eager to focus on itineraries that allow bareboat sailors to spend a week or more exploring the anchorages of the well-known island of Ibiza; longer itineraries with stops in other islands, including Cabrera, are also possible. Stay tuned for a future Charter Briefing and more details about how you can sail your way to a long-sought-after Balearic Islands vacation.

Click here to read William Fitzgerald’s story about sailing in Cabrera.

The post Consider the Balearics for a Charter Sailing Vacation appeared first on Cruising World.

Sailing Cabrera Spain

It became a fateful, inhospitable lockup for 9,000 of Napoleon’s French soldiers after a defeat in the Peninsular War, from 1808 to 1814. Of that total number of troops sent there, only 3,600 survived the starvation and isolation.

Docked at a marina aboard Simba, my Mahé 36 catamaran, during a leisurely sojourn in the Med, talk of this beautiful yet melancholy place got the best of me. After asking about visiting requirements, I filled in the paperwork to sail a privately owned boat there. The same requirement applies to charter boats.

With about 50 mooring buoys in the harbor, permits are issued for one night only in the months of July and August, two nights in June and September and up to seven nights the rest of the year. Cost is according to boat length. Anchoring is forbidden. No fishing, no camping, no fires, no pets, no dumping; rest rooms are provided.

My partner, Joanie Jacobs, and I left the following day from Palma; a light breeze lifted us the 30 miles. The harbor is difficult to discern until you are upon it because it opens up into a fantastic natural bay with a fortress on the left that rises from a clump of stones. The castle was built in the 15th century; its primary purpose was to guard the natural harbor and to stop pirates from using it as a staging area to raid the surrounding islands.

I was transfixed. Stone walls climb from the sea to line the entrance. We went there in March, and it was wonderfully quiet. By nightfall there were only six other boats in the harbor. The water was beautifully clear with the bottom purely visible; the bay was dotted with small dwellings along the eastern shore and the landing was just south of the castle. An array of solar panels, spread out on the northeast hill, helped power the small settlement.

We dinghied to the landing, a small area that included a concrete pier, several official-looking RIBs, a wooden sailboat and a few other small boats. Our goal was to take the steep climb to the fortress. Its sheer walls are part of the landscape; it starts from a rough stone outcropping and grows upward into smooth vertical walls. A small portal leads to a spiral staircase that exits onto the parapets. The battlement has embracements for half-a-dozen cannons; to the east, a large vaulted room would have been the magazine for gunpowder. Above the embracement is a smaller observation area with a large frayed Spanish flag snapping in the breeze.

The views were panoramic — to the south, the harbor of Cabrera; to the north, Cap de Ses Salines, the southern tip of Mallorca; to the northeast, the small windswept Illa dels Conills, and a group of 15 islets punctuated by the lighthouse at Illa Horadada.

We left the next morning and motored back to Palma. The sea, like glass, reflected the hills and sky, and there was a light mist.

The setting was serene and peaceful, but I wondered how such a place could be so many different things — pirates’ cove, garrison, death camp, and today a nature reserve. Time dictates function, and Cabrera now has reverted to what it had been for eons: a natural and beautiful safe harbor from the sea.

Web Extras
For details about visiting requirements, log on to Spain’s national park website.
Contact Naviera Balear, the Sunsail Sailing Vacations local partner in Palma, for details about visiting Cabrera.

This article first appeared in the February 2014 issue of Cruising World.

The post Cabrera, Spain: A Gem with a Grisly Past appeared first on Cruising World.