According to legend, during one of Zeus’ myriad extramarital affairs, he impregnated the Titaness Leto whose swelling from their affair caused the notice of Hera — Zeus’ wife and queen of the gods. Hera was so infuriated by her husband’s infidelity that she forbade Leto from giving birth on solid land. After being denied access at every shoreline she encountered, Leto became frantic in her search to find somewhere safe for childbearing, until at last Poseidon (at the request of Zeus) guided her ship to a floating piece of rock not yet rooted to the seabed, called Delos. There she managed to go ashore and through great effort and pain gave birth to twins, Artemis and Apollo — two of the most venerated gods from antiquity.

With such a divine claim, Delos would become one of the most pilgrimaged, important and wealthy islands in the classical world, and upon its shores a bustling and beautiful city full of temples and fueled by commerce grew into great success. Alas, fortunes change and Delos was eventually sacked and robbed by pirates and then all but abandoned for nearly two millennia before being rediscovered by archeologists in the late 19th century.

Today, no one lives on Delos. It operates as a World Heritage Site and one of the best kept open-air archaeological museums in the country. However, visitors from nearby Mykonos come by the ferry load day after day to ramble among the ancient ruins, which are undisputedly impressive. Luckily for those cruising on their own boat in the Greek islands, you can skip the ferry ride and drop your own anchor in the same harbor where ground tackle of all kinds has been laid for well over 3,000 years.

I’ve heard it said that the Aegean Sea is the most-visited cruising ground in the world, and it’s easy to see why. With over 2,000 islands to its claim, not to mention a seemingly endless and richly indented continental coastline, an entire lifetime spent in Greece is still insufficient to explore all of the country’s nooks and crannies. So if you’re like us — visitors from non-EU countries on 90-day tourist visas — then you can forget about “seeing it all.” But even three months is generous when considering that most visiting sailors can only afford to charter for a week or two. Either way, cruising Greece requires narrowing your options — “Do less, achieve more,” as my wife, Clare, would say — but that doesn’t mean missing out.

In our three months of cruising aboard Champagne, our Dufour 35, we touched 24 Greek islands, some for the briefest of nights, others for weeks of languid indulgence. Some islands provide the ideal opportunity for replacing worn boat items, while others offer little more than a delicious meal with a beautiful view. Some islands are inundated with obnoxious tourist infrastructure, while others are desolate, riddled only with idyllic coves and secluded beaches. Not only do anchorages abound, but the prevalence of public seawalls will change your perspective on cruising the Med.

RELATED: Sail the Greek Isles in Style

Although not a secret to anyone who has visited the Greek islands by boat before, we were earnestly surprised to learn that nearly every harbor offers free dockage along the town quay. Granted, this means Med-mooring against a concrete pier that scarcely offers any amenities, but the feeling of welcome and the spirit of public provision is unmistakable.

Evidence of Greece’s nautical heritage is clearly visible in every harbor: A plethora of colorful, well-kept wooden boats tug at their moorings; piles of fishing nets line the quays, either ready for service or being quietly mended by hand; iron rings are anchored into convenient rocks along busy shorelines, providing additional mooring options should the quay be full.

These are a people who have made their living from the sea far longer than anyone can accurately remember, and as such they understand her bounty and her demands. Safe harbors aren’t to be rigidly orchestrated, they’re to be openly shared. As a culture steeped in interisland travel, Greeks appreciate that the end of a difficult passage is best rewarded with a pleasant sleep, preferably after a hearty meal, while safely tied up in a secure harbor.

Historically speaking, the success of an island was linked to its ease of access, and perhaps that same rule applies today. Public seawalls aren’t just a convenience, they’re a necessary lifeline.

Consider the history of Delos: After successfully birthing her divine twins there, Leto promised great wealth to the otherwise harsh and inhospitable speck of rock by insisting that a vast number of pilgrims would flock there to worship such a sacred birthplace. And sure enough, the island found great success not because of vast natural resources or massive military might, but because it welcomed and met the needs of all who arrived by sea. Although perhaps not the birthplace of sailing, the Greek islands nevertheless serve as a worthwhile and hospitable pilgrimage site for any worshiper of wind and waves.

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Albania Port Authority, this is sailing vessel Champagne requesting permission to enter harbor.”

Radio silence.

This was now our fourth time trying to hail the local authorities, something we were instructed was necessary prior to arrival.

“Albania Port Authority, this is sailing vessel Champagne. Do you copy?”

More radio silence.

“Champagne, this is your port agent, please proceed into the harbor and to the commercial dock. We have secured a berthing space for you. You will need to enter stern-to alongside the passenger ferry and use your anchor. Someone will be on the dock to catch your lines.”

“Good, copy. Thank you very much; see you soon. Champagne clear.”

Albania was the first ­country we’ve visited that requires the use of a third-­party agent in order to clear in, and although we initially felt miffed about it, we ended up being grateful. The agency we chose, Saranda Summer Tours, is run by a husband-and-wife team, Gazmend Demiri and Jelja Serani. Jelja, who knows English and typically handles communications, called us back on the radio when the local authorities failed to do so and ensured Gazmend would be waiting to help on the dock. Extra hands are always welcome when ­docking, but especially so for us, considering that we had never actually berthed stern-to using our own anchor to keep us off the seawall — so called Med mooring.

Heck, we still weren’t even comfortable maneuvering our boat in reverse. But then I saw a man on the dock vigorously waving his arms at us and indicating where we were to direct the boat. You’ve got to be kidding, I thought. Not only did we need to back in while strategically paying out just the right speed and amount of anchor chain, but our spot was whittled into the deepest hole on the dock, between a massive 150-plus-foot pirate-looking tourist boat and a string of brand-new 50-foot sailing yachts. I felt like closing my eyes and crossing my fingers, but figured that my wife, Clare — on the helm — might want a little more active participation.

Of course, none of the dock-bound onlookers knew that this was our first time Med mooring, and we were so nervous that we couldn’t even yell at each other, which had the effect of making us seem all the more cool and comfortable. Miraculously, beginner’s luck served us without flaw, and before we knew it, our trusty steed was all nestled up in its hole, having not rubbed a single fender among the lot. Wow, did we just do that? No time for celebration though; Gazmend was politely amusing himself by looking off into space as he waited for us to gather our passports and boat documents and step ashore.

RELATED: Learning to Sail in the Mediterranean Sea

In Saranda, the commercial port offered the only berthing space available for visiting private craft. All traffic to and from the dock must invariably pass through the offices of customs and immigration. Tall wrought-iron fences corralled us into the intimidating three-story building, where uniformed officers were milling about, apparently with not much to do. Our agent offered a few words and a wave, and without even breaking stride — forget about showing identification — we were permitted to bypass the checkpoint luggage scanner, climb the inoperable escalator, pass through the glass doors, skirt around the manned vehicle-gate booth and gain the streets, which were bustling with souvenir shops, kabob cafes and packaged-tour outfits.

The booming tourist infrastructure of Saranda sprouted from Soviet bloc-era concrete in the past decade, with Albania now further settling into its reimagined post-communism identity. Although this seaside town has long served as a domestic holiday getaway for mountain-bound Albanians who are able to afford a week at the beach, its proximity to Corfu, Greece — just a handful of nautical miles away — means there is a much larger Western market available, and it’s now plainly evident that Albanians are hungry to capitalize.

RELATED: Hidden Croatia, a Crossroads of European History

We followed Gazmend up the road into his office and took a seat while he went to work behind a computer. He and Jelja noticed the writing on the wall some years ago and started Saranda Summer Tours. Although they offer a variety of services for all foreigners, they specialize in assisting visiting yachts. Not only can they both properly cleat a dock line, but they are familiar with many of the specific concerns of cruising sailors — how to get water and fuel, where to land a dinghy, what VHF channels to monitor — and are quick to go the extra mile with personal assistance.

Everything was sorted within a half-hour, and we departed with a map in hand that was marked with local recommendations. Jelja accompanied us back to the immigration building, met an officer on our behalf and within minutes returned our freshly stamped passports. We were now free to go as we pleased. Geez, that was easy, I thought. Now I almost wish more countries required the use of an agent.

We returned to fully settle the boat and clean ourselves up before heading out for an early evening stroll. As mentioned, the only way from the dock to the street was through the customs and immigration building, and at first we were uncertain of the protocol and whether we needed to show our passports. The staff seemed quite relaxed, however, and usually permitted our passage after looking up from their smartphones to offer a simple nod — easy enough.

In contrast, we were once asked to have our bags X-rayed, but the plan was quickly abandoned when the officer noticed a rainbow assortment of fresh produce spilling out from our day’s shopping. On another occasion, we were stopped by a guard we hadn’t seen yet, but after seeming to catch the word sailboat during our explanation he waved us through.

Before our arrival here, I couldn’t have pointed out Albania on a map. Clare, of course, has already been here before. She’s well-traveled, and it’s a continual struggle to find places she’s yet to visit — she even has an Albanian hip flask to prove it. But if you’re like me and new to Albania, you might be surprised at your good fortune of landing on these shores.

Not only will you save a pocketful of cash while sipping umbrellaed cocktails from a seaside beach chair, but being outside of the European Union also means that time spent in Albania doesn’t count against your tourist-visa allotted time within Schengen Agreement countries. Most surprising and striking to me, however, was the dramatic beauty of the lush and rugged countryside. I never expected Albania to be so naturally stunning.

We hired a car for a day — another task made easy by our new agency friends, who didn’t even require looking at a driver’s license — and drove into the dominating mountains set just behind town. A turnoff onto a gravel road led to the noted Blue Eye, an underground spring that brings crystalline waters up to the surface. Surrounded by lush hillsides and engulfed by the sounds of bubbling water and buzzing insects, it felt as if we had stumbled into a lush jungle sustained by crisp, clean mountain air — a very welcome contrast to the hazy, gray, salt-sticky sea level humidity we were so accustomed to.

The highway continued up, ­switchbacking profusely before gaining a narrow pass and then a long descent down into a fertile river valley, which was undoubtedly the glacial handiwork of a former ice age. Verdant spring-blossoming fields lined either side of a river that tumbled its way to lower ground. Another hour of driving along this river brought us to the ancient town of Gjirokaster.

Worthy of any postcard, the town is composed of an undulating series of humble buildings, clad under slate-stone roofs that climb their way up the hillside. A castle is perched atop, offering stunning views all around. But before you enjoy the vistas, take a tour through the so-called Cold War tunnels, a network of underground offices and passageways that served as the administrative center for the whole region, and were kept secret from both the Soviets and the Yanks, who were each volleying Albania for strategic advantage.

“One tunnel even leads all the way through the mountain to the next village over,” our guide, Eni, said during his tour, “and these underground compounds exist all over the country.”

It’s difficult to imagine such sinister times in a town now well established on the country’s burgeoning tourist ­checklist. Even the prime minister was here for a visit when we pulled up — hence all the sunglasses-adorned business suits and black sedans that ensure no parking spaces are available. No matter — the town is so steep that it is best explored on foot.

On the way home, we took advantage of a big highway supermarket to re-­provision Champagne on the cheap. It’s a long drive back in the dark, but that didn’t stop us from getting up early the next morning to visit the exquisite archeological site of Butrinti. The remains of this ancient village lie on yet another dramatic natural landscape, this one several miles up a coastal estuary amid a vibrant wetlands surrounded by rolling hills. Our next destination, Corfu, was visible across a narrow stretch of sea.

With more time, we would have lazed on the beach at nearby Ksamil, a turquoise-watered enclave that we cheekily motored through on our way up to the port of Saranda prior to our original check-in. In fact, our agent Jelja gave us a surprising reprimand for taking that sneak peek when we met in her office that first day.

“We saw your vessel on AIS stray into Ksamil waters, which is not allowed. You must first proceed directly to Port Saranda!”

Maybe this explained the small but powerfully armed Albanian navy craft we saw hovering discreetly outside the main harbor as we passed by trying to establish contact with the port authority? That patrol boat made a lazy turn and casually trailed our heading until, at last, Jelja called back with further instruction.

We apologized for our misdeed — Clare, not one to readily break rules, was especially embarrassed — but I couldn’t help but feel a bit unnerved because I could have sworn that our AIS transceiver was turned off during that entire voyage.

Certainly a country has every right to track the movements of visiting craft, but maybe this served as a startling example of a lasting legacy. Although Albania has long cast off the cloak of totalitarianism, perhaps Big Brother still manages to hide in the closet? But don’t let any paranoia stop you from visiting this beautiful country. It might be slow to respond, but it’s quick to welcome.

Zachary Krochina is a born-and-raised Alaskan who found his Australian mate in the Florida Keys, where they bought and revitalized an old sailboat with the intention of sailing to the land Down Under. Evidently not in a rush, they crossed the Atlantic, and are currently exploring the Med. You can follow their journey at bottlehalffull.org.

The post Cruising Albania appeared first on Cruising World.

Overhead the sky still swirled with torn gray clouds, while below, a decaying leftover chop lapped at the hull as our three-cylinder diesel ticked over another hour on the meter. The wind died with the sunrise, and by midmorning we were finally closing in. Moroccan highlands stretched off to the south, and the bold ranges of the Iberian Peninsula formed an imposing sight straight ahead. We slowly passed a handful of small fishing boats long accustomed to working here, one of the world’s most celebrated waterways. But my wife, Clare, and I were all butterflies and photographs. After 10 days of lonely sea aboard Champagne, our Dufour 35, we suddenly found ourselves feeling pinched between the masses of two continents. We joined the marching parade of AIS triangles on our chart-plotter screen, rounded the last bit of Spanish headland and entered the Strait of Gibraltar.

Having sailed almost ­exclusively within the steady reckoning of trade-wind waters, Clare and I struggled to cope with the volatile nature of the Mediterranean. Even while still out in the Atlantic, this great sea dictated our schedule. The previous day, we were prudent to reduce sail and slow down our progress upon nearing the strait in order to avoid 40-knot headwinds that were barreling out from the Med. Once we entered, the wind was calm, then a day later, it reversed direction and blew once more with equal gusto.

We left Gibraltar and ­headed for the Balearic Islands of Spain, tallying up more engine hours (due to light winds) in that four-day passage than we did crossing the bulk of the Atlantic between Bermuda and the Azores. Then, almost as soon as we got the anchor down in Formentera, a burst of hot, ovenlike air blew around the protective headlands, causing at least one nearby boat to drag.

Despite all we’ve learned during our first season here, we still feel a bit out of our depths — often quite literally. Not only are the anchorages much deeper in the Med than we are used to, but also the coastlines are much steeper. Every anchorage, no matter how picturesque, is fraught with worry: Will the wind shift in the night, leaving us exposed to a leeward wall? Or will it increase and come spilling down over these cliff faces? Or will it die altogether and leave us bouncing between beam seas? We learned the hard way on a couple of occasions, even hitting an uncharted submerged rock in the middle of the night after a 180-degree wind shift in what was otherwise 15 feet of surrounding water. Like the closely stacked depth contours of this region, the learning curve here is steep, but the rewards are worthwhile.

Compared to the New World sailing we are familiar with, every destination within the Med is well-steeped in the pages of history. Entering Grand Harbor in Malta, for example, is like sailing inside a Renaissance castle. Pulling into a sparsely populated cove in Sardinia is akin to stepping back into Italian history, but with gelato and espresso at the ready. These things, coupled with the region’s dramatic coastlines and abundant natural beauty, ensure that the Mediterranean is a world-class cruising destination no matter the weather.

And now, with the tantrums of the Mediterranean summer behind us, we are quickly learning the patterns of its winter. The cyclic winds of the Med are so well-versed that they have their own names — Scirocco, Vendaval, Levante, Meltemi, Gregale — and although they occur throughout the seasons, it’s mostly in winter that they find their stride. After loading up the GRIB files from our favorite wind sites, it seems our screen is constantly awash in hues of red, violet and magenta. These strong winds, coupled with the fact that many seaside businesses close down for the winter, mean that most sailing is seasonal. And after our last two blustery passages, we are grateful to have secured long-term berthing at a marina in Tunisia, where we intend to hunker down for the winter, and catch up on that ever-growing list of boat projects.

Zachary Krochina and his ­Australian wife, Clare Jenkins, are slowly sailing their 1973 ­Dufour 35 to the Land Down Under.

The post Learning to Sail in the Mediterranean Sea appeared first on Cruising World.

Aboard the 60-foot cutter Hummingbird, we’d set off from the enchanting waters of Scotland some 40 hours earlier for the approximately 240-nautical-mile passage north to the remote Faroe Islands. With a fitful southerly breeze, we’d knocked off much of the trip under sail alone, though we relented in the truly light stuff and kicked over the auxiliary to make some miles while motorsailing. All was going according to plan right up to our final approach to the islands, when damp, dense fog enveloped us and our surroundings. We knew we were literally right on top of the stark, dramatic Faroes, but we couldn’t see squat.

Hunched over the radar screen, we had a clear rendering of the pass we were aiming for when the fog magically lifted and the island ahead was almost instantly revealed. The sudden scenery was otherworldly, and the sense of accomplishment over tackling the longest leg of our journey northward — with a group of happy sailors I’d never met a week earlier — was palpable. Ahead lay new adventures in what is truly a remote, one-of-a-kind archipelago, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Our unique, thoroughly enjoyable cruise had originally commenced from a picturesque Scottish town hard by the sea.

Aside from a friendly Glasgow cabdriver, whose accent I unfortunately found completely incomprehensible, the very first Scotsman I spoke with, at the Kerrera Marina in Oban, offered this sage information: “There are three types of weather in Scotland,” he said, as I yanked up my hood against an annoying drizzle. “It’s about to rain, it’s raining or it just stopped.”

Well.

Moments later, I was tossing my sea bag aboard my home for the next fortnight, the 60-foot cutter Hummingbird (it was ­easily identifiable by the graphic depiction of its namesake splashed across its topsides). The sturdy yacht had some miles under her keel, having completed three circumnavigations in the Clipper Round-the-World Yacht Race, for which she was originally built. These days, the boat is one of two vessels owned and run by a company called Rubicon 3, which offers expedition-style trips ­focused on adventure and instruction all over the blue Atlantic (see “The Rubicon Experience,” at the end of the article). The skipper for our trip, from the northwest coast of Scotland and on to the distant Faroe Islands, was one of the firm’s founders, the young but remarkably skillful Rachael Sprot, who was ably assisted by first mate Holly Vint.

I’d already met Hugo, one of my shipmates for the trip, who somehow picked me out of the crowd at the Glasgow railway station (my foul-weather gear was apparently a dead giveaway) before we boarded our train to Oban. Soon after arriving, I was introduced to the rest of the crew, whose names I busily scribbled in my notebook for future reference. Paul and Sharon and Al and Nikki were the couples aboard, while Erika, Tanya, Hugo and I rounded out the contingent. With the exception of yours truly, everyone hailed from the U.K. — the pay-for-a-berth model on voyages like this is a decidedly British way to travel — and despite the fact that you need no experience on a Rubicon cruise (they’ll happily teach you all you need to know once underway), as I was soon to learn, everyone in our group was a solid sailor. And several were a testimony to the Rubicon experience, having already taken one or more trips aboard Hummingbird to diverse locations including Morocco and across the North Sea.

Our journey began with a leg from Oban to Tobermory, on the northern flank of the island of Mull, via the open waters of the Firth of Lorne and up a corridor of a channel called the Sound of Mull. The long-term forecast was rather iffy, but the sailing on this day was ideal, with flat water, a following southerly breeze and the sun occasionally poking through the clouds. And the scenery was out of this world.

If the picturesque town of Tobermory looked like something out of central casting, that’s because it is: The popular British TV show Balamory is filmed there. The quaint harbor and village looked almost fictional, with colorful buildings lining the waterfront.

Ferries zipped to and fro. A trio of Drascombe Luggers passed close by, hard on the breeze, looking like something from another era. There were rolling hills, a patchwork of greens, ­dotted with sheep. The farther we sailed, the prettier it got, with wooded headlands and dramatic cliffs, a castle here and multiple ­lighthouses there. The surroundings alone were amazing, but the sheer variety of sights made it special. Al summed it up perfectly: “This is Scotland at its very best.”

We gobbled up the 25 miles from Oban perhaps too quickly, but if the picturesque town of Tobermory looked like something out of central casting, that’s because it is: The popular British children’s TV show Balamory is filmed there. The quaint harbor and village almost looked fictional, with colorful buildings lining the waterfront, fishing boats tied to the quay and twin-keelers drying out at low tide. It was easy to imagine this as a spot where wee lads and lassies could grow and prosper. That night, we dined on local sea scallops (which were delicious) at a place called the Mishnish, an iconic Scottish bar with a name so cool I couldn’t stop repeating it. Mishnish. And before setting out the next morning, a few of us paid a requisite tour to the Tobermory Distillery, where I ­purchased a 10-year-old bottle of single-malt scotch for the boat, but which I wound up polishing off mostly by myself.

The anchorage at Loch Moidart was spectacular, ringed by white-sand beaches punctuated by the ruins of an ancient, formidable castle overlooking the loch. Whoever once inhabited it certainly held the higher ground.

Our next destination was another 30 miles along the track, to a nestled little crook in the coast called Loch Moidart. We first had to round the westernmost headland in the United Kingdom, a ­promontory called the Point of Ardnamurchan, identifiable by a towering lighthouse. (In days past, it was customary for ships returning from extended voyages to display a cluster of heather from their bowsprits as a token of rounding this exposed, dangerous cape.) From there, we jibed down the vast but mostly deserted Sound of Arisaig, where our only neighbors were three other sailboats and a minke whale. Compared to the previous day’s visual ­delights, this stretch of coastline was stark and austere.

Each day aboard Hummingbird, the duties of navigation and cooking (that night, Hugo and I prepared a chicken curry, my first) are assigned to different crew, and Paul and Erika had the mission of piloting this leg and into Loch Moidart, the entrance to which was a very tricky piece of water. The narrow channel was rocky and intricate — certain parts of Maine sprung to mind — with relatively deep water in the navigable bits but not a single buoy or marker in sight. Paul had rendered an amazing hand-drawn chart that noted all the twists and turns, and did a fine job of threading the needle among a labyrinth of reverse doglegs and a series of small isles. That said, just for good measure, a couple of crew kept a close eye on the Navionics app on their smartphones as we wound our way into the anchorage, labeled on the chart as Eilean Shona.

And what an anchorage it was, fully protected with white-sand beaches and punctuated by the ruins of an ancient, ­formidable castle overlooking the loch. Whoever once occupied it most definitely held the higher ground. After dinner, Hugo, Rachael and I hopped in the dinghy and went ashore to have a look, an outing that left me feeling like a cast member of Game of Thrones.

Our tentative plan at the outset of the cruise was to sail from the Inner Hebrides to the Outer Hebrides, but with the continuing flow of stiff southeasterlies, we had to abandon that idea because it would have placed us squarely on lee shores. Instead, we decided to make the short hop to the so-called Small Isles of ­Canna, Rum, Eigg and Muck, all of which I also enjoyed saying, particularly Muck. Each of the Small Isles was inhabited by a small community, and all of them had their own unique character.

It was pouring buckets as we left the loch (the rain is known as “Scottish sunshine”) and made our way across the Sound of ­Arisaig for a lunch stop off Eigg, where one can hear the “­singing sands” on the beach when the wind and weather are properly aligned (alas, on this day, they weren’t). Muck and Eigg looked like Mutt and Jeff, the former a low-lying islet with nary a noticeable feature (except for a wind farm), and the latter a rather more impressive presence with craggy peaks and grazing sheep (and yet another wind farm).

From there it was on to Rum — owned by the Scottish Natural Heritage and home to both red deer and white-tailed sea eagles — which was a bit of a revelation, a monument to tourism on a very small, reasonable scale, with showers, a bunkhouse, a few rustic rental cottages, a post office and even a ­community ­center. We wandered along the nature trails with a stop at ­Kinloch ­Castle, an Edwardian mansion supposedly run as a seasonal hostel (though it was deserted at the time of our visit) that sort of seemed like a Scottish version of the Overlook Hotel of The ­Shining fame. Once we’d had a good look at Rum, we retired to Hummingbird for tots of, you know, rum.

From Rum, we had a decision to make: continue our tour of the Scottish coastline or press on directly for the Faroe Islands. Rachael had been closely monitoring the weather, where high pressure to the north of the U.K. had been fending off lows, as she put it, “sort of lurking off to the west.” A front was forecast to roll through in the next several days that would bring strong northerly winds, the direction we were headed. But in the meantime, it appeared that a favorable window had opened up. “Maybe we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” said Rachael. It was on to the Faroes.

As we approached the Aird of Sleat, at the southernmost tip of the island of Skye, the sky above was low and ominous (we were sailing into the “mist-ic”), and it was windy: We tucked in the first reef, then the second, and were still making 9 knots. Into the Sound of Sleat we went, where seals played in the whirling eddies and steep forests stood proudly to port and starboard. Soon enough, we were passing under the Skye Bridge that connects Kyle of Lochalsh, on the mainland, to Kyleakin, on Skye. Next stop: the Faroes.

As luck would have it, my turn to navigate had come up, a ­duty I shared with Nikki. Together, we checked off the landmarks as we continued north: first the island of Raasay and into the Inner Sound; then past Loch Torridon and Gair Loch, two bailout points had the weather turned, which it hadn’t; and into the broad seaway known as the Minch, with Lewis Island to port. For the first several hours, the wind was light and astern, so we motorsailed under a fingernail of a moon hovering over Cape Wrath at the northern tip of Scotland, which we soon put astern.

In the wee hours, the breeze filled in and we broad-reached at 8 knots under a full main and Yankee. It never did get totally dark, but still, at dawn, bright-red stripes to the east signaled the impending sunrise, and by midmorning, the sun was shining bright. (“We’ve turned around and are headed toward the Azores,” said Erika, kiddingly, when I awoke after a brief nap.) And that is how we carried on to the Faroes, sailing and motorsailing in about equal measure. Given our latitude, having crossed the 60th parallel, it was a remarkably easy trip. But we knew we were lucky. As Hugo said, “That could’ve been shocking.”

Our landfall was the island of Suduroy, which was shrouded in vapor and cloud, save for a sliver of blue sky to the west. The mist soon lifted, at least partially, and revealed our first glimpse of the place. I got the impression that this constituted a bright, sunny day in the Faroes.

Suduroy is the southernmost isle in the archipelago, a slab-­sided hunk of land indented with deep fjords, with the town of Tvøroyri, the nation’s third largest, carved out of a fissure on the east coast. As we made our way into the port, we were ­greeted by big waves from the captains of the fishing boats ­headed out. After tying up alongside a historic trawler under reconstruction, the harbormaster turned up with offers of free showers and plenty of local knowledge. There might be friendlier people in the world than those of the Faroes, but I have yet to meet them.

From a cruising couple who’d spent time in the Faroes, we soon got an overview of the local customs. Those who visit the islands have traveled so far that they are greatly appreciated by the islanders. These days, there are roads and tunnels throughout the chain, linking the small settlements, but not long ago, people would think nothing of making a 10-mile walk to visit their “neighbors.” The spirit of hospitality is strong. During festivals and holidays, because there are so few pubs, if people leave a light on in their homes, it means it is open and ready for visitors. People greet you with a shot of schnapps, and the liquor and beer are flowing.

It’s a singing culture, and when folks gather, it becomes a festival of song. The traditional local fare consists of whale blubber, usually on the table with platters of small potatoes. The parties rage all night long, nonstop, until 6 or 7 in the morning. The sense of community is deep-seated. If only everywhere was the Faroe Islands.

We were eager to take it all in and the next day left Tvøroyri, bound for the northern island group, which we basically planned to circumnavigate. It turned out to be a slog. We’d been collectively stunned when looking at the local tide charts, where ­currents can and do run up to 8 knots, making timing through the passes a necessity. Heading north, it took us the better part of five hours to take a 15-mile bite out of our 75-mile journey, and what seemed like ages to pass the island of Sandoy. Plus, the fog had again closed in, rendering visibility to just about nil. Ahead lay a cluster of islands called Bordoy, Kunoy, Svinoy, Vinoy and Fugloy. But all I could think was, Oh boy, I can’t see a bloody thing. Eventually, we hoisted the spinnaker and ultimately escaped the grip of the rushing current. Finally, less than a mile from the pass we were aiming for, the veil lifted. Sort of. You couldn’t see the tops of the tall peaks, but you could easily take in the steep masses, the cuts in between. And they were spectacular.

We finally made it to the night’s anchorage in a deep fjord on the island of Vinoy. We dropped the hook inside a natural ­amphitheater of green cliffs, rushing waterfalls and striated rock. In my notebook I managed two words: “unreal” and “stunning.” It more than made up for the day’s travails.

The next morning found us en route to the mouthful of a town called Fuglafjørdur. Along the way, we negotiated the northernmost point of our journey at 62 degrees 18 minutes. The size and scale of everything is difficult to describe. Basically, these are ­islands where goliaths could come and play.

Along the way, tiny settlements appeared in the most ­unlikely places: on headlands, in valleys, clinging to the sides of precipitous mountains. It brought to mind unanswerable questions. Who inhabits these little burgs? How did they get here? What do they do? What happens if you get into a serious beef with your neighbor? Pretend you live elsewhere? The whole thing left me mystified.

As it turned out, we arrived in the fish-processing town of ­Fuglafjørdur on the occasion of a national holiday, and the tiny village was basically closed. We enjoyed dinner on the boat and the following morning set forth for another little Faroes town called Vestmanna. It was yet another jaw-dropping day of incredible beauty. Sheer sea cliffs plunged from great heights into the ocean. We passed a famous rock formation called the Giant and the Hag, a pair of sea stacks steeped in legend. ­Supposedly, the Giant and the Hag were dispatched from Iceland to drag the Faroes north, but no matter how hard they tried, the islands wouldn’t move. When the sun rose, they were transformed into rocks, which is how they exist to this very day.

After a quiet night in Vestmanna, it was time to make the ­final leg of the trip to the capital city of Tórshavn, a 25-mile jaunt through a series of canals, the highlight of which was recording a top speed of 14.1 knots thanks to the sweep of a mighty current. It was a fitting end to an eventful cruise.

After our tour of the rather far-flung islands, Tórshavn seemed like a bustling metropolis, even though it’s one of the world’s smallest capitals, home to about a third of the Faroese ­population of roughly 50,000. Still, it was a charming place, with a busy harbor, tidy shops, colorful buildings and quaint homes adorned with turf roofs, all circled by a ring of moorland hills. Before leaving, with cruisers Ginger and Dick Stevenson as my guides, I did as most Faroe residents do on a regular basis and took a long hike into the craggy trails above the city.

Still, at the end of the day, it’s the citizens of both Scotland and the Faroes that I’ll probably remember most. Yes, as we learned, both places can be wet, damp and cold. But the people? They couldn’t be warmer.

Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

The Rubicon Experience

Rubicon 3, the company behind our voyage, has two ocean­going yachts, a 60-foot cutter, Hummingbird, and a Bowman 57, Oriole. Their itineraries span the width and breadth of the Atlantic, from the Caribbean Sea to above the Arctic Circle. Their trips cover a range of coastal adventures to offshore passages and ocean voyages, and en route one can receive hands-on instruction in celestial navigation, coastal cruising, seamanship and more. For more information on Rubicon’s entire range of sailing opportunities, visit its website.

The post Faroe Islands Sailing Adventure appeared first on Cruising World.

What is it?

While cruising France on the Loire River last summer, marine photographer Tor Johnson spotted something odd on a lock at La Martinière, about 15 miles west of Nantes: a sailboat that appeared to be melting over the side.

No need to worry — no boats were harmed.

The “melting” boat is actually a piece of installation art called “Misconceivable,” by Austrian artist Erwin Wurm. It was placed there as part of Estuaire, a permanent open-air art exhibition that follows the river from Nantes to Saint-Nazaire. Planning a France cruise? According to Johnson, the “Loire is navigable with mast up all the way to Nantes.”

You can find out more about the installation and other works at the Estuaire website www.estuaire.info/en.

The post High and Dry? appeared first on Cruising World.

Every once in a while, like the cold, menacing bora wind, rumors circulate around the sailing community in the Mediterranean that the tax authorities are cracking down on foreign yachts that have overstayed their time in the European Union. When the rumors swirl around the bars and marinas, the non-E.U. boats — mostly from the United Kingdom and America — think about spending some time outside of the E.U. The E.U. regulations stipulate that foreign yachts may stay only 18 months before they are liable for the VAT, which can be up to 25 percent of the value of the boat.

Scarlet, our Alan Warwick-designed 47-foot sloop, was in Gaeta, Italy, near Naples, when the rumors began to get intense: customs officials were “seen” writing down boat names and hailing ports; someone knew someone who was presented with a staggering VAT bill. Or maybe they just had to leave that port under cover of night. It wasn’t clear.

Scarlet had been out of the E.U. in Tangier, Morocco, that amazing, totally foreign port, and so was tax-compliant for now, but since we were moving east anyway, a non-E.U. destination seemed like a good idea. Turkey was too far; the North African ports had security concerns; Albania was too mysterious. So Montenegro, some 650 nautical miles away, became the choice.

Getting from Gaeta to Montenegro was no hardship. We called in the Italian ports of Ischia, Salerno, Amalfi, Mount Etna and Otranto at the country’s heel — all highlights of the west coast of Italy. We enjoyed light wind and beautiful harbors with great food. And in late May, we were still ahead of the busy high season. In southern Italy, we began to see the response to the immigration crisis: increased military patrol boats, police boat drive-bys taking Scarlet’s name and hailing port, large rescue vessels headed southeast to the migration routes.

Departing Otranto for Montenegro, we got our first taste of immigration controls: Crew lists, boat documents, passports, last port and next destination needed to be produced and inspected. “Wait here while we review this,” was a constant refrain. The Italian immigration officer looked a long time at our U.S. documentation papers, and finally said, “OK, have a good voyage,” and we left for Montenegro. We were to hear more about our documentation papers soon enough.

Our first port of call in Montenegro was Bar. We chose Bar not because it was supposed to be the most scenic port in Montenegro (it isn’t), but because it was the closest to our path from southern Italy. When calling in Montenegro, you are supposed to enter at the first port of entry you reach. This advice is often disregarded, but since we had been warned that officials in Montenegro were sticklers for regulations, we decided to enter at Bar. Bar has a busy, if dusty, marina. It also has an active downtown with restaurants, bars, shops, farmers markets and a magnificent new promenade along the waterfront for strollers of all ages, kids on bikes and swimmers walking to the beaches. By the way, farmers markets are the best place to buy food in Montenegro. We found vegetables, fruit, sausage, bread, cheese and even homemade moonshine. The vendors were glad to see tourists.

Bar also introduced us to the intricacies of Montenegrin customs and harbor police. The first stop was at the police station, then on to customs, and finally to the harbor master. There we were greeted by a large, serious-looking officer who asked for our passports, boat papers, insurance policy and crew list. The first hurdle was insurance. “It is not enough,” he said. I was beginning to get a sinking feeling, but a call to our insurance agent upped our liability coverage the next day. The officer was also taking too much time with the boat documentation. “It is out of date,” he said. And, sure enough, it was last year’s documentation, which had expired a few days prior. (Since we were on the boat when the new document was mailed to my home address, I’d asked to have it emailed to me on board. I received last year’s doc instead and never noticed.)

The officer was understanding but firm: We needed the new paperwork before we left Bar, but in the meantime, we could enjoy our stay there. Montenegro also requires a “skipper’s license” to get a cruising permit, or “vignette.” We couldn’t get a definition of what constitutes a valid skipper’s license, but my state-issued boating safety card was accepted. The authorities understand that Americans often don’t have boating licenses or certificates, as many Europeans do. Nevertheless, the regulation is enforced.

We became regulars at the harbor master’s office. We used its fax machine, copier and Wi-Fi to send and receive documents, and chatted with the staff. For two days. Finally, we received our paperwork and vignette, and were at last ready to cruise Montenegro, one of the most beautiful sailing grounds I have ever seen.

The coast of Montenegro is small, only 55 miles from the border with Albania to Croatia. After decades of isolation, Albania is only beginning to be explored as a cruising ground, and Croatia, with its hundreds of islands, is now a well-established sailing destination with thousands of charter boats cruising its protected waters.

But Montenegro is an anomaly. It has only been an independent country — as it was in the past — since 2006, following the breakup of Yugoslavia. War took a heavy toll on Montenegro, and the financial collapse of 2008 derailed some large construction projects, which stand empty today. But investment is now flowing again into the country, as witnessed by two deluxe marinas: a finished one at Porto Montenegro and another development under construction at Herceg-Novi. The Montenegrin standard of living is now one of the highest in the area.

Our goal from Bar was the Gulf of Kotor, 35 miles to the northwest. But this was not passagemaking. This was daysailing, with the first stop at Sveti (St.) Stefan, the site of a reconstructed 16th-century administrative center on a very small island connected by a causeway. Sveti Stefan was originally built with gold bars taken from pirates attacking Kotor. It’s now a luxury hotel but looks for all the world like it probably did when pirates and raiders roamed these waters.

We anchored to the south of the island, near a police boat on guard duty. The cheerful officers said they were guarding “the big bosses” on the island. When we said how much we liked Montenegro, one replied, “Of course! Why not?” and added, “I have a cousin in the Chicago police.” Our younger crew swam ashore to the pristine beach while the older crew napped aboard.

The next day, passing the beaches of Budva (party central, aka the Adriatic Riviera), we entered the jewel of Montenegro: the Gulf of Kotor, a nearly landlocked fjord with 5,000-foot-tall mountains coming right down to the water. The sea is bright-blue, and the mountains often dark and sometimes brooding, hence the name Montenegro, or “black mountain.”

Our next stop was Porto Montenegro, a five-star marina in Tivat recently developed on the site of an old navy base. The word “deluxe” hardly does justice to Porto Montenegro. The berths are pristine, the staff accomplished and English-speaking, the prices sky-high. There are restaurants, hotels, trendy boutiques, a chandlery and a laundromat (our laundry bill approached the replacement cost of the clothes they washed). Spectacular superyachts of the 150-foot-plus variety are based there, said to be owned by Russian millionaires.

We left Scarlet for the high-season summer months on the hard at the Navar boatyard a mile or so away — the Porto Montenegro staff made the arrangements when I explained to them that keeping the boat in the water at their facility, unused during the high season, was a budget buster. As usual, they were happy to oblige.

We returned to Scarlet in October to continue our cruise through Montenegro and north to Croatia.

Although the Gulf of Kotor is only 10 miles from the entrance to the head of the bay at Kotor, it is well worth spending some time there. There are marinas at Herceg-Novi, an old sea captains’ town; Tivat (Porto Montenegro); Perast; and Kotor, with its 15th-century defensive wall climbing the cliffs in back of the town. There are lots of anchorages — some marked on the charts, some not — and it’s possible to pull up to the jetties in front of waterside bars and restaurants for a meal. Proceed slowly. If the jetty is not suitable, you will be waved away.

The architecture is Venetian, marking that city’s long importance to the area, with whitewashed buildings and red-tile roofs. Much of the shoreline has walking trails to stretch your legs.

But mostly, sailing in Montenegro is about the scenery: black mountains plunging to the sea, warm blue water and lovely buildings. History is present everywhere, both recent and from many centuries past. Much of that history is violent, involving pirates, Turkish raiders, two world wars and the recent Balkan conflict. I couldn’t help but admire the persistence and good humor of the Montenegrins. And maybe, I got the feeling when sailing there, their best time is coming now.

Weather and Chartering Information

Summer weather in Montenegro is beautiful: hot and sunny. Light breezes from the north or south predominate.

In spring and fall, the weather is more varied. Our May cruise there was like summer, our October trip had moderate winds from the north and south, which increased in the narrow funnels between the headlands and islands. Bora winds from the north are bright and cool and can blow hard for up to three days. We spent 24 hours at anchor during a bora with wind gusts to 50 knots. The sirocco wind blows from the south, with rain, clouds, thunder and lightning. Our sirocco was very dramatic, with white clouds tumbling down the black mountain faces, illuminated by horizontal and vertical lightning. The rainsqualls had Scarlet heeling at anchor and tacking back and forth as the fronts changed direction. We stood anchor watch all night, and in the morning the wind subsided. The area also has katabatic winds, cold blasts down the mountain faces, but we were spared those.

Weather information is easy to get in Montenegro. Wi-Fi is readily available in marinas and restaurants, and maritime weather forecasts like those found at meteo.hr are easy to access, usually in the local language and English. Most marinas post forecasts at their offices. VHF weather is available, though the schedule can be hard to track. Be wary of nonmarine forecasts, which regularly underestimate the local wind strength.

Nearly every marina mentioned in this article is also a charter-boat base. (And in nearby Croatia, there are said to be about 4,000 charter boats!) Two of the leading charter companies are Navis in Porto Montenegro and Yachtico in Bar and Herceg-Novi. The boats look new and well cared for, and run the gamut from 34-footers to 60-footers, with crew or without, and available in flotillas or independently. There are also classic yachts and gulets, those stately motorized ketches one sees throughout the eastern Med. If you charter in Montenegro and wish to cross the border to Croatia or Albania, check with your charter company first.

– – –

*Spencer Smith has been cruising the Caribbean, Atlantic islands and the Mediterranean since 2010. His Warwick 47, Scarlet, is crewed by friends, relatives and college-­age recruits new to sailing. *

The post In the Shadow of Montenegro’s Black Mountain appeared first on Cruising World.

Fields of wildflowers and snowcapped peaks greet a visitor to the headquarters of Elan Yachts, a division of the Slovenian manufacturing company whose skis and snowboards are known worldwide, and which also manufactures components for wind turbines and sports-stadium equipment. It’s a setting that would be picture-perfect for a production of The Sound of Music, but a boatbuilding mecca? Well, actually, that works too.

Elan began life during World War II as a shop that turned out skis for Yugoslavian troops fighting in the mountains surrounding its facility located in Begunje na Gorenjskem, a small town near the city of Ljubljana. Production continued after the war as the wintertime alpine vacation industry took off, and in 1949, the company began to build canoes and kayaks, in part to keep its craftsmen busy year-round.

Then, with the adoption of fiberglass, Elan began building larger power- and sailing yachts. Today its sailboats range from 30 to 50 feet and include the E and S series of performance boats; the Impression line, which caters to both the recreational and charter industry; and its new GT5, the first model in a new luxury-cruising range. Rob Humphreys, and Humphreys Yacht Design, has been the company’s longtime exclusive designer.

For much of its life, Elan was state-owned, but in 2015, the company was privatized and sold to investors Merrill Lynch International and VR Capital. This past year, the new owners brought former Hunter Marine president John Peterson aboard to run the marine division, and a decision was made to once again focus on the North American market, where Elan had begun to make inroads with its boats before the economic downturn a decade or so ago.

Elan’s two oldest divisions — its skis and sailboats — and its wind components are built side by side on a 100-acre site that’s home to a sprawling collection of buildings, some of which date back to the war years, in various stages of renovation. Such an eclectic heritage has its benefits and challenges, Peterson noted as we toured the plant one day this past spring. Boatbuilding competitors in France have factories designed for building yachts. Elan’s began with skis, and boat production sheds sprang up around them. On the plus side, many skills have been shared over the evolution of the products.

In total, Elan employs about 700 people at the Slovenia site. Peterson said 125 of these workers are boatbuilders and another 75 work on wind components, though there is a good deal of overlap between the teams when it comes to composites. At the peak of the boating market, Elan produced close to 300 sailboats annually. In 2016, 80 boats were built, but Peterson predicts that number will increase by 30 percent annually in the near term as marine markets rebound.

Like its buildings, Elan Yachts’ production methods are a mix of old and new. Hulls and decks are infused using state-of-the-art technology that’s shared with the wind division. In the wood shop, some parts are cut by CNC machine, while others, such as teak decks, locker lids, and even whole head and galley modules, are put together by craftsmen, most of whom have worked their way up as they gained skills in-house.

“We are the school,” Peterson said when asked about worker training.

Visiting French and German boat factories, one’s struck by the machinery; at Elan, it’s the people who stand out. Women and men were present in seemingly equal numbers, and those not wearing protective coveralls all wore company shirts. Employees get 25 days’ vacation a year, and lunch is served on-site daily in the company cafeteria.

Walking from one building, where we watched a deck being lowered onto a waiting hull, we entered an adjacent shop where women were inspecting skis and sharpening edges on a large grinding machine. Throughout the plant, every request for a photo was greeted with a smile. An on-site company retail store sells a range of skiing and sporting goods.

The night before our factory tour, we visited the nearby resort village at Lake Bled. It was early in the season, so the waterside restaurants weren’t too crowded, and our visit included a stop at Bled Castle, a towering fortress that dates back to 1011.

Castles, skis, yachts — why not?

The post From Mountains to the Sea appeared first on Cruising World.

Finnish sailors are proud of their submerged rocks. My friends grinned as they told me about the many skerries that barely break the surface of the Baltic Sea.

“Surely most of them are well-marked,” I begged.

They shrugged their shoulders in a worrying, noncommittal way and gave a rueful chuckle, like those who have learned their lessons the hard way.

Those rocks were on my mind as I helmed west through the Finnish Archipelago. I couldn’t afford to mess this up. My Finnish friends had generously lent me their sailboat, Valaska, for three weeks, no strings attached, and I didn’t want to betray their trust.

The island of Korpo was to starboard. I’d just dropped off the owner’s son after a two-day shakedown cruise out of Turku, during which I tried to memorize where all the switches, seacocks and latches were, which bits to jimmy and which ones were jammed. Now Valaska was my ­responsibility, and nothing but the hull stood between the rocks and me.

“After this west cardinal there are three north cardinals in a row, and then a south cardinal,” my crewmate told me, sitting in the cockpit, paper charts on his lap, checking the veracity of the chart plotter. He looked worried. “I see an east cardinal there … is that ours?” I stood up, straddling the tiller of the trim little H-323, ready to turn either way at a moment’s notice, my eyes scanning the water for the waves in the middle of nowhere that characterize small rocky islands, or skerries.

And so it would go for the next few hundred miles as we wove our way through the thousands of islands sprinkled across the Gulf of Bothnia. Our destination was Åland, a place I’d never even heard of until I’d begun planning this cruise.

When Valaska’s owner first made his offer to lend me the boat, I proposed that I’d sail to Sweden and explore its famous archipelago. And as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I sensed that this was not what he had in mind. “Yes, you could sail to Sweden, but Finland has thousands of islands as well. You would have to pass right by Åland. Look it up; you might want to spend your time there instead,” he replied. There was a raw nerve of competition between the Scandinavian neighbors, I realized.

My friend was right about this little corner of Europe, where berries grow wild, the sun stays high in the sky during summer nights, and the fluttering Åland flag reminds visitors that Finland might own the land, but the hearts and spirit of the people remain free.

Åland is an archipelago of 6,500 islands and skerries. It was under Swedish rule for 700 years until the Treaty of Fredrikshamn forced Sweden to hand it, along with Finland, to Imperial Russia. In 1917 Finland declared independence from Russia and took Åland with it. Ålanders argued for their own self-­determination, with a request for annexation by Sweden, but there were concerns that independence could make them vulnerable to Nazi Germany or Soviet influence.

In 1920 Finland granted wide-reaching cultural and political autonomy to Åland, including its own flag, postage stamps, police force and a seat in the Nordic Council. This demilitarized region is part of Finland’s Archipelago Sea, the largest archipelago system in the world and the spiritual home of Tove Jansson, the Finnish novelist and comic-­strip author of the Moomin books for children.

Dotted with natural ­harbors, remote islands and weather-beaten pilothouses, Åland’s history is visible at every turn. In small ports, I saw iron mooring rings pounded into granite shores by Russian sailors more than a century ago, which today are used to moor yachts. Lonely pilothouses top wind-swept islands and remind sailors that this was once one of the great shipbuilding sites of Europe.

It is rare to see sailors from outside Scandinavia in these waters, and most of those you do meet are German. So when we arrived in the marina at the top of Bärö, next to the island of Kumlinge, we were surprised to find a dozen cruisers filling the tiny harbor. But there was still one spot left, and arriving in a 32-foot boat with a 4.5-foot draft is a distinct advantage in these tight quarters. The brackish waters have no significant tides, allowing for an extra degree of bravery when edging a yacht into the shallow anchorage.

After the ­customary anchor drinks, I changed into swim shorts and headed for the sauna built on a floating dock, eager for the full experience of Finnish sailing. I threw open the door with a cheery “Hello!” — sometimes it’s an advantage to have everyone know you’re not local. The three women inside pulled their towels a little bit tighter around them and looked at me suspiciously. “This is a private sauna,” one of them coolly informed me.

I stammered my apologies, backed out the way I’d come, and returned to the boat for additional anchor drinks. Soon one of the women swam over with a smile on her face to explain that we had to book the sauna if we wanted to use it. Unfortunately it was already taken for the evening, so our first sauna experience would have to wait.

The next morning, we returned to the steady southwesterly 15- to 18-knot breeze that had brought us here. It carried us to the remote northern shores of Fasta Åland, the main island, where the region’s most untamed forests and islands are. Just to the north, Saggö, nestled against its sister island Saggö ön, forms a narrow strait that provided us protection from the wind and showed promise ashore.

It was my first attempt at Finland’s unique mooring system. I motored along the shore to check depths, and then picked my spot. The crew stood on the bow, mooring lines in hand, and I dropped the anchor from the stern as we approached the rocky cliffs. I edged the boat close enough for the crew to jump ashore, where they banged iron pitons into cracks in the granite. Mooring lines were looped through the pitons, while I tightened the anchor line. When we were done, the bow of the boat was only 2 feet from the rocks, but the steep shore and taut anchor line kept the keel in deep water.

I jumped onto a boulder covered in orange lichen and scrambled up the rocks, using the scrawny fir trees to pull myself into the forest. The woods were deep and quiet, with only the sigh of wind against the tops of the fir trees to break the silence. The thick, springy ground cover muted my steps. I reached down and pulled out a damp handful, releasing a woodsy, earthy smell — a scent I don’t normally associate with ­cruising holidays.

Then I spotted them ­growing wild in thick clumps: a cluster of red ones here, some deep purple ones there. Bilberries and lingonberries, commonly known as blue­berries and blackberries in North America. I dropped to my knees and gorged on them. They were tart and sweet, making my tongue tingle. I picked until my fingers were blue with juice, and I had filled a small bag with those that somehow escaped my mouth.

That evening we sat around a campfire on the rocks, sipping coffee and eating fresh berries with scones baked in Valaska’s oven. The firelight flickered on the white hull, confusing me for a moment. Was I on a camping or a ­sailing holiday? We continued across the north of Fasta Åland, alone but for the whooper swans, which are Finland’s national bird and featured on the 1-euro coin. We saw an occasional seal but encountered few other boats. Eventually we turned south, down the western side of the island, past the Ådskär lighthouse to Mariehamn.

The southern coast is the part of Åland that most visitors see. Mariehamn, the region’s capital, was named for a Russian empress. Here huge ferries disgorge tourists from Sweden, Estonia and mainland Finland, and the streets are lined with cafes and restaurants in ornate, historic buildings. It’s home to summer music festivals and nearly half of Åland’s population.

That night the wind rose until waves broke over the marina docks and the air was filled with the screech of rigging, so in the morning we switched to bicycles, Åland’s other great mode of transportation. Fasta Åland and the outlying islands have hundreds of kilometers of well-maintained and -marked bicycle paths, and we followed one of them north. It took us through rolling fields of ripe barley and wheat growing between forests of fir and silver birch, past small farms with bright red outbuildings and summer cottages with stacks of firewood outside their doors. Every few kilometers the path cut back toward the coast, and I caught glimpses of the sparkling Baltic Sea.

Twenty-five kilometers later we arrived at Kastelholm in Sund, a Swedish-built ­medieval castle occupied by Finns, Swedes and Russians over the centuries. It was used as a prison and execution grounds in the late 1600s when Åland was in the grip of a hysterical witch hunt. Åland’s independent post office recently issued a stamp to commemorate the execution of seven suspected witches.

From the castle walls I looked down on the Kastelholm Yacht Harbour, nestled in the narrow inlet of Ladängsviken, making a mental note to sail there rather than pedal next time.

By the next morning the winds were more manageable, and we set off through the complicated fairway leading from Mariehamn to the open sea. We shared the channel with several massive international ferries, which added to the navigational challenge. Despite the apparent remoteness of the region, there are also small ferries crisscrossing the archipelago, requiring sailors to keep a constant watch.

Rödhamn, an island port I’d heard about from numerous other sailors, is just 10 ­nautical miles south of Mariehamn. Its name refers to the red (röd) color of its rocky shores, which have provided safe haven to centuries of seafarers. The coast of the southern, sea-lashed side of the island is dotted with stone cairns left behind by passing sailors. There is no electricity or running water in the marina, making it a quiet, peaceful place. A small bakery delivers hot rolls to your boat in the morning. But the real reason I came to Rödhamn was its famed sauna. Late that night we hiked across the island with our towels around our necks. The air had turned chilly, and the sky was filled with the kind of clear light found only on a high-latitude summer night. On the far side of Rödhamn, perched at the tip of a peninsula, was a small hut facing the sea. Smoke puffed from its chimney.

We stripped and ducked into the warmth inside. It was nearly dark inside, with just a glimmer of evening light coming through a small window. The wood-­burning stove hissed as I threw a scoop of water at it, producing a searing hot steam that rose to the ceiling. Soon I was dripping with sweat, and conversation ebbed to the occasional sigh.

When the heat became unbearable, I burst out of the sauna and ran, stark naked, across the smooth ­granite rocks that sloped toward the sea. The indigo sky was streaked with yellow light, the sun still high above the ­horizon despite the late hour. “Whoo hooo!” I shouted as I launched myself, my yell becoming a yelp as I hit the frigid Baltic Sea. Within seconds the cold became too much, and I swam for the shore to dash back into the sauna. The summer was coming to an end, and the wind turned from westerlies to easterlies as we began our 150-nautical-­mile voyage to Valaska’s home port of Helsinki. The easterlies brought a cold rain that slashed at our faces as we tacked our way home, as if cajoling us to return to Åland and its sunny skies.

Cameron Dueck is the author of The New Northwest Passage, which chronicles his sailing ­voyage through Canada’s Arctic. He lives in Hong Kong.

The post A Scandinavian Sailing Adventure appeared first on Cruising World.

With three months of high-­latitude sailing behind us, my husband, Ashley, and I had made it to the Baltic sea on the shores of northern Germany. We were into the second half of September, and summer had finally caught up with us; for the first time in ages we were able to dig out our shorts and T-shirts. The locals were calling it a late Indian summer and were quick to point out how lucky we were.

There were still four weeks left before we were due in our winter berth in Amsterdam, so we decided to do some more exploring. We settled on the waterways from the island of Rügen, close to the Polish border, to the Kiel Canal leading into the North Sea. What was of particular interest to us were the five Hanseatic League Cities spread out along the coast.

The winds were mostly offshore with flat seas providing some fabulous sailing aboard Windjammer, our 72-foot schooner, and we had a lot of fun winding our way through myriad channels and rivers leading from town to town. Stops at Greifswald, Stralsund, Wismar and Rostock were like going back in time, with traditional working boats tied up in the old harbors, walled cities with cobblestone paths, and Gothic brick churches.

Our favorite though was Lübeck, the medieval capital of the Hanseatic League, built on an island 11 miles up the river Trave. The city lay on the western side of the Iron Curtain, and during World War II, it was spared by Allied bombing due to its historical significance.

We wanted to berth in the historic-­ships harbor, the Hansahafen. There are few facilities here for cruisers, but the positive is that you are among some lovely traditional boats and in the center of town. We approached the harbormaster to ask what the cost would be to berth there for a couple of weeks, and he told us, “If I like your boat, it will be free.” That was good enough for us, so we presented Windjammer, of which he approved, and for the next two weeks, we caught up on some maintenance, enjoyed this enchanting city, warm weather and great beer.

Continuing west toward the Kiel Canal, the weather turned, so we took shelter in the town of Heiligenhafen. By chance, there were a number of traditional boats there that we had met in Lübeck. They were there for the annual Kohlregatta, due to take place the coming weekend. We were invited to stay to participate and join in celebrating the town’s history as a major port for exporting cabbages (kohl is German for cabbage). To complete the race, you had to catch a cabbage as you rounded the top mark and present it that evening with its own personality. Our cabbage, “Queen Elizabeth,” attended the ­ceremony where she mixed with ­cabbages of all customs.

The weather abated, and we made our way to Amsterdam. As the winter weather settled in, we stewed Queen Elizabeth and hummed a song of the mercantile past. The Indian summer was finally over.

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Caribbean

Windward Islands

Tropical rainforests, barrier reefs, secluded anchorages: In the Windward Islands, you’ll get a taste of all that the Caribbean has to offer, and plenty of fine trade-wind sailing to boot. For sailors, there are multiple choices for your Windward Islands adventures, and from any of them, you can choose to make your sailing vacation as laid-back or as challenging as you’d like.

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Leeward Islands

The Leeward Islands are full of cruising hot spots, with much to offer to sailors, making passing through the Caribbean. lush scenery, vibrant reefs and a laid-back vibe make for the ultimate sailing destination.

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Lesser Antilles

The Lesser Antilles, in the Eastern Caribbean, are among the best charter destinations on the planet. Why? Diversity and conditions. The winds, seas and harbors in the Lesser Antilles are nearly ideal 99 percent of the time, and landfalls are perfectly spaced. In many of the most popular chartering waters, destinations are 30 to 40 miles apart — or less. This means you can get up at a reasonable hour, have a thrilling sail, and still manage to clear customs by happy hour.

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Cuba

Cuba is one of those mysterious destinations for US-based cruisers: close, intriguing, but seemingly out of reach. In 2017, when regulations were a bit more relaxed for cruisers, Cruising World hosted a rally to the island nation. The verdict? Cuba is everything we expected, and so much more.

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USA, Canada and Atlantic

Bahamas

The islands of the Bahamas are a cruiser’s playground — clear water, colorful communities and great sailing. The Bahamas offer endless islands to sail between and explore; from the Abacos to the Exumas, each island is unique.

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Intracoastal Waterway

Those with a mast height under 64 feet can also take advantage of the beauty and convenience of the Intracoastal Waterway on their trip north or south through the East Coast. While navigating the ICW requires lots of motoring, when conditions are good, the sailing is spectacular.

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Southern New England

Cruising through Long Island Sound, anchoring in the Great Salt Pond of Block Island, exploring the coast of Cape Cod – there are endless opportunities to enjoy a romp through Southern New England.

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The Great Lakes

Some of the best freshwater cruising in the world, the Great Lakes offer endless opportunities for exploration. Each lake offers unique cruising grounds, ports and conditions, from uncharted rocky inlets on the Canadian shores, to bustling cities.

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Bermuda

For as long as ocean-going sailors have been sailing the North Atlantic, Bermuda has been the crossroads and a popular race destination. But Bermuda is so much more than just a waypoint—it’s also a wonderful cruising destination.

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Nova Scotia

Packed with geologic and cultural history, the beautifully quiet coast of Nova Scotia is a nature lovers dream. Spruce trees, granite, grasses, sea, seals and terns, there is no shortage of excitement here.

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Europe

Greece Isles

The sailing can be challenging, but the landfalls — full of history, diverse towns and tasty cuisine — are worth it. Greece boasts thousands of islands, spread across an enormous geographical area stretching from the Aegean to the Ionian sea. Four of Greece’s five island groups are prime cruising areas: the Cyclades, the Saronic Islands, the Ionian Islands and the Dodecanese. Each group has its own unique character and charm, making each one worth exploring.

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South Pacific

Fiji

Cruising yachts from all over the world come to Fiji to anchor in the crystal-clear waters of the South Pacific. This Pacific crossroads is a refreshing break, with world-class snorkeling, beach combing and hiking.

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Marquesas

Smack dab in the middle of the South Pacific, the remote and untamed Marquesas are an unforgettable sailing stop – if you can get there. 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, with towering peaks rising above anchorages.

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Tasmania

Tasmania offers world class cruising, friendly, welcoming people, and a rich sailing history. The beautiful anchorages are uncrowded and private, and the sailing is world class. Just ask anyone who has ever sailed a Sydney Hobart Race.

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Whitsunday Islands

Pristine white sand beaches begging for footprints; the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park just waiting to be snorkeled; and our charter catamaran tugging on her mooring lines, ready to set sail. Who could resist such a tempting welcome from the Whitsunday Islands? Not us.

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Southeast Asia

Phang Nga Bay

Towering rock sculptures rise out of the water in Thailand’s Phang Nga Bay, providing a surreal backdrop for cruising. Anchor among the hongs and hope into a dinghy for an unforgettable experience exploring hidden caves and uncovering secrets from the 10,000 year history of the bay.

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Africa

Cape Town

From the blustery southeaster that can blow 45-60 knots for days on end, the “table cloth” on Table Mountain, to the waterfront with all its great seafaring tales and bars and the beaches of the suburb of Clifton, Cape Town has it all. The weather is like Southern California; you can stay active in the great outdoors year round.

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Madagascar

Madagascar is a true cruising gem. Its culture is a delightful convergence of Europe, Africa and the Middle East, as evidenced by the gourmet French meals, baked goods, mélange of rum drinks, vibrant materials for both traditional and modern dress, and the combination of French and local Malagasy language.

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South America

Chile

The Cape Horn archipelago conjures images of heroic voyages through inhospitable landscapes and harsh, raw conditions, the true beauty Chile is that it’s remote enough to be pristine, but not isolated enough that you feel completely cut off from the rest of the world.

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Antarctica

Antarctica

Cold, unforgiving and a challenge for even the most seasoned sailor, there isn’t quite any place on earth like Antarctica. Just ask anyone who has been, though, and you’ll find that the journey to the bottom of the world was unforgettable.

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