It was to be a routine delivery: bringing my boat home from the Mediterranean, sailing from Tunisia up along the west coast of Italy to Genoa, where I would put Ranger on a freighter to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. 

But it turned out to be a journey of ­discovery. A sail into the past, along a landscape so choked with beauty and bounty, hazards real and imagined, ancient myths and contemporary events, all amid rolling seas and emotions. Five knots was too fast to absorb it. Only now, years later, have I found the storyline.

In 800 miles, I traveled through 2,000 years of marine navigation, from a continent once skirted by Phoenicians who lit fires as waypoints, to the creation of nautical charts and compass wayfaring, to explorations of the entire world. It was all capped, in the 1980s, with the invention of electronic charts.  

On a rhumb line, Genoa lay 500 miles to the north. Pushing my 1970 Allied Seabreeze yawl, I could have motorsailed it in five days. But to pass by the Italian coast would have been a crime punishable by regret. I set aside two months and invited three mates to join me for ­successive segments.

The first was Wally Wallace, a burly, fearless Vietnam War paratrooper. First mate on my 2002 trans-Atlantic, he’d become a sought-after delivery captain and cook on Maine tourist boats. I knew that he would save me if Ranger were to founder. He met me in Tunisia at Yasmine Hammamet, an upscale, French-owned resort and marina where I had left the boat, and began to tackle a list of jobs created by three years of Saharan sun and dust. We were getting to know Ranger again, including her dripping “dripless” shaft seal that periodically lit up the bilge-pump light. My log is filled with expletives from each time it spiked my blood pressure.

Once we had cleared customs with a 40 dinar ($13) baksheesh bribe, we found ourselves in waters divided by culture and wealth. There were Muslim shores where fishermen still plied hand-hewn sailboats, and where Africans trying to escape died trying. There was the “North” of wealth and opportunity. Hammamet was used by large-yacht owners to sail through European Union loopholes. By visiting Tunisia for a couple of nights every two years, they avoided a 20 percent tax on the boat’s value. The cost of fuel for the round-trip from their home ports in Europe—thousands of dollars—was worth every penny to them.

The night before our departure in March 2012, a cold Sahara wind whistled through a thousand shrouds. Little did we know that 100 miles away, two boats carrying sub-Sahara Africans were wallowing toward the Italian island of Lampedusa, where they’d hoped to find asylum. One boat with 50 souls landed the next day. The other, with 60 people including two pregnant women, was found in distress a few days later, with five passengers dead.

As that tragedy unfolded, Wally and I were motorsailing toward Trapani on the toe of Sicily, 150 miles and a First World away. There, we enjoyed a beer and baked redfish that Wally caught en route. From Sicily, under jib and jigger, we made 6 knots bearing 31 degrees across a lumpy Tyrrhenian Sea, marked by mythic wakes of Odysseus. In his famous book, Homer had left a spaghetti snarl of supposed routes and infamous dangers. 

“It would be tempting to treat the Odyssey as a Baedeker’s guide to the Mediterranean,” writes David Abulafia, the dean of Mediterranean scholars. Alas, he added, “the map of the Mediterranean was infinitely malleable in the hands of the poets.”

That said, Homer got one thing right: The Med is tempestuous. During our 180-mile sail across the northern border of the “Aeolian triangle,” named for the bag of wind given to Odysseus by Aeolus, Wally was kept busy changing sails.

The welcome sight of Amalfi on the Italian mainland is reflected in my log’s tally of our landfall celebration: pizza, beer, pie, internet, ice cream. A stroll through the colorful waterfront, devoted now to tourists and old men telling old stories, provides just a hint at Amalfi’s maritime significance. Although a bronze statue of hooded Flavio Gioia stakes the claim that he invented the magnetic compass here in 1302, it too is a myth. Centuries before, the Chinese had discovered the magic properties of lodestone, a rock that, if hung on a thread, points north and south. 

Still, behind the legend is a true history of Amalfi as an international port, a wealthy city-state based on trade fostered by the compass. For 600 years in the Middle Ages, Amalfi merchants turned the Mediterranean into a bazaar, trading Italian wheat, timber, linen, wine, fruits, and nuts with Tunisia and Egypt for oil, wax, spices, and gold.

Paper charts, drawn by exploring sailors, stimulated more trade. Italy, and the whole Mediterranean, shows up on maps as early as 500 B.C. The Romans mapped their empire, in part to mark their conquests. While Columbus sailed “for gold, god and glory,” the Med was mapped for one reason: money. Amalfi’s prominence vanished with an earthquake and tsunami that destroyed the port on November 25, 1343.

Portolan charts, an Italian term for detailed port maps, were in use by 1270. “The outline they gave for the Mediterranean was amazingly accurate,” writes Tony Campbell in The History of Cartography. The work of the first named practitioner, Pietro Vesconte of Genoa, who died in 1330, “was so accurate that the Mediterranean outlines would not be improved until the 18th century.”

Leaving Amalfi, sailing southwest along the Sorrento Peninsula, we lacked the wardrobe and class to rub shoulders with the glitterati on the island of Capri. Instead, we created our own photo ops amid the rocks and tunnels and cliffs of Faraglioni at the island’s southern tip. Our only companions were tourist boats filled with envy.

After spending the night at anchor, we crossed the Gulf of Naples on a ­sunny, breezy easterly to Torre del Greco, a blue-collar town in the shadow of Mount Vesuvius. After touring exhumed Pompeii, we sailed to Naples, in search of—what else?—pizza, only to find dozens of joints claiming to be the original. Home to the US 6th Fleet, Naples has a footnote in navigation history as one of the first ports to be charted in detail using surveys from land, in 1812 by Italian cartographer Rizzi Zannoni. 

I then headed north, slowing to marvel at Homer’s ability to imagine two ordinary boulders as home to sirens, women who sang sailors to their deaths. It was here, Homer wrote, that Odysseus tied himself to the mast to resist. Wally and I covered our ears.

On April 4, we arrived at the River Tiber, downstream from Rome and under the flight path to its airport. After some struggle to find a berth, I located a spot in the river itself, tied on the outside of the quay of a classy country-club marina. Its fee was 36 euros ($50) a night. I had been spending, on average, $50 a day total since leaving Tunisia, but we had now entered Italy’s more developed, and expensive, boating waters. I had $1,700 left.

Wally and I shared a taxi to the airport, where he departed and I picked up my daughter, Amy. She had little sailing experience, but by hewing close to the coastline, I felt that I was taking a reasonable risk. And, truth be told, I wanted to make up a bit of time lost with her since her mother and I divorced 30 years before. We had shared many road trips in the American West, but I’d missed so much and knew so little. She was now 38, and that night aboard, we had a good talk about her boyfriend, her job as a university fundraiser, and, for some reason lost to me now, death and disabilities. She introduced me to prosecco, and we dined on hors d’oeuvres as if we were yachties.

The next morning, as she removed sail ties while dressed in a parka, she realized that the bikini she had packed would not see the light of day. Under crisp clear skies and windshifts from east to west, we sailed to Civitavecchia behind a rugged breakwater, human-made like most marinas on the coast. The wind picked up, and it began to rain at 2 a.m. “Cold, nasty night,” my log reads.

Amy had brought an early, unlocked smartphone, and with a local SIM card, she found an Italian weather site with sea conditions. As day broke clear, we expected some onshore chop, but as we rounded the breakwater under power, we ran into the storm’s aftermath: giant onshore rollers. As Ranger hobbyhorsed dramatically, Amy, who was sitting forward, clearly scared, turned and shouted, “Daddy!” I put her into a harness, jacklined her to a U-bolt, and told her to sit near the mast, where the movement would be smaller. I raised a reefed main, but with winds less than 5 knots, it didn’t help. By midmorning, I could raise the jib and shut off the engine. It was better, marginally.

“Long, rocking day,” my log reads. “Amy was a trouper.”

At 3 p.m., she steered us into Porto Ercole, a big grin on her face. Two beers and some potato soup later, we were in bed at 7:30 p.m., “wiped.”

A terrible surge woke me at midnight. I got Amy up to move the boat parallel to the dock, bow in. At 4 a.m., I adjusted the spring line. At 9 a.m., it was rainy and windy—the Med’s many moods. I wasn’t feeling that hot either. 

I’d now been a month at sea, and Amy sailed us 20 miles to a quiet anchorage. We planned two nights but knew from her phone that “stuff was coming.” We ­motored into a nice marina with hot showers at Grosseto. Along the way, looking west, we could see the cruise boat Costa Concordia still lying on its side three months after striking a rock off Isola del Giglio. Thirty-two people died. The captain who abandoned the ship before it was cleared was later convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to 16 years in prison. It was a chilling sight, and a reminder that the Med, charted for centuries, could still snag a boat and kill.

On April 17, my third mate, Dave Pfautz, joined us, and Amy took us to dinner for my birthday. David, a nurse, had introduced me to living aboard in Key West, Florida, and had helped me find Ranger. We made a nightly ritual at sunset to sail out and watch for the green flash, and toast our good fortune. I asked him to cross the Atlantic with me, but he backed out at the last minute because of a health issue. Now he felt he could join us, and I gladly accepted his presence as payback.

Amy left early the next day, taxiing to a train to Rome. She left her phone, and a card, thanking me for all “the wonderful new memories.” I cried. Several times.

“Sea turned to shit,” my log begins for April 19. Big, westerly waves made for a rolly ride north, and an exciting entry in breaking surf into San Vincenzo. Dave threw up again, perhaps from a bad plate of clams, and I persuaded him to go to a hospital. I ate tapas alone. 

At midnight, I woke to howling winds. They weren’t forecast. The waves were crashing against the breakwater at Marina Cala de’ Medici. I risked an escape, gunning the diesel out through the breaking surf. Stuff flew around the cabin. Dave was weak. It was a lumpy, tough day.

We stopped at Viareggio on a national holiday, grabbing a toehold on a crowded dock end. Set against the rolling hills and vineyards of Tuscany, with Pisa and Florence beckoning, the region might have lured me to stay if I had not been on deadline and burdened with an infirm crewman. With less than 100 miles to go, I was eager to catch the boat home.

As a result, I also passed a chance to investigate a note in Rod Heikell’s Italian Waters Pilot. Ten miles away in Marina di Carrara, known for its white marble, sat the headquarters of the two leading electronic chart companies: C-Map and Navionics. 

The story of how two local boyhood friends—Foncho Bianchetti and Giuseppe Carnevali—conceived and built the first marine chart plotter, the Geonav, by digitizing paper charts and displaying them on a mobile screen, describes one of the great leaps in marine navigation. Their first unit, displayed at the Genoa boat show in 1984, cost $12,000. They made 200 that were snapped up by, among others, the King of Spain and Prince of Monaco, according to Carnevali. The friends soon split over business strategy, with Carnevali heading Navionics and Bianchetti forming C-Map. Their competition, which drove innovation, remains today in headquarters a few miles apart. Navionics is now owned by Garmin and C-Map by Brunswick Corp.

The fact that it happened in Italy, atop the long history that I had surveyed, was coincidental, both men said. And yet today, both companies acknowledge that Italian innovation, precision and artistic creativity would make it appear inevitable.

With relief, Ranger and I finally arrived in Genoa, tucked into a slip and, between sumptuous meals, began to undress for the freighter trip home. It was on this ­waterfront that Christopher Columbus, born in 1451, escaped his family’s sheep farm. He began to absorb the lore and ­avarice of merchant ­trading, first as a ship’s boy that took him to the eastern ­waters of the Med. His first documented trip was to the island of Chios, near Turkey. By this time, ­navigational ­innovation had moved to Spain and Portugal, and their explorations. Columbus followed, and the rest is history.

I said goodbye to Dave, happy to be alone with Ranger. He flew home but never recovered his once-buoyant soul. Some years later, after a motorcycle accident, he died in surgery. Whenever I see a green flash, I think of our sunset cruises and the life he introduced me to.

Ranger’s last Italian trip, a couple of miles to the Dockwise yacht-transport dock, was a nail-biter as waves ricocheted off concrete abutments, creating a maelstrom. Violently rocking, Ranger’s prop at times came out of the water. I’m not big on prayer, but as I mumbled, “Please, God,” I also shouted to the Racor fuel filter: “Don’t fail me now!” 

I could understand why the Med had been seen as inhabited by spirits: evil, benign and inviting. We cruisers travel odysseys every time we shove off. It takes will and skills, vision and dreams to journey by boat. 

Checking my Garmin GPS II, I saw that Ranger and I had traveled 15,000 miles. I had reached my goal—across an ocean and an ancient sea—and had gathered both a sail bag of stories and a great sense of accomplishment. I didn’t know at the time that this would be my last great ­sailing voyage. But at 68, I had nothing left to prove. Like Odysseus, I was going home.

The post Cruising Italy: A Voyage Through Time appeared first on Cruising World.

The Moorings, which has more than 20 destinations worldwide, is adding power catamaran charters out of Dubrovnik, Croatia, beginning this summer.

Customers in this destination will be able to book a Moorings 403PC, which accommodates as many as six people in a three-stateroom layout. The boat also has a generator, air conditioning, and a fully equipped flybridge. 

Dubrovnik is a walled city that has become increasingly popular with visiting yachts in recent years, in no small part thanks to many scenes from the HBO series Game of Thrones being filmed there. The city itself is enchanting to explore by foot, and a weeklong cruising itinerary can include lots of interesting nearby sites.

For instance, there’s the settlement of Šipanska Luka on Šipan island. In the past, nobles from Dubrovnik would come here for the landscape, fertile lands and shelter from wind. The harbor has an anchorage, and local restaurants have mooring buoys.

Also nearby is Badija Island, the largest of the islands in the Korčula archipelago. The most dominant feature of the island is a Franciscan Monastery built in the 14th century, but the most active sight that cruisers typically see is the island’s deer. They will approach visitors who offer food, and will take it directly from a human’s hand.

Another nearby stop is the town at Hvar Island, a popular vacation spot that can be busy in the summertime, but that is nevertheless worth a visit. There is a quay and mooring buoys, or cruisers can moor at the Pakleni islands archipelago and take the tender over for a look. Archaeological attractions here include the Fortica Fortress, cathedral and Franciscan monastery.

Yet another place to explore is Lastovo Island’s Skrivena Luka. This island is one of the most remote inhabited islands in the Adriatic Sea, amid an archipelago of 45 uninhabited islands. It is the opposite of Hvar: unspoiled by tourism. It is instead a nature park with beautiful scenery. Its Struga Lighthouse was built in 1839 at the mouth of Skrivena Luka Bay. It is one of the oldest lighthouses in Croatia, on the edge of a steep cliff.

And don’t miss: Polače at Mljet Island. This is one of the oldest settlements on Mljet, and is surrounded by islands: Tajnik, Moračnik, Ovrata and Kobrava. Many cruisers stop here to check out the ruins of structures from ancient times, as well as the current village, which largely dates from the late 17th and early 18th century. Cruisers can rent bicycles and kayaks here, and there are restaurants for sampling the local cuisine.

Where to learn more: visit moorings.com

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Shielding my face from the misty rain, I was steps away from turning around when the sound of jeering cut through the creaking of moored boats. Amid the wind gusts, and under the glow of sunset and scattered streetlights, I could see that I was alone in the harbor, but I distinctly heard cackling, along with, “Weigh heigh and up she rises, weigh heigh and up she rises…” 

This was my first encounter with Peter Cafe Sport, a refuge for trans-Atlantic adventurers on Faial Island in the Azores. 

Unlike other islands in the Azores, Faial is sheltered, with soft, gray moonscapes and 10 sleeping volcanoes. Its harbor, at Horta, is guarded from storms by two peaks to the south, another to the east, and yet another to the north. It’s here that Peter Cafe Sport opened in 1918. Bedraggled seafarers with wild beards, sun-blistered skin and an unfamiliar tongue fueled fear in the isolated islanders, but cafe founder Henrique Azevedo and his son José welcomed them as brave pioneers of the ocean. José, in particular, became known in the sailing community as a friend who could be relied upon for a good chat, a shower, supplies and a boozy welcome party. 

This devotion to passing mariners runs in the blood of the family, still to this day. I returned to the cafe in daylight and noticed drinkers eyeing their docked boats from a raised deck. Above the entrance, a bowsprit reached out to sea. Below it was a ­ribbon-shaped sign etched with “Cafe Sport.” 

The building resembles a boat that’s riding the waves, with bright-white upper floors floating on the blue lower level, embellished with a sperm whale carved from whalebone. Behind wood-shuttered ­windows and through the open door is a dimly lit watering hole with the familiar warmth of a local pub. A sculpture from the prow of a ship hangs over the wooden bar that has stood for more than a century. Weather-worn flags are strung across the ceilings and walls, left behind by sailors for good luck at sea.

José became known in the sailing community as a friend who could be relied upon for a good chat, a shower, supplies and a boozy welcome party.

At the back of the room, through the swinging door, Peter busts out with open arms and a soft smile. “I’m the third Peter, but my name’s actually João,” he says while shaking my hand. “My father and grandfather are also Peter.”

Henrique, the founder, was João’s great-grandfather. João learned the ropes at age 6. By 15, he worked full time. As he grew, so did his appreciation for the family business, which got its name from a captain aboard the British Royal Navy’s HMS Lusitania. Henrique had named his son José, but while José served aboard Lusitania during World War II, the captain took to calling him Peter, after his own son. Back home in Faial, the nickname stuck. Islanders and visitors would refer to the place as Peter’s, so the name Peter Cafe Sport was born.

Today, José “Peter’s” son, José Henrique, is the main man, but he’s passing duties on to his kids, João, Mariana and Pedro, and their cousin Duarte—who all consider themselves the third Peter in the family line. João’s mother offers a helping hand when she’s not working as a doctor at the ­hospital, often treating mariners.

“Two weeks ago, a Brazilian seaman was rushed into hospital with heart problems, and my mother was the one who cared for him,” João says. “When he was better, he spent time in the cafe. My mother, of course, made a visit to see how he was doing.” 

Familiar faces return in the summers, along with unforgotten friends from 10 years past—every year, around 15,000 boats switch from sails to engines as the highest peak in Portugal comes into sight from the water. Some of the most celebrated mariners who have felt the heartfelt welcome of the Azevedo family: Jacques-Yves Cousteau, Larry Pardey, Joshua Slocum, Sir Francis Chichester, Annie Van de Wiele, Eric Tabarly and, just last week, Sir Robin Knox-Johnson.

“There was an English couple who visited at the beginning of a two-year trip around the world,” João says. “They said they’d stop by on their way back home. They did, 18 years later.”

And another, he adds, from just a couple of years ago: “Sven Yrvind, a crazy 82-year-old man, arrived from northern Europe on a hand-built 4-meter-long boat. He was already planning to build another boat once he’d finished his trip to South Africa and back. He wasn’t even halfway through the first journey yet.” 

They all got to hear what I heard: ­clattering cutlery and sizzling seafood on hot steel plates, with garlic butter spitting into the air. I watched satisfied guests nibble on light, creamy cheese starters, and then devour slow-cooked Azorean stews packed with locally grown vegetables. It’s customary here to wash down your meal with a gin and tonic or a signature cocktail made with the cafe’s own Gin do Mar (“gin of the sea”) and the Azorean passionfruit brandy Licor de Maracujá.

Back home in Faial, the nickname stuck. Islanders and visitors would refer to the place as Peter’s, so the name Peter Cafe Sport was born.

All the while, orders are put in for custom parts and boat repairs in the cafe’s workshop next door, and letters from loved ones are brought in to distribute. 

“About three weeks ago, a young ­gentleman, around 16 years old, arrived on a school boat. They travel for six months while learning to sail,” João says. “It was the Pelican of London, and they’d been at sea for a few weeks and out of touch with family. When the boy was in the cafe one morning, I asked if he was waiting for mail. He said yes, so, teasingly, I asked if it was a love letter from a girlfriend. He said: ‘No, no, it’s from my grandfather. My parents called today because he’s just passed away. It will be the last words I ever receive from him.’ 

“I didn’t have the letter, so after ­tracking it and seeing that it was arriving here, I went to the post office and made some noise,” he continues. “I fought for that letter. Later that day, I returned to the cafe with a surprise.”

João handed the teenager the envelope. The boy cried, hugged him and said, “I would’ve just given up if it weren’t for you.”

There’s plenty of tradition here too, in addition to the flags and G&T cocktails. “We have a closing-time CD that we play every day, with music that is special to us, like ‘Drunken Sailor’and songs by Jacques Brel because he was here six months before he died,” João says. “Some say his last live performance was here at the cafe. We also play ‘Imagine’by John Lennon because it’s a message of peace. It doesn’t matter about your race or country; here, you can always have a beer or gin and tonic—if you behave well.”

I left the cafe in the same way that ­thousands had done before me: by walking out onto the harbor, where the concrete breakwaters are covered with hand-painted murals that look like postage stamps from around the globe. Row upon row are intricate designs—some fading, others fresh—of elaborate deepwater dive suits, marine life and boats. Each one is dated and signed, with names of crewmembers and their country of origin.

It’s one last superstitious ritual for good weather during their journey onward.

The post An Oasis in the Middle of the Atlantic appeared first on Cruising World.

My interest in the global movement of cruising boats goes back to 1987, when I published the results of my first survey on this subject. I have since conducted follow-up surveys every five years. The latest was done in 2016. During this time, the world experienced two major phenomena that seriously affected offshore cruising: the (hopefully short-term) Covid-19 pandemic, and the longer-term climate crisis, whose consequences are expected to get worse.

The pandemic had an immediate impact on the international cruising community and caused havoc among sailors on long voyages. As many popular cruising destinations closed their borders, sailors had to postpone their plans or leave their boats unattended and return home. Those who were allowed to stay had to remain at anchor. There were several reported cases of hostile, unsympathetic attitudes from authorities and local people, even in areas where visiting sailors were previously welcomed. 

In several cases, the planned voyages were abandoned. International cruising traffic came to a standstill, and my own plans for a follow-up survey in 2022 looked like they would suffer the same fate. Even if I managed to get figures from places that had supplied data in the past, in most cases, the figures would be meaningless. 

To get at least a rough idea of the real situation, in early 2022, I contacted some of the most-frequented hubs on the world cruising circuit, such as Panama, Bermuda, Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, Tahiti and Noumea (in New Caledonia, South Pacific). The figures I obtained showed that while some places had fared better, others had seen an unprecedented reduction in the number of visiting boats.

Las Palmas, in the Canary Islands, recorded its highest ever influx in 2021, with 1,256 visiting boats. As the starting point for the annual ARC trans-Atlantic rally, as well as being an important transit hub, this location proved its lasting popularity thanks to the tolerant attitude of the local authorities. A similar situation was experienced in the port of Horta in the Azores, a favorite landfall at the end of a trans-Atlantic passage from the Caribbean. Horta Marina recorded 1,102 arrivals in 2021, compared to 465 in 2020 and 1,132 in 2019. 

But the figures from these traditional Atlantic hubs were not indicative of the situation in other parts of the world. Panama Canal transits of pleasure craft decreased in 2021 to just 806, down from 1,122 in 2020. The drop-off was even more drastic in countries where pandemic restrictions continued into 2021, such as Tonga, New Caledonia, New Zealand and Australia—all of which recorded no arrivals. In Tahiti and South Africa, like at the Panama Canal, numbers were considerably lower than in previous years.

During 2022, as the pandemic appeared to be under control, most countries lifted their temporary restrictions. I resumed my survey by contacting officials in the most significant cruising hubs or transit points in every ocean. I requested the number of foreign-flagged yachts that had passed through those ports in 2022.  

These figures let me construct a picture of the current movement of cruising yachts.  

Atlantic Ocean

The port of Las Palmas in the Canary Islands has a larger concentration of boats preparing for ocean passages than any other place in the world, with the majority of sailors setting off toward the Caribbean. The port authority recorded a total of 1,237 visiting boats in 2022, flying the flags of 44 countries. The largest contingent was from France (266), followed by Germany (194), the United Kingdom (83), the Netherlands (49), Sweden (42), Switzerland (38), Denmark (27), Norway (24), the United States (19), Belgium (17), Poland (16), Finland (14), New Zealand (13), Spain (12), Australia (11), Italy (9), Russia (8), Czechia (7) and smaller numbers from other countries.

Approximately 75 percent of the boats that called at Las Palmas were bound for the Caribbean, either directly or via the Cape Verdes. An increasingly popular intermediate point for a trans-Atlantic passage is Mindelo Marina on São Vicente Island; it recorded a total of 1,120 arrivals in 2022. Located in the northeast trade wind belt, this is now considered to be a better starting point for an Atlantic passage to the Caribbean than the direct route from the Canaries, as the chance of consistent favorable winds is higher, and the distance is shorter. 

Most of the European boats that sail to the Caribbean cross the Atlantic after the middle of November or early December, and complete their Atlantic circuit by sailing to the Azores the following April or May. Horta, on the island of Faial, Portugal, continues to be the preferred landfall at the end of an eastbound trans-Atlantic passage. Horta Marina has been keeping detailed records of visiting boats since 1985, and the latest data made it possible to extract a raft of interesting facts about the boats, their crews and their routes sailed. 

While the total number of boats (1,131) that cleared into Horta during 2022 has not changed significantly, the data confirmed that the majority of boats on passage from the Caribbean to Europe now sail directly to the Azores, rather than via a detour to Bermuda. While Horta has overtaken Bermuda in overall number of visiting yachts, Bermuda continues to be an important transit point for North American boats sailing between the mainland and the Caribbean or Europe, as well as for boats returning from the Caribbean to the United States or Canada. 

The number of boats that called at Bermuda in 2022 was 838, confirming a steady decline since 2000. This drop-off is mainly due to the large number of American boats that bypass Bermuda and sail directly to the Eastern Caribbean. The situation is reversed in May, when more boats returning to the US mainland call at Bermuda. 

More than half the boats that arrive in the Caribbean from Europe or America used to spend at least one full season in the islands, but in recent years, concerns about climate change creating bigger storms have led more sailors to limit themselves to a one-year circuit, be it from Europe or North America. Those who stay longer in the Caribbean usually have their boats stored on land in a secure place during the hurricane season. 

The island of Trinidad has set up several boatyards for this purpose, with 478 boats spending the summer there in 2022—a significant reduction from 2,664 in 2000 and 1,367 in 2010. According to Donald Stollmeyer, former president of the Yacht Services Association of Trinidad and Tobago, ‘The explanation is the gradual decline in the number of sailors who are prepared to keep their boats in the tropics during the hurricane season.” An even more significant reason is the fact that many insurance companies will no longer cover boats during the critical season in the tropics.

Overall, the total number of boats that spend the winter season cruising in the Caribbean has remained relatively stable in recent years. Cuba was expected to see an increase, with hopes that US restrictions on American boats would be lifted, but this has not happened. Even so, Cuba’s eight marinas recorded a total of 284 foreign-flagged yachts in 2022. According to Commodore José Miguel Diaz Escrich of the Hemingway International Yacht Club of Cuba, “We are always happy to welcome and offer our friendship to all those who love the sea.”

A good distance from Cuba, cold-water cruising is becoming more popular as sailors strike out for more challenging destinations. Two high-latitude destinations in the North Atlantic that cruising yachts regularly visit are Spitsbergen, Norway, and Greenland. The former has become the most popular high-latitude destination in the Atlantic, with 52 visiting boats recorded in 2022. Greenland is poised to become more frequented—as an attractive cruising destination in its own right, and as a base for Northwest Passage preparations. In 2022, 14 yachts called at Nuuk, the capital of Greenland, with most of them limiting their cruising to the spectacular west coast. The more intrepid sailors struck out west to brave the Northwest Passage, which has become more accessible in recent years as a result of climate change and ice melt. Four boats completed a westbound transit to the Pacific, while another four boats made a successful eastbound transit. The total of eight successful transits in 2022 compared to zero in 2021 and only one in 2020. 

This newfound success may not last, though, with concerns about pollution from additional cargo and cruise ships, and the impact of cruise-ship passengers on local communities. Small boats may also be affected, as in recent years, there have been a few cases when the authorities have had to assist sailors. All those factors may result in restrictions being imposed on any vessel planning to use this waterway. 

Such restrictions are already imposed at the other extreme of the Atlantic Ocean, where voyages to Antarctica on private yachts are only possible with permission from the national authorities, and the boats must abide by strict environmental protocols. The Argentinian port of Ushuaia, at the tip of South America, is where boats planning to sail south to Antarctica or north to the Chilean canals prepare and provision. The 38 arrivals in 2022 were down from 64 in 2015, and down from the peak figure of 105 in 2000.

Across the Beagle Channel from Ushuaia is Puerto Williams, a Chilean military outpost and the southernmost settlement in the world. The small port is only a short distance from Cape Horn. The Chilean authorities have jurisdiction over the Antarctic Peninsula and parts of Tierra del Fuego, so any boat planning to sail that way must complete formalities here. The movements of all vessels are monitored by the Chilean Navy, which reports that the total of 77 yacht movements in 2022 was well below the 143 recorded in 2015. There was also a significant reduction in the number of private yachts that sailed to Antarctica, from 43 in 2019 to 12 in 2022.

From Puerto Williams and Ushuaia, most cruising yachts heading for the South Atlantic call at Port Stanley in the Falklands, which saw 12 yachts in 2022 compared with 29 in 2015. From there, the routes diverge and either follow the contour of the South American mainland or continue nonstop to the island of Saint Helena or to Cape Town, South Africa. Both of these have seen an increase in the number of visiting yachts, initially because of piracy in the North Indian Ocean, and then because of safety concerns caused by political uncertainty around the Red Sea. 

 The majority of yachts on a world voyage are sailing the Cape of Good Hope route, with 126 yachts calling at Cape Town in 2022. This was a considerable decline from 2010, when 358 yachts stopped there. With the exception of a few boats that sailed directly from Cape Town to Argentina or Brazil, most boats headed north and stopped at Saint Helena, which was visited by 95 yachts in 2022.

Pacific Ocean

The Panama Canal is the most valuable indicator of yacht movement between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, and on a global level. The latest figures show that the steady increase in pleasure-craft transits peaked in 2010, when 1,177 yachts transited the Panama Canal compared to 919 in 2022. Some 725 were Pacific-bound, and 354 were Atlantic-bound. What has remained unchanged are the Pacific destinations after the transit, with one-third of the boats turning north toward the west coast of Central and North America, and the rest heading for the South Pacific.

The Galapagos Islands used to be a favorite stopover en route to French Polynesia, but restrictions on visiting yachts, complex formalities and associated expenses now deter most sailors from stopping there. There was a record high of 395 in 2010, but the figure for 2022 dropped to 66. 

For those who decide to bypass Galapagos while on route to French Polynesia, the logical option is to sail directly from Panama to the Marquesas. A somewhat longer but potentially more attractive alternative is a detour to Easter Island and, from there, the Pitcairn Islands to French Polynesia. Easter Island, one of the most remote sailing destinations in the world, recorded the steepest decline highlighted by this latest survey. According to the port captain of Hanga Roa, the main settlement and port, “Compared to a record of 79 yachts that called in 2015, only seven stopped here in 2022.” Most of them continued west to the Pitcairns, once the hideaway of the Bounty mutineers, whose descendants live on this remote speck of land and welcome visitors. One descendant, Brenda Christian, emailed me to say: “In 2022, we were pleased to welcome 122 yachts.”

The majority of boats bound for the South Seas, whether from Panama or North America, make their first landfall in the Marquesas. Arriving at those spectacular islands after weeks spent at sea is an awe-inspiring and unforgettable experience. Some 264 boats arrived there in 2022, the majority at Atuona on the island of Hiva Oa. Total arrivals for all of French Polynesia were 404, a significant drop from the record 826 reported in 2010. 

Sailing west from Tahiti, several detours can be made from the main trunk route, such as to Suwarrow, an uninhabited atoll in the Northern Cook Islands where a caretaker is based during the peak arrivals time. Only 16 boats stopped there in 2022 compared with 69 boats in 2015. Another popular place, also in the Cook Islands, is Palmerston Atoll, which was visited by only three boats in 2022, with none in the previous year. This was also the case in neighboring Tonga, which didn’t lift its pandemic restrictions until early 2022. The northern island group of Vava’u, a longtime favorite among sailors, welcomed only 14 arrivals compared to an all-time peak 424 in the previous survey.  

The above places are close enough to the main trans-Pacific route not to entail much of a detour, which may explain why only four boats called at Tuvalu. This small Polynesian community is threatened by rising sea levels from climate change.

Fiji is an important cruising hub in the South Pacific, and its capital, Suva, welcomed 83 yachts in 2022. From there, most cruising boats leave the tropics before the start of the cyclone season and sail to New Zealand or Australia. Both those countries closed their borders at the start of the pandemic, causing mayhem among sailors. The restrictions were only lifted in 2022, when 324 boats were welcomed in New Zealand and 330 in Australia. After no arrivals in 2021, New Caledonia was visited by 241 boats in 2022, a hopeful indication that the situation is gradually returning to normal.

There has also been a considerable decline in the number of visiting boats in the western North Pacific, where weather conditions are noticeably affected by ocean warming. The Philippines now endure tropical cyclones every month of the year, but continue to attract visiting boats, most of them in less-affected areas. On the Asian mainland, the expected boom in visiting cruising boats has failed to materialize, and the figures from Hong Kong show a considerable decline compared to previous surveys. The few foreign yachts that visit Hong King are participants in races organized by the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club. There has not been much more movement in China, either, since formalities for visiting yachts continue to be complicated and expensive. 

A small number of cruising boats make it as far as Japan every year, with an estimated 12 foreign yachts passing through Osaka in 2022. Most of them continued east, with some stopping at Alaska’s Dutch Harbor on their way to Canada or the US West Coast. Dutch Harbor is a busy fishing port at the eastern edge of Alaska’s Aleutian Islands, and nine yachts visited there in 2022. Provisioning and repair facilities in Dutch Harbor are excellent, making it a good base for an eastbound transit of the Northwest Passage.

Although rarely affected by tropical storms, Hawaii still sees relatively few foreign-flagged yachts. The authorities do not keep a record, and the best guess is that about 20 foreign yachts called at the islands in 2022. Hawaii does attract many mainland boats for cruising and racing. Some sail from there to French Polynesia, and a few continue west toward Micronesia and the Asian mainland. Some of them were among the 14 arrivals recorded in the Marshall Islands, which is a fair estimate of the number of boats visiting the Micronesian islands.

Indian Ocean

The number of foreign-flagged boats has shown a steady decrease in the North Indian Ocean, with most boats on a world voyage sailing the Cape of Good Hope route to reach the Atlantic Ocean, rather than the Red Sea and Suez Canal alternative. By contrast, there continues to be significant coastal traffic, with more local and regional boats racing, cruising and joining the rallies and regattas during the winter season in Western Malaysia and Thailand.

For sailors undeterred by the Red Sea who continue west across the North Indian Ocean, a convenient port is Galle, on the south coast of Sri Lanka, where 23 arrivals were recorded in 2022. Some further detoured to Cochin in southern India, which welcomed 11 boats last year. Djibouti continues to be the only safe haven to prepare for the arduous transit of the Red Sea, and 29 boats stopped here before heading north. All of them made it safely to Suez, Egypt, which recorded 36 arrivals in 2022 compared to 2010, when 171 yachts transited the Suez Canal.

Approximately 250 yachts transit the Torres Strait between Australia and New Guinea every year, and half of them continue west into the South Indian Ocean. The others explore the Indonesian archipelago, where formalities have eased in an attempt to attract more visitors. Even so, in 2022, only 46 foreign vessels obtained the required cruising permit issued by the Indonesian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, compared to 236 in 2016.

Significantly fewer boats stopped at Darwin in Northern Australia, which saw 23 arrivals in 2022 compared to 72 in the previous survey. The Australian outpost of Cocos/Keeling, a popular stop on the world sailing circuit, was also affected by the pandemic, with only 31 arrivals in 2022 compared to 99 in 2015. From Cocos/Keeling, the westbound route splits into a southern branch to Rodrigues in Mauritius, and a northern branch bound for Chagos in the British Indian Ocean Territory. The latter recorded six visitors, a significant drop from the 23 boats six years earlier, as the British authorities now limit permits to those who can justify the need for a stop. The most popular stop along the southern route is Port Louis in Mauritius, with 242 arrivals recorded in 2022, a definite proof of the predominance of the Cape of Good Hope route among boats on a world voyage. 

When discovered as a cruising destination, Madagascar was expected to become the major cruising attraction in the South Indian Ocean, but the lack of facilities and cumbersome bureaucracy dashed those hopes. Nosy Be, an island on Madagascar’s northwest coast, has established itself as a modest base, but few world voyagers bother to make the lengthy detour from Mauritius or La Reunion. Only eight visiting boats were recorded in the Nosy Be area in 2022.

On the eve of the cyclone season, all boats make their way south. In 2022, Richards Bay was the favorite South African landfall, with a total of 103 arrivals. The number of boats that called at Cape Town was 126, of which 123 were bound for the South Atlantic and three for the Indian Ocean. Thanks to the Ocean Sailing Association of Southern Africa, this was one of the few countries that didn’t close its borders to visiting sailboats during the pandemic. 

Sailing Hubs

In addition to highlighting the drastic reduction in the number of cruising boats on world voyages, I noted three other trends: the small size of crew on long voyages, with many couples sailing on their own; the number of couples with young children setting off on a shorter or longer sabbatical leave; and the steadily increasing proportion of catamarans among cruising yachts.

These trends may be related, so I widened the scope of this survey to find out more about the type of boats undertaking long voyages, such average length, crew size, whether they were monohulls or catamarans, as well as the predominant nationalities on board. 

Figures obtained from Panama and Las Palmas de Gran Canaria made it possible to calculate the average length of the boats. To arrive at a realistic figure, only boats under 60 feet were included. The average length of monohulls in Las Palmas was 12.97 meters (42.6 feet), and multihulls were 13.80 meters (45.2 feet). In Panama, the average for monohulls was 15.20 meters (49.8 feet), and for multihulls it was 15 meters (49.1 feet). The average length of boats over 60 feet (18 meters) in Panama was 34 meters (111 feet). 

In Las Palmas, multihulls made up 10.1 percent of the total number of boats, whereas in Panama it was 17.2 percent. The proportion of multihulls was even higher during the ARC 2022 from Las Palmas from Gran Canaria to St. Lucia. Among the 140 boats that sailed this classic route, more than a quarter (36) were multihulls, with 33 catamarans and three trimarans, equivalent to 25.7 percent. The average length for monohulls was 15.7 meters (51.4 feet) and 14.1 meters (46.3 feet) for multihulls. The size of boats taking part in the ARC has been steadily increasing over the years, and in this latest edition, 31 monohulls were bigger than 50 feet, with 22 multihulls more than 60 feet long.

More-efficient and better-equipped boats with reliable autopilots, electric winches, furling gears and other accessories have resulted in fewer crew. This was evident from the crews of the boats that called at Cape Town, having an average of 2.9 crew, while in Saint Helena it was 3.2. In Cocos/Keeling it was 2.5, and in Tahiti, the figure was 2.8. In the latter two cases, more than half the boats were crewed by just a couple.

Another interesting trend is the change in the predominant flags of the boats on a world voyage. Statistics obtained from Gran Canaria, the Azores, Tahiti, Cape Town, Saint Helena and the Suez Canal show that US-flagged yachts have lost the top spot to French-flagged boats, with British and German boats competing for third place. 

Conclusions

Since my first global survey in 1987, the cruising scene has seen important changes. This survey found that in a few places, there has been an increase in the number of visiting yachts, but overall, the figures from Las Palmas, Bermuda, Panama, Tahiti, Cape Town, New Zealand and Australia indicate that the popularity of long-distance voyages peaked in 2010.

The reasons all seem related to safety concerns. Climate change, for instance, is affecting offshore weather conditions. In my latest survey among 65 experienced sailors, I asked how they would plan a world voyage today. Without exception, each one stressed that they would take changing weather into account, but would still leave on a long voyage. They all agreed that proper voyage planning was now even more important, and they were confident that a safe voyage could still be accomplished. 

This global survey also confirmed that since 2010 in some of the most popular cruising destinations, there has been a steady reduction in the number of boats undertaking world voyages. The pandemic had a significant negative impact, so it will be interesting to see whether that changes. After all, boatbuilders are reporting full order books with waiting times as long as three years, and the brokerage market is enjoying an unprecedented boom. Carpe diem!

Described as the bible of cruising sailors, Jimmy Cornell’s book World Cruising Routes is the definitive reference book for long-distance navigators. The latest completely revised and updated edition has drawn on the latest weather information and other recent developments to provide the most comprehensive aid to planning a safe voyage to any part of the world. Get it HERE.

Visit cornellsailing.com for information on Cornell’s Ocean Atlas and Jimmy Cornell.

The post Global Movement of Cruising Boats appeared first on Cruising World.

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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The post Top 20 Cruising Destinations for Your Bucket List appeared first on Cruising World.

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.

The post On the Hook in Delos, Greece appeared first on Cruising World.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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