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 mid-February day started out like so many other sailing events I’ve enjoyed over the years: meeting up with a new crew, scoping out the particulars of a boat I’d never sailed, reviewing the sailing instructions and forecast for the day’s race, and then dropping the dock lines and heading out. Such is the life of an itinerant sailing writer, and I’ve never taken any of it for granted. 

Little did I know, however, that before this day was done, I’d hear something bordering on the profound. 

It was the opening day of the St. Petersburg, Florida, edition of the Sailing World Regatta Series, sponsored by Cruising World’s sister publication. As he often does, my longtime J/24 mate Dave Reed, the editor of Sailing World, threw me an assignment: Go racing with a team of seasoned homeboys from the St. Petersburg Yacht Club on the day’s distance race, a relatively new element of the regatta for the cruiser/racer set. I was more than happy to oblige. 

Which is how I made the acquaintance of Tim Landt and his close pal Doug Jones, who attended high school in the same prehistoric era that I did, and who have been racing sailboats together ever since. The pair were in the same class as a couple of other St. Pete luminaries, Ed Baird and Allison Jolley, who each rose to the pinnacle of the sport—the former as a winning America’s Cup skipper, the latter as an Olympic gold medalist. “Doug and I were different,” Landt said, laughing. “We had to go to work.”

Landt grew up racing Optimists and Lasers, moved into crewed boats with a Columbia 24 and a Cal 40, and even owned a couple of big Ted Irwin-designed cruising boats. But he seemed proudest of his current ride, a relatively rare Nightwind 35, a centerboard sloop designed by his friend and hero, the late Bruce Kirby, who also created the ubiquitous Laser. “I’d been looking for one for years,” Landt said. “They never come up for sale.” This past October, one did, and he pounced. 

This was only the third race aboard his new Charisma, but he downplayed it. “I got all my old buddies together,” he said. “We’re just out here to have fun.”

But Landt was—how shall we put this?—an aggressive and vocal racer, and he wasn’t there to fool around. He nailed a port-tack start; was on the foredeck for a sail change as the breeze built; called out spinnaker trim early and often; and was more or less a cyclone the entire race, in which Charisma scored a respectable fourth in the 13-boat Cruising division. A very good sailor, Landt’s enthusiasm and exuberance were infectious; it’s always great to sail with a dude who just bloody loves it, and it was clear he did.  

Back at the dock, Landt shared a cool story about naming Charisma: As a kid, he landed a gig as a gofer for a wealthy captain of industry in the days of the great Southern Ocean Racing Conference series. The guy had a boat by the same name. “He was so humble,” Landt said. “I always said if I got a nice race boat, I’d call it Charisma.”

And then, he added: “You’re a writer, you might appreciate this. An old commodore, who was also my coach, once told me that the key to sailing is recreation. That’s what you have to turn it into. Now take that word apart, it’s re-creation. You always have to re-create yourself through your recreation. And that’s what sailing does for me.”

In the moment, I laughed and thanked him for a fine day. Only later did it occur to me that Landt had put into simple terms something I’ve always felt about sailing. I’m sure that a ­truly manic surfer or alpinist would say the same thing. That time away from the daily grind, laser-focused on the natural world, is priceless. Every time I’m on the water, whether on a daysail or after crossing an ocean, I come away refreshed and renewed. A new man. Hopefully a better one. Re-created. 

It always keeps me coming back for more.

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post The Re-creation: My Day at the St. Pete Regatta appeared first on Cruising World.

Instead of cruising Alaska’s epic coastline, I once spent five interminable days in the port of Kodiak awaiting a replacement part for a failed windlass. As I sat there, unable to take advantage of the sunny days, I was reminded that many boaters fail to realize that electric windlasses have a maintenance schedule.

This schedule often includes partial disassembly, cleaning, inspection, and lubrication of the shafts and clutches. By far, most failures are the result of deferred maintenance and inspections. Familiarize yourself with the maintenance requirements for your make and model, and follow them.

For windlasses with oil-filled gearboxes, this includes checking the oil level, and checking the gearbox for oil leaks. If the oil is milky, then it’s contaminated with water, a problem that typically requires removal of the windlass and a rebuild, including the replacement of shaft seals. If your anchor rode creates a rainbow sheen on the water when it’s first deployed, then there’s a good chance your gearbox is leaking oil.

Beyond that, don’t assume that your windlass has been installed correctly just because it works, even if you purchased your vessel new. After you have reviewed the service requirements, look at the installation instructions, and then scrutinize your setup for deficiencies.  

Common installation errors involve mounting and fasteners. Most fiberglass vessels utilize a cored deck structure. Unless the builder anticipated the installation, wherever the core is penetrated, it must be removed and backfilled with thickened epoxy (this is called “core closeout”). Missing this step can lead to water ­penetrating the core and deteriorating the balsa or plywood. Even if the core is synthetic and rot-proof, it can be crushed where windlass fasteners pass through it, in turn weakening the deck structure.

These rules apply to the hole through which the chain passes, as well as to holes that are drilled for windlass mounting fasteners. The large chain hole must be properly closed out with solid fiberglass or thickened epoxy. In many cases, I encounter mere coats of polyester or epoxy resin, an approach that is woefully inadequate for any closeout, particularly when it must withstand abrasion from the anchor rode moving in and out of the chain locker. 

Most windlass manufacturers recommend using a backing plate to help distribute the load to the deck. This backing plate can be made from prefabricated fiberglass or epoxy sheet called GPO-3 or G10, stainless steel or aluminum, in that order of preference. Timber is less than ideal, and under no circumstances should it be a solid block, regardless of species, because it is prone to cracking. Backing plates should not be bedded; doing so can trap water in fastener holes, leading to crevice corrosion.  

Speaking of fasteners: Those used for windlass installations should be stainless-steel bolts, not threaded rod, with heads suitable for the windlass surface. This usually means hex-head cap screws. If the housing is painted aluminum, then ensure that the heads are bedded in sealant to prevent paint failure.  

It is imperative that the fasteners’ shank diameter matches that of the holes in the windlass frame. Undersize fasteners will allow a windlass to shift, and they lack the necessary tensile strength that the manufacturer anticipated.

Review the wiring—the high-current, big cables that supply the motor, and the low-current, small wires used for the controls. All ­positive post and ring terminal connections should be booted to prevent short circuits. Connections should be clean, tight and corrosion-free. If corrosion is present, then you must disassemble, clean and reassemble the connection, ideally using a conductive or dielectric grease. Also make certain that the holes in the ring terminals match the diameter of the studs or screws where they interface. Once the connections are complete, spray with corrosion inhibitor, and give the motor housing a coating as well.

Finally, if your windlass uses a stripper bar to separate the chain from the wildcat or chain wheel, ensure that it is not distorted and that it is centered in the wheel’s groove. —Steve D’Antonio

Steve D’Antonio offers services for boat owners and buyers through Steve D’Antonio Marine Consulting.

The post How to Keep Your Windlass Working For You appeared first on Cruising World.

Too Tall,” as I call him, made a modest living banging nails in Lynn, Massachusetts, working in residential construction. We met while shooting pool on Revere Beach. He was intrigued to learn that I was building a 36-foot ketch from scratch. 

“What for?” he asked. 

“To make the big, fat circle,” I explained. “And to be free, really free, not consumer-­choice free.”

A few weeks later, during a backyard barbecue in Swampscott, Too Tall noticed a trailerable sailboat in the host’s two-car garage. It was an O’Day 19. His buddy told him that he didn’t have the time to sail it, and, worse, his wife was getting a new AMC Gremlin. They needed the space in the garage.

Too Tall left with the boat on his trailer hitch, to both their surprise. “Got it for a song,” he crowed to his wife while showing it to her in their driveway.

“Oh, dear,” she moaned. “That’s exactly what a pregnant wife needs: a hole in the water her husband pours money into.” 

Truthfully, it was a stressful time. His wife was worn to a frazzle, getting ready for the baby and taking Lamaze classes while working a full-time job. Worse, Too Tall knew that he was drinking too much while trying to cope with all the changes. He decided to cut down on the booze and concentrate on supporting their rocky transition from couple to family. 

The following week, his wife volunteered to re-sew the mainsail using a new, sun-resistant Gore-Tex thread she’d read about in a women’s magazine. Meanwhile, Too Tall assessed the centerboard. The previous owner had snapped it and lost the rudder in a storm. Too Tall came down to use my band saw, to rough-cut the shapes in marine plywood. 

“How long do you expect to be gone?” he asked, staring up at the half-finished hull of my 36-foot Carlotta.

“Forever, I hope,” I told him. 

“Aren’t you scared of drowning?”

“Aren’t you scared of driving drunk?”

“Touché,” he said.  

I didn’t hear much from him in the next few weeks. Later, I learned that he had a buddy who spray-painted trucks. The O’Day ended up with black topsides, a red boot top, and blue antifouling. 

For his birthday, his wife presented him with fitted sheets she’d sewn. She’d figured out where he kept the companionway key and measured for them. 

“We’re gonna need an Igloo cooler,” she mused afterward. 

The word we made Too Tall smile. 

Construction work took most of his time, and it was 18 months between buying his boat and sailing it. Naming the boat became a family matter as well. Too Tall rejected his wife’s Titanic Too idea and went with a suggestion from Martin, his just-beginning-to-talk son. 

The first time he sailed Mighty Mouse, Too Tall’s main halyard broke, but he managed to get back to the boat ramp under jib alone. The second time out, he took a cockpitful of water in a gust. From then on, he never fully cleated off his mainsheet. 

During the third sail, he ran aground, but, luckily, sand is soft. After that, he always taped a photocopy of his chart to his aft cabin face, right under the through-bulkhead compass he’d purchased on sale at Bliss Marine. 

He started racing at a local yacht club, and he was utterly amazed at how slow he could make a sailboat go. After one race, while he was ashore at the awards ceremony, the boat dragged and damaged its new rudder. So, Too Tall returned to my boat shed with questions about anchor type and ­whatever scope was. 

One evening, when his wife’s parents were visiting and they had a babysitter, Too Tall picked up his wife at Constitution Marina and sailed her to the Boston fish pier for dinner at the No Name Restaurant. She felt good tucked into his shoulder as they sailed. 

The O’Day eventually was replaced by a 22-foot Westerly Nomad—not a racer with its twin keels, but perfect for the mud mooring he’d wrangled in Winthrop. Then came the big breakthrough. With Martin now 5 years old, the family chartered a 32-foot sloop out of Long Bay, St. Thomas, and had the best 10 family days of their lives. His wife loved the Virgin Islands, Too Tall loved the trade winds, and Martin took to the water like a gleeful fish.

The first time out, his halyard broke. The second time, he took a cockpitful of water in a gust. From then on, he never fully cleated off his mainsheet.

Many of the local ­liveaboards in the Virgin Islands anchorages had kids, and Martin acted as the ­couple’s passport into many ­joyous cockpits aboard cruising yachts from all over the world. Sailing back to Charlotte Amalie on St. Thomas as the sun set and Martin napped below, Too Tall’s wife whispered into his ear: “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could make this moment last forever?” 

A Contessa 32, designed by David Sadler, had been damaged against a seawall in Scituate, Massachusetts, and the insurance company wanted to offload it. Too Tall didn’t know anything about fiberglass, but a few months later, he was an itchy expert. Their first family cruise was to Maine, where they blew out their genoa while sailing overcanvassed in a squall off Portland. Too Tall immediately revamped his reefing system, which worked flawlessly during the next summer’s cruise to Mystic Seaport in Connecticut. 

By the time Martin went off to the California Institute of Technology on scholarship, the couple had already crawled “The Ditch” to Florida a couple of times on their Carl Alberg 35. From there, it was an easy jump to the Bahamas and, eventually, to wandering the Lesser Antilles. There, they bumped into many of our dear friends on St. John, in the US Virgin Islands. 

During this entire time, Too Tall made just about every mistake in the book, from running over his dinghy painter to leaving a dock without unplugging his shore cord. Once, while dragging in the Turks and Caicos as a tropical wave passed ­overhead, he’d been unable to cast off his anchor because of the splice at its bitter end. The following day, he’d cut off the splice and never belayed his anchor rode again without ­being able to cast it off instantly under load. 

But, dear reader, this ­column isn’t about Too Tall and his wife or how much fun they had, eventually, hanging in Panama’s San Blas archipelago and cruising along the east coast of Central America. 

It’s actually a column about Duncan and Barbara. 

Duncan, a just-retired attorney specializing in international law, was living in Johor Bahru, Malaysia. He’d nurtured a dream for decades of cruising offshore. He knew exactly the kind of boat to get. He found one listed for sale in Langkawi. It was almost brand-new, having spent most of its life on the hard at Rebak Island. 

Barbara knew nothing of boats, but what was there to know other than how to make a piña colada?

Duncan didn’t like the idea of heavy weather, so he had his sailmaker stitch up an asymmetric spinnaker along with one of those newfangled cruising chutes with the strings and holes. The thing that frustrated Duncan most was how long all the Malaysian shipyard workers took to mount stuff. His weather window was almost gone by the time his davits were installed, his cockpit fridge was chilled, and the new instrument array at the helm was blinking on. 

He asked me for advice. “Take it slow,” I said. “Just sail a few miles down the coast to a safe harbor, then venture forth as urge, experience and expertise dictate. Don’t scare yourself and, especially, don’t scare your spouse. Baby steps will get you to Cape Town, South Africa, faster than anything else.”

He intended to follow my advice, but those damn dawdling workmen. He’d pored over Jimmy Cornell’s books about weather windows. It was now or never. 

So, Duncan and Barbara set off to cruise Indonesia and then hop down to Australia’s remote territory of Cocos Keeling, without ever having overnighted on their boat. Hell, without ever having sailed their boat out of sight of land. Or within sight of it, for that matter. 

Within 12 miles of leaving, a wave boarded them (current against wind) in the Malacca Strait—and their $8,000 inflated life raft was trailing astern. The only thing Duncan could figure was that the factory-made bracket he’d purchased with it had been defective. How else could the raft have escaped? 

It was too rough to bring the dinghy on deck. He cut it loose. Barbara didn’t say anything at the time, but this scared the bejesus out of her. If they’d lost their life raft in the first two hours, how long would it take to lose the entire boat?

From that moment on, Barbara took to her bunk and prayed while silently resolving: marriage, yes; suicide by saltwater, no.

Their brand-new lithium batteries went flat, just like that. Without electricity in the house bank, they couldn’t use their autopilot and had to hand-steer. In a real blow. With the wind gusting into the mid-20s.

They didn’t have time to think, really. Only to survive. Sleep was impossible while hard on the wind. They’d become complete numbskulls but didn’t have the experience to realize it. All the hatches leaked—poured water below, really, much of it directly onto the navigation station, where, one by one, their new electronics failed. They wondered: How could so many different suppliers sell them so much defective equipment? Their smartphones were waterproof, weren’t they? 

Not that their smartphones worked. They were out of cellphone range. Or didn’t have the right SIM card. Whatever.

Damn, it was dark at night. They couldn’t get a weather report. When would this horrible wind stop? Thank gosh for their Garmin GPS. At least they knew where they were. Right by those tiny blue dots on the chart.

Bam!

The sound a 30,000-pound fiberglass vessel makes as it crunches up on a coral reef is horrible, and, of course, expensive. Within 72 hours of setting off on his long-awaited Indian Ocean cruise, Duncan called me and whispered in a still-quivering voice, “It’s a lot of work, isn’t it?”

“Offshore sailing is the most labor-intensive—and for some, the most fulfilling—lifestyle imaginable,” I replied. 

“Barbara doesn’t like it,” he said. 

Ah, yes. Blame it on the wife. How convenient. 

“It’s not relaxing at all.” 

I held my tongue. 

Yes, Duncan had a law degree and a pocketful of gold, but he little common sense and absolutely no seamanship. That can’t be purchased. It has to be earned. 

The bottom line: Duncan didn’t make one-hundredth of the mistakes that Too Tall had made. Duncan merely made them all within the first 48 hours, amid poorly charted foreign shores, while surrounded by rocks. 

“Don’t make any major life decisions right now,” Carolyn advised Duncan. “Relax. The scrapes on your hull can be fixed. Things will seem better in the morning.”

They haven’t called us back with their ultimate decision, but we know what it will be. They scared themselves silly. And that fear will take a long, long time to wash away. 

So much for baby steps. 

Isn’t there a middle way? A path between a lifetime of learning and ­absolutely none? Of course. We know many happy cruisers who, within a year or two of thoughtful coastal sailing, safely head offshore. 

Here’s the distillation of my 63 years of cruising the world: Seamanship matters. Money and BS, not so much.

The post Learning the Art of Seamanship appeared first on Cruising World.

In fashion, cuisine, culture, cinema and luxury brands—in other words, in just about every facet of upscale society—the Italians bring an advanced approach to the fine art of living well. La dolce vita, right? Lamborghini, Louis Vuitton, Gucci. Rome, Venice, Milan. Sophia Loren, Marcello Mastroianni, Gina Lollobrigida. When you hear these names, no further explanation is required. They epitomize grace and style. 

This is a rather highfalutin way to launch a boat review, but I’m devoid of apology. Because in the nautical world, there’s another brand that deserves high praise.

I’ve been aware of the Italia line of ­performance cruisers for several years now, but as a judge in the 2024 Boat of the Year contest in Annapolis, Maryland, as I stepped aboard to inspect the 51-footer, I wasn’t really prepared for the experience. There was but one word to describe the 14.98 model’s attention to detail, long list of options, approach, and execution: magnifico. 

There’s a lot to unpack here, and I’ll get to the truly important features: clean aesthetics, robust construction and sparkling sailing characteristics, as well as myriad customization options. But first, allow me to unload a few lines that I jotted down because they really speak to the deep level of detail ingrained in every 14.98:

“Cellphone holder/charger on the steering pod.” “Very sweet, ample life-raft stowage in cockpit.” “Stainless-steel stanchions and pulpits painted black: sexy.” “Really nice adjustable sheet-lead arrangement and excellent belowdecks install keep lines tidy and clean.” “Huge sail locker forward, always a bonus, with room for inflatable dinghy and outboard.” “Drains around hatches a great idea.” “Giant lazarettes with access to steering quadrant, very cool.” “Interior LED lights with floor-level lighting really adds to ambience.” “Engine-room manifold system with everything led to single through-hull is brilliant.” “Love the Oceanaire blinds and screens on all hatches.” “That single rudder will make backing down easier.”

Why all the attention to these ­relatively minor items? Simple: If you sweat the small stuff, it usually means you’re laser-­focused on the major matters. Which is certainly the case with this yacht.

The design of the 14.98 is a collaborative effort between naval architect Maurizio Cossutti, who drew the exterior platform, and interior designer Mirko Arbore, who handled the belowdecks layout and furnishings. Cossutti has delivered a stunning hull form—a tapered, curved dish that rises at the bow and descends toward the stern with a subtle sheerline that accentuates the minimalist coachroof and keeps wetted surface to a minimum. There’s a sleek, extended sprit forward—it’s available in two lengths, standard and racing, and sort of serves as an exclamation point for this contemporary structure—and a drop-down swim platform aft, centered by a ­spacious cockpit for lounging or ­maneuvers, depending on the task at hand.

Down below, there are three layouts from which to choose. In the United States, the 14.98 is represented by David Walters Yachts, a brokerage house that, having previously repped Hylas Yachts, has deep experience with luxurious brands that cover both bases between a dedicated bluewater cruising boat and an honest racer-cruiser capable of Grand Prix inshore competition and offshore events such as the Newport Bermuda Race. Erik Haaland, sales director for the Italia line, presented the boat to us; when we asked about options, he smiled. “Just ask us,” he said. “We’ll do it.”

David Walters has imported 12 Italias into the States in the past five years, and, as of this past fall, had another quartet on order. We sailed Hull No. 7, whose owners are a couple of former college racing sailors who still wish to compete at a high level. They did last year’s Annapolis to Newport Race with a 10-person crew, notching 17 knots flying down Chesapeake Bay.

They also enjoy using the boat as a weekend condo and taking extended cruises with their family, including a Chesapeake trip this past summer and a season in New England coming up. It’s a true dual-purpose boat. And it’s been fitted out accordingly.

The nearly beam-width traveler in the cockpit forward of the twin wheels is a clear sign that this is a race boat; the standard setup calls for a single, centrally located mainsheet. All lines are led aft to a suite of clutches. There are several winch packages from which to choose, including the set of electric winches on our craft. The standard draft is 8 feet, 2 inches, though a nearly 10-foot performance keel is an option, as are a pair of L-shaped shoal-draft alternatives. Likewise, the rig on our test boat was carbon fiber, though the standard spar is aluminum. There’s also a choice of mainsails: traditional, square-topped and battened, or furling. 

Regarding power and systems, there was no generator on this boat, but rather a Victron lithium-ion battery bank with 800-amp capacity linked to a pair of 250-amp fast-charging alternators that will permit 12 hours of uninterrupted air conditioning without running the engine. (There is space for a generator, but on this boat, it was occupied by the air-conditioning compressor.) This boat was also equipped with a Spectra watermaker. A pair of 200-watt removable solar panels were installed on the dodger for additional juice.

The resin-infused construction is robust but light, utilizing various densities of foam core depending on its placement within the laminate. For example, it’s reinforced in the bow, where slamming can occur, but lowered in less-stressed areas to keep weight at a minimum. Bulkheads are tabbed and glassed into the boat (plywood is standard, but foam-cored bulkheads are available). Carbon-fiber reinforcements are used throughout, including the transverse stringers and a grid system that’s bonded in place and then relaminated to the hull, bulkheads, and stringers. There is no traditional chainplate; instead, the rigging attaches to a stainless-steel padeye that is bolted through the top of the hull toe rail into the carbon-fiber grid system. 

“These boats are known as stiff, upwind missiles,” Haaland said. We confirmed it when we had a chance to sail the boat. 

And quite the sail it was. In ideal 10 to 14 knots of Chesapeake Bay pressure, the 14.98 tracked like a freight train, easily notching speeds in the mid-7-knot range hard on the breeze, and then topping out at more than 9 knots when cracked off to a reach. At the helm, raised and leveled with a fold-up chock like the round-the-world racers, the deep, single rudder provided plenty of bite. The wheel was light to the touch, and visibility was outstanding. It would be a real treat to get into the open ocean on the 14.98 and let it spread its wings.

There has to be a drawback to all this somewhere, correct? Yes. The boat ain’t cheap. In fact, with a million-plus-dollar price tag, give or take, the 14.98 is, for most of us, an aspirational brand, a vessel aimed at sailing’s 1 percent club. 

Still. It’s heartening to know that in a world of mass production, with goods and services often aimed at the cheapest common denominator, there are things being made with care and skill that elevates a category or genre. When it comes to production sailboats, such results should be recognized and applauded. We’re looking at you, Italia 14.98. Grazie.

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A Satisfied Crew of Italia Owners

You can learn a lot about a brand by looking at actual owners and how they use their boats, and it’s clear from this list of US Italia sailors that they enjoy competing aboard their yachts. Chuck Stormes from Detroit, a past commodore of the Bayview Yacht Club, placed first overall in the 2022 Bayview to Mackinac Race aboard his 9.98, DeTour. New Yorkers Andrew and Linda Weiss have owned several yachts called Christopher Dragon, and on their 11.98 of the same name, they’ve won the Block Island Race, the Northern Ocean Racing Trophy and other prizes. Jeff and Sarah Kennedy sail the 14.98 Artemis, our test boat for this review. Frank and Nancy McGowan, aboard their new 12.98, Querencia, are looking forward to the next Newport Bermuda Race, as well as the ORC World Championship in Rhode Island later this year. Bostonian John Sapirstein, who previously sailed a 12.98 Classic, has moved up to Aquilone, a 16.98. He expects to take delivery in the Adriatic Sea this spring before a summer in the Mediterranean and a trans-Atlantic trip in the ARC rally in 2025.

The post Sailboat Review: Italia Yachts 14.98 appeared first on Cruising World.

Organizing a plan for a good day of sailing or a longer cruise is an important first step in ­optimizing the experience. 

I start by penciling several dates on my calendar and then watching the weather forecast as the dates come closer. Perfect weather might not arrive as frequently as desired, but a little rain, light wind or even a good blow is never a reason to avoid heading out for a sail. Make sure the entire crew has the proper clothing on hand for the anticipated weather.  

The next item is to declare, in advance, how long you plan to spend on the water. If the crew expects a three-hour sail, don’t change the plan and stay out for six hours. Think through a plan of the day before you leave the dock.  

Crews are happiest when you sail with the correct number of people on board. For example, a 40-footer might need six people to handle the boat efficiently. If there are 15 people on board, the boat is overcrowded, and most sailors will be unable to participate in any crew work. People like to participate. When everyone has a designated job, the crew will be happier.

Study a chart before leaving your berth. I set a place to head for, depending on the direction and strength of the wind. On the Chesapeake Bay where I live, there are endless destinations. A typical day might be to sail around a few lighthouses, anchor off a beach for lunch, or explore a remote creek. Show the proposed course on the chart to the full crew so that they understand where you are sailing. Note any danger spots such as ­shallow water or a riptide. People don’t like surprises.  

What sailors do like is adventure. They enjoy seeing things from the water, where the view is always different than from land. It seems as if the environment changes as the day passes. The wind shifts, currents change the color of the water, new sights appear, and there are other boats to salute. How often do people wave to each other while driving an automobile? On the water, there is always a friendly wave. Clearly, people are happy.

Run through a checklist of safety items before sailing. Your gear should be properly stowed, and the sails should be ready to hoist. Make sure the crew have applied sunscreen, have their foul-weather gear on the boat, and are wearing a hat and sunglasses. It is better for someone to run back to the car to get their gear than to spend a day on the water missing important items. Also, make sure there are life jackets for everyone. Pointing out the location of safety gear is essential.

I find that sailors alternate between being chatty and being reflective. It is easy to become ­mesmerized by the water and the wind.

Once everyone is on board, before heading out, conduct a crew meeting so that everyone understands the day’s plan. Ask if anyone has a special request. Crews appreciate the opportunity to provide input. (Your mission plan can be modified later if the weather changes.) The crew meeting is also the time to assign specific duties. Let people know that there will be a rotation on the helm, so everyone will have a chance to steer. 

Once the boat is ­underway and the sails are set, run through a few practice maneuvers so that the crew are comfortable with their duties. Be disciplined regarding crew rotations. It is easy to forget to give everyone a chance to steer, trim or have some quiet time. I’ve been on boats where someone seems to yell more and more about less and less. The top sailors are quiet and measured, with their comments coming during tense moments in a strong gust of wind, or a close encounter with another boat. A calm leader instills confidence in a crew.

I find that sailors alternate between being chatty and being reflective. It is easy to become mesmerized by the water and the wind. Sailors tend to be as one with the motion of the boat.

At the same time, the best conversations take place on the water. People tend to be open and enthusiastic. If one crewmember seems quiet, take a moment to ask a question. This will get the person engaged. And remember: What is said on the boat stays on the boat. This is a good policy.

After sailing, I write down the experience details in a logbook. It’s fun to review your days on the water, and my logbooks give me good ideas for what else I can do on the water. Also, encourage photography throughout the sail. It’s fun to pass around pictures later.

Before disbanding, conclude the day with a second crew meeting to review the day’s sail. If you are a crewmember, always offer to lend a hand for cleanup. As the saying goes: Many hands make light work.  

You never know exactly what is going to happen during a daysail or a multiple-day cruise, but the goal should be to make sure everyone on the boat has fun and wants to come back for more.

The post Preparing to Head Out appeared first on Cruising World.

More than 1 million cruising boaters are now using PredictWind, a weather-­forecasting service created in 2010 by competitive sailor Jon Bilger. He founded the company after serving as weather manager for teams who won the America’s Cup in 2003 and 2007, when he realized that the higher-end technology could be a boon to the cruising public.

“It’s been quite a journey,” Bilger told Cruising World in early March, adding that as the community of cruisers continues to evolve with different styles of boats, PredictWind has been evolving right along with it. Sailors are still the company’s biggest client base, and those who make the shift to powerboats can now also use PredictWind to help with routing that optimizes fuel efficiency. 

That kind of advancement in forecasting ­capabilities is in great part due to ­technology. What’s possible in terms of forecasting today is far different—and much more detailed—than when Bilger founded PredictWind 14 years ago. 

It’s a timespan that might as well be an eon when it comes to technological advancements. When PredictWind was created, the Blackberry still dominated the handheld marketplace. The iPad was brand-new. So was Instagram. Forget about today’s 4K screens; manufacturers were still trying to get people to understand the difference that a 3D screen could make when watching hot new movies like Avatar. Uber was just one year old. Lyft didn’t even exist.  

It was also in 2010 that Google started to personalize users’ search results. Machine learning began to analyze and predict all kinds of things, as wide-ranging as voter behavior and power-grid spikes. As CNN reported: “In 2010, artificial intelligence was more likely to pop up in dystopian science-fiction movies than in everyday life. And it certainly wasn’t something people worried might take over their jobs in the near future.”

Oh, how times have changed—in some ways, for the better. PredictWind is embracing AI to create products that help with weather forecasting in ways that seemed unimaginable until recently. 

Just one example is the company’s newest service, PredictCurrent, which Bilger says is a world first. 

“This is very, very simple,” he explains. “You put your location in. You say, ‘This is the current I want to know about.’ And then, boom, you get a graph. We give you windspeed and wind direction as well, and you get current speed and direction, and we give you a map, so you can actually see, hour by hour, how the current is changing over the whole area. It’s amazing to see that sort of detail on your iPad or your laptop.”

PredictCurrent covers tidal currents for 90 percent of the world’s coastlines, he says. The level of detail and accuracy is best within 90 kilometers (about 55 miles) of the coast, but there is also information about currents as far as 600 kilometers (nearly 375 miles) offshore. 

“It’s amazing. You can see how the eddies and currents are changing,” Bilger says. “Compute power for the whole world is enormous. The storage capacity is there. It’s a pretty cool thing.”

Another new product from PredictWind is called Over the Horizon AIS. Typically, Bilger says, a cruising boater can receive an AIS signal within just a few miles of an oncoming hazard such as a container ship. Over the Horizon AIS compiles data from the Automatic Identification System worldwide—“We pay a lot of money to get that information,” he says—and customizes it for use by individual cruising boats through the PredictWind DataHub smart device.

“This is very, very simple. You put your location in. You say, ‘This is the current I want to know about.’ And then, boom, you get a graph.”

“It can download the data every minute with a Starlink connection, and it shows vessels out to about 300 nautical miles,” Bilger says. “If you have a container ship barreling at you, maybe you have about eight minutes to take evasive action. We can give you something more like eight hours.”

The capabilities that Starlink offers are hugely important for some of these newer features, Bilger says, but he tempers his enthusiasm for the satellite service with a caution for offshore cruisers.

“We genuinely are huge fans of Starlink. It means that people can get weather forecasting offshore, and get it a lot easier,” he says—adding a big but. “If you go offshore, you need to have a satellite phone, an Iridium Go. If the power on your boat goes down, Starlink requires AC power. If you have a problem with your inverter, you have no communications. You really should have something with a battery backup on it.”

With that said, Bilger is gung-ho about all the information cruisers can now access on a regular basis thanks to Starlink, instead of having only occasional access to downloads. The amount of data coursing through PredictWind’s DataHub, coupled with artificial-­intelligence analysis, can create things such as polars for a specific boat. 

These “AI polars,” as Bilger calls them, represent the performance of a boat in different wind and wave conditions—information that can be critical for weather routing.  

“Normally, you select from a predefined list of polars for all the boat types, and then there’s a velocity-prediction program that shows the ideal speed of your boat in perfect conditions,” he says. “But that’s not reality. That’s not how you sail a boat. With the DataHub, it’s reporting your windspeed, your direction, and it averages that data. It sends it back to our service and compares it. Over time, it will learn how you sail the boat, and you’ll even have a different set of polars for daytime and nighttime.”

Today’s level of artificial intelligence is required to make these types of services possible, he adds. 

“Our service is doing billions of calculations for six of the top-level models, and boom, you get the comparison,” he says. “It’s way easier and very powerful to have. You really have no excuse to get caught out in bad weather.” 

Similar use of technology allowed PredictWind to launch a product last year that helps cruisers better understand the wave state that they are likely to encounter. 

“Generally, all weather services give you the primary wave state,” Bilger says. “We have modeled monohulls, catamarans, trimarans, sailboats and powerboats, and every possible wave state. We know exactly how the boat’s going to perform based on length, beam, displacement.”

This level of detail makes it easier for boaters to make better-informed choices, he says. 

“The real kicker is that we can display how much the boat’s going to roll, and whether it’s going to be dangerous to be on deck,” he says. “The other one is vertical acceleration. If you’re going over a big sea state, you’re going to be going up and down a lot, which affects seasickness. And we can talk about slamming. That’s a big one as well. When you do your weather route, you can see all of that during a trip. If you use a departure-planning tool, you can know which day to leave in terms of the degree of roll you’re going to experience. No one else is doing that, as far as we know.”

All of it adds up to more boaters feeling safer and more comfortable out on the water, Bilger says. 

“We get emails from ­families who say, ‘Thank you for keeping us safe all around the world,’” he says. “It’s ­really cool. It’s why we’re here.”

The post The Data Difference: Advances in Marine Weather Forecasting appeared first on Cruising World.

About a year ago, a good friend mentioned that his smartphone and tablet had become his sole means of onboard digital charting. His comment concerned me. While trying to figure out how to install a basic digital navigation network on my own boat, I had been doing a head-to-head comparison: an iPad loaded with iNavX versus a B&G Vulcan multifunction display.  

At the chart table, they both excelled, but in real-world sailing conditions, the multifunction display had several important advantages.

In calm seas and under the dodger, the iPad looked pretty good, but in direct sunlight, there was a distinct deterioration in contrast. What fully tipped the scale in the MFD’s favor was a seamanship issue that became quite clear as conditions deteriorated: The general rule of “one hand for yourself and one for the ship” left me one hand short while holding the iPad in a rough seaway. I tried a series of clamping devices, but none was as effective as a ­permanently mounted MFD.

I initially coupled the B&G Vulcan to a long NMEA 2000 drop cable. This allowed me to temporarily mount the unit in several locations: at the helm just above the binnacle, midcockpit just forward of the mainsheet, and on the coachroof just under the dodger. Determining the permanent roost was a matter of preference. For me, the right solution was a flush mount on a raised bridge deck just forward of the helm and mainsheet, where I could reach the wheel and the touchscreen controls. (Sailors who prefer to mount the unit on the SS tube guard over the binnacle can check sources such as Edson and NavPod for quality mounting brackets, hardware and housings.)

The most important thing I learned is that the key aspect of installing a basic digital navigation network is the word “basic.” Think of the project as phase one of interfacing cables and components to get the most important features of a digital charting system. 

To complete phase one, you need to learn how to set up an NMEA 2000 backbone, and then use it to connect components to an MFD. It also makes sense to add a stand-alone depth display, because that number, more than any other, can determine a sailor’s fate. 

MFDs have a lot of similarities, but their software does differ. The best way to make an informed choice about which MFD to purchase is to visit vendors at a boat show. Ask for demonstrations. Try your hand at calling up menus, plotting a waypoint, zooming and panning. You’ll likely learn that bigger screens are better, and that if you’re thinking about a 7- or 9-inch MFD, placement on board will be extra important. 

Also take a look at how the NMEA 2000 cables connect to the unit. A sailboat’s cockpit is often more of an aquarium than a patio. High marks go to manufacturers that take extra steps to keep water out of cable connections, and to owners who opt for quality NMEA cables and fittings, such as those made by Ancor.  

It can also make sense to purchase a remote antenna, even if the unit has a built-in GPS antenna. The remote antenna improves reception. 

There’s also a need for a depth-sounder transducer. Add the necessary NMEA 2000 cables, along with the fittings to connect to the network. Carefully reread the manufacturer’s installation guidelines before doing this work.    

NMEA 2000 cabling expedites installations. One of the big plusses is expandability. T-connectors are used to attach “drop cables” that run from electronic equipment to the network backbone cable. Think of this wiring backbone as the mainstream source of 12-volt DC current, along with much of the digital information traveling to and from connected components and transducers. Take note of the cable that connects the backbone to ship’s power. That cable needs to be fused or provided with a circuit breaker. 

The best way to begin a DIY installation is by sketching the path of the NMEA backbone and the junction points where components will connect along the way. Some boatbuilders provide handy wiring ­pass-throughs for a clear run. 

Lacking those, get an angle drill and a set of hole saws. A good rule is to keep the backbone cable as far away from the bilge as possible.

Refine your sketch before you shop for cables and connectors. One option is to use a tape measure or some light line to mimic the backbone’s route. You can determine the length of each drop cable and note where each T-connector will be placed. Extra cable length can be coiled and tucked away, but a cable that’s too short won’t work. 

And remember that the longer the run, the greater the electrical line loss. Select cabling that best fits the dimensions of your NMEA backbone, and heed the ­manufacturer’s advice on maximum-length cable runs.

Once you have installed the basic components and the system is fully functional, you can read up on a phase-two expansion. For example, a radar installation adds the complexity of mounting a dome and installing an Ethernet cable to support the higher data rate. An autopilot installation adds the need for high-amperage current, necessitating a separate 12-volt DC power cable. Adding a digital compass is easy, but the mechanical demands of installing the drive motor and linkage might not be.

For phase one, keep things simple. It will lower the slope of the NMEA learning curve and make phase two much more manageable.

Pro Tip

When it comes to interfacing a diverse gaggle of new gadgets while upgrading your electronics, consider your electronic gear as a navigation system rather than individual ­components. Before focusing on specific brands, create a realistic two-column list of gear under the headings “Must Have” and “Might Want.” Once that’s completed, steer clear of brand-hopping, thus minimizing the need to lash one manufacturer’s equipment to another’s network. Carefully consider the value, cost savings and reliability that come from brand allegiance. Focus on the essentials, and go with the gear line that hits the most points in the Must Have column.

Selecting an MFD

Settling on the right ­multifunction display should be more than a price-point decision. If your plan is to expand the network over time and add AIS, radar, wind instruments, weather data and more, then look at the manufacturer’s entire lineup of products. In most cases, it’s best to stick with one brand for compatibility; when components from differing brands are merged, certain functions become unavailable. 

The “big four” brands among sailors are B&G, Furuno, Garmin and Raymarine. They all offer 7- and 9-inch MFDs, as well as larger screens. Each MFD is highly expandable using NMEA 2000 backbones. 

B&G’s Vulcan 9 and the 9-inch Zeus 3S are excellent candidates for cockpit installation aboard smaller sailboats. Furuno’s ­GP-1971F has C-Map built in, as well as Navionics cartography. Garmin’s GPSMap 943xsv also comes with built-in Navionics charts. Raymarine’s Axiom+ 9 with built-in Lighthouse also supports C-Map and Navionics charts.

The post Adding Onboard Electronics? Here’s How To Get Started appeared first on Cruising World.

Great Lakes sailors can be somewhat smug when they talk about the lack of salt, sharks, tides and hurricanes. We were no different until we sailed True North, a Beneteau Oceanis 41.1 that we had acquired new in 2018, from Rochester, New York, to Portland, Maine, via the St. Lawrence River and the Canadian Maritimes. We discovered a fascinating world beyond the Great Lakes and an adventure that made giving up those Great Lakes advantages worthwhile.

Equipped with Capt. Cheryl Barr’s Down East Circle Route, we had started planning the trip several years ago but had a pandemic delay. Finally, in late June 2023, with some apprehension about what might come, we left Rochester for an adventure that would be truly life-changing.

I am an experienced sailor with a 100-Ton US Coast Guard Master Captain’s License. I’m also a US Sailing-certified Basic Keelboat Instructor. My spouse, Sandy, has American Sailing Association Bareboat certification. We have cruised together for 15 years on Lake Ontario in the United States, and on Lake Geneva in Switzerland. Even still, this trip would be like nothing Sandy had experienced before. During planning, I often asked her whether we were really up to this. She held fast. It was largely her resolve and courage that enabled this voyage to happen.

The Down East Circle Route connects Lake Ontario to the Atlantic Ocean by way of the St. Lawrence River, leaving New York State via the Thousand Islands, passing through six Canadian provinces, and crossing the Bay of Fundy to arrive in Down East Maine. This route includes close encounters with whales, seals, puffins and porpoises, as well as some of the most spectacular scenery that maritime Canada and the Northeast United States have to offer.

To prepare for the trip, we made numerous boat improvements, such as an arch with davits, a full cockpit enclosure, solar panels, Starlink, zinc anodes (replacing the magnesium ones used in fresh water) and an inverter. Our other preparations included upgrading our boat insurance, arranging for mail and travel medical insurance, and figuring out what to pack for temperatures that would range from 30 to 80 degrees Fahrenheit.

As we departed from our home dock, we were fortunate to be escorted on the first few legs by sailing friends, an act of kindness that tempered the emotion of leaving home for an extended period. On the first day, a rare, thick fog set in along the south shore of Lake Ontario. Although unexpected, it enabled us to practice using our radar and foghorn. This was useful for the “real” fog we would encounter in Nova Scotia and Maine, where it is supposed to be.

After overnight stops in Fairhaven, Sackets Harbor, and Clayton, New York, we entered Canada by way of Brockport, Ontario, along the St. Lawrence River, and caught up with a sailing couple we had met the year prior while cruising the lake, when we all realized we’d be making the same journey. We sailed as a loose flotilla for the early part of the cruise, a strategy that was helpful to build confidence for both crews, and that provided welcome company and occasional assistance.

There are seven shipping locks along the St. Lawrence Seaway, two in the United States and five in Canada, designed to raise or lower seagoing freighters. Pleasure boats are tolerated, but long, unpredictable waits are the rule.

As we made our way down the river, we began to experience strong currents, something new for lake sailors. Heading downstream meant these currents added to our boatspeed. I learned the hard way that you need extra space to clear an obstruction from upstream when True North swiped a navigational buoy while giving way to a freighter coming up the shipping channel. Fortunately, there was no damage, other than to our pride. 

On the other hand, the current allowed us to cover record ­distances each day, until we reached Montreal. The last lock lets out downstream of Montreal, so, to visit the city, we needed to head upstream several miles, fighting 5 to 6 knots of current. With our 45 hp engine nearly full out, what would normally be 8 knots over ground was only 2. After reading that many sailors have had to skip Montreal and move on to Longueuil or other points downstream, we felt fortunate to dock in the heart of Old Montreal. We thoroughly enjoyed the culture, cuisine and atmosphere of this cosmopolitan city. We also caught up with friends we’d met several years in a row while cruising Lake Ontario.

Moving on to Quebec City added tides to our repertoire of unfamiliar phenomena. In addition to river currents, we also needed to consider tidal currents, the interplay between tidal and river currents, and depth changes. The Canadian Hydrographic Service publishes a 130-page tide and current document, but we kept it simple, timing departures a few hours before high tide. The combined river current cancels the slowing tidal current, causing slack water to occur before high tide. Then the river ­current combines with the ebbing tide to give the boat a nice push downstream. Tides are a big factor in Quebec City, where the main marina has a dedicated lock to lift and lower boats to meet the marina’s depth, which is maintained constant.

I had yet another lesson when heading out of an anchorage near Sorel-Tracy where, according to charts, tides aren’t yet a factor. We ran aground, even though we traced our breadcrumbs from when we entered the anchorage. 

We tried, to no avail, to twist True North off the shoal with the bow thruster. I eventually lowered our dinghy, Lil’ North, and towed True North astern with all the might that the dinghy’s 10 hp outboard could muster, while Sandy reversed hard with the diesel. This did the trick, and we met out in deeper water to collect our wits and move on. Many cruisers use two-way headsets (“marriage savers”) while anchoring or docking. They were invaluable here too.

Quebec City is a beautiful, European-spirited town, rich in history, culture and delicious cuisine. We lingered several days to enjoy the sights and soak in as much civilization as possible before heading into increasingly remote territory.

Moving on, we added salt water to currents and tides, ­expanding our sailing experience even further. I observed that salt added buoyancy, enabling the boat to move faster. I also ­observed the mess it makes of everything. We couldn’t stop imagining salt water flowing through the various raw-water circuits, leaving a trail of corrosive destruction. But it was a small price to pay for the experience that it afforded.

A short detour to Tadoussac, at the mouth of the Saguenay Fjord, allowed us to get up close with beluga and minke whales, as well as seals, amid a landscape reminiscent of Alaska or Norway.

We never stopped being impressed with the kindness and generosity of people we met in rural Quebec. Fishing boats were moved around to make room for us in ports. Dock neighbors, to whom we were complete strangers, offered the keys to their vehicles to facilitate our provisioning runs. We preferred to walk to stretch our legs, but the gesture was so kind that we always brought a little something back as a measure of gratitude for those who offered.

The northernmost part of our route found us slipping briefly above the 49th parallel before veering southeast to Gaspé. The river widens progressively from this point as it flows toward the Atlantic. Marinas are fewer and farther between, but there are anchorages and surprisingly welcoming fishing ports. 

Gaspé, near the mouth of the St. Lawrence, is stunning. Pictures of the region’s Percé Rock were an inspiration for this trip and became emblematic. This was also the coldest part of the trip, with nighttime temperatures dipping into the 30s in August. 

Gaspé is a peninsula that also boasts a national park, a quaint town and the luminescent green Emerald Falls. We rented a car to explore. Driving felt strange after so much sailing. When eventually sailing on from Gaspé, we got one more close-up view of the majestic Percé Rock, this time from the water.

And then, there was the Atlantic Ocean. We worked our way down the coast of increasingly remote Quebec, anchoring or squatting space in fishing ports. Again, we were delighted by how we were welcomed. Speaking French certainly helped, but Anglophone sailors we met had had similarly positive experiences.

We were impressed with the generosity of people we met. Complete strangers would offer their vehicles to facilitate our provisioning. 

We crossed the Chaleur Bay toward New Brunswick. This bay is notorious for aggressive sailing conditions, and we close-reached 80 nautical miles in 30-knot winds and 6-foot seas for most of the day. Sandy is not a fan of heeling, chop or gusts, yet she held on bravely as we plowed forward. The reward was a calm anchorage in Miramichi Bay, New Brunswick, and a beautiful sunset.

After a day there, we crossed the lower stretch of the Gulf of St. Lawrence to Prince Edward Island, the smallest Canadian province, and tied up at the Summerside Yacht Club and Marina on the western side. We did need maintenance after some pretty tough sailing, and we provisioned, washed clothes and crew, and enjoyed town life for the first time in weeks. We rented a car and took a side trip to Charlottetown, the main city on the island, and caught up with a colleague from 20 years ago who lives there.

After several days, we crossed back to Nova Scotia, a province we were eager to visit. We were welcomed by an anchorage with an unspoiled beach full of clams and crabs. It was fascinating to watch their behaviors and the small geysers caused by clams buried a few inches below the sand. 

We worked our way east along the coast, entering St. George’s Bay for another tough sail, with strong winds on the nose and choppy seas. We got into position to traverse the Canso Canal, without which we would have had to add significant distance to circumnavigate Cape Breton. After the canal, we had hoped to detour to visit Bras d’Or Lake. Unfortunately, the forecast required us to move on quickly, but we promised ourselves we’d sail back there another time.

The Canso Canal moved us from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the wide-open Atlantic Ocean. From this point, we experienced yet another new phenomenon: swells. They are much more pleasant than the short, irregular chop we experience on the Great Lakes. Nevertheless, there can also be chop, which taught us the meaning of a confused sea state. 

We worked our way down the southeast coast of Nova Scotia, stopping mostly in beautiful anchorages, usually ­encountering seals. Halifax, Nova Scotia’s principal city, is home to The Binnacle, where, like many sailors, we made our pilgrimage to buy parts and supplies. Halifax is full of interesting history, delicious restaurants and an attractive waterfront. As the nearest city to the site of the sinking of the Titanic, it played a key role in rescuing the survivors and is the burial place for many who did not survive. 

We worked our way down to Lunenburg and then Yarmouth, our departure point for crossing the Bay of Fundy and entering Maine. We left Yarmouth in pitch-dark in order to arrive in Maine in daylight. Despite the bay’s 50-foot tides, the crossing was uneventful. We had expected to find lobster traps as we approached Maine but were astounded by the sheer number of them, including in the middle of marked channels and anchorages.

Checking in with US customs was uneventful: After a quick video tour of our boat using an app, the officer cleared us. We then worked our way down the Maine coast, with a prolonged stop in Bar Harbor. We anchored in the Skillings River, a short dinghy ride from downtown at high tide, when the sandbar connecting Bar Island is submerged. Bar Harbor is touristy but maintains its charm and is, of course, the gateway to Acadia National Park and all its beauty. 

From there, we headed out into Penobscot Bay and enjoyed numerous anchorages, lobster-fishing villages, and a steady flow of classic windjammers. In Camden, Maine, the annual Windjammer Festival was in full swing. A short, steep climb on foot took us to the 780-foot peak of Mount Battie for spectacular views of Camden Harbor and Penobscot Bay.

From Rockland, Maine—with its active fishing industry, ­red-brick-lined downtown, and ferry terminal—we worked our way down the coast, anchoring in the lobster-fishing towns of Tenants Harbor and Port Clyde, home to the lighthouse we knew from the movie Forrest Gump. In lovely Boothbay Harbor, we stopped at Boothbay Harbor Marina, the most welcoming marina that we’d visited. 

After a final night at anchor in Harpswell, Maine, we made the final run into Portland, where we were met by the thickest fog we’d encountered during the entire journey. Anything more than 50 feet off our bow was not visible, including the city. To make our arrival even more dramatic, Hurricane Lee was expected in a few days. We had just enough time to get from there to Yarmouth, where we hauled out in record time—just before the storm hit. 

The trip truly changed Sandy and me. We increased our ­confidence and learned to face our fears. And we became even more familiar with boat systems—mechanical, electrical, ­plumbing, navigational and communications alike. 

We also changed our future plans, now wanting to make a sailboat our floating summer home. While we missed our friends and family, we learned that one can have an interesting social network while cruising. We were reacquainted with old friends, and made many new ones. 

The boating community shares common interests and ­experiences, and cruisers look out for one another, like in a real neighborhood. If you’re considering the Down East Circle as a future cruise, by all means, do it.

The post The Long Way Around appeared first on Cruising World.

The overnight passage offshore began, as usual, with­ ­exuberance. We were off! As the day wore on, time slowed. We relaxed. The dark of night descended. I was on watch in the cockpit of Simple Life, our Island Packet 37, while my husband, Joe, rested below. As we surged forward into blackness, my mind wandered. Besides imagining plowing into a snoozing whale or striking a submerged container, I was ­contemplating something pleasant: fresh shrimp.

We’d departed Port Royal Island, South Carolina, that morning, bound for St. Marys Inlet at the Georgia-Florida border and, ultimately, Fernandina Beach. Now we were fast approaching what I call the “land of shrimp.” It’s a hub where, thanks to the commercial boats plying the waters day and night, you can find an abundance of the freshest, finest shrimp you’ve ever tasted. 

During seasonal migrations south from our home port of Pawtuxet Cove, Rhode Island, we’ve logged numerous overnight passages. The Intracoastal Waterway is one of the most popular routes south from New England, but we’ve learned over the years that sailing offshore, while sometimes tiring, is generally less stressful. Especially in the Georgia marshes along the ICW, shoals abound, requiring constant vigilance with charts and at the helm to avoid groundings. Offshore, we have plenty of water.

The sun was rising as we approached the border. From my perch at the helm, sunrise was a welcome sight. Joe got up and prepared to take his watch, and I steered Simple Life west toward the inlet. Conditions overnight had been manageable, but now we had a stronger breeze. Seas began building just as Joe appeared, to take the helm. Soon, a large following sea ushered Simple Life down each wave toward the inlet. 

I spotted three local shrimp boats ­already plying the waters at daybreak, and thought about that night’s dinner: shrimp Mozambique. I’d first sampled this delicious dish in Portuguese restaurants in Fall River and New Bedford, Massachusetts, not far from our home port. I loved it so much that it inspired me to make my own version.

The last couple of miles into the inlet seemed to take hours. After a well-earned nap, I spent the early afternoon zipping ashore in the dingy, headed for Atlantic Seafood Fish Market. 

Located directly on the shrimp-boat docks, it has some of the freshest shrimp on the Eastern Seaboard. The crustaceans I bought probably were swimming beside us as we aimed for the inlet that morning.

This recipe, rooted in the former Portuguese colony of Mozambique in East Africa, is rich with spices and flavor. I’ve shared it with many cruising friends who now regard it as their go-to recipe for entertaining guests aboard, or whenever they’re lucky enough to find fresh shrimp.

Shrimp Mozambique (serves 2)

• 1 packet Sazón Goya con Azafran or 1½ tsp. homemade shrimp spice mix (see below) 
• 3 cloves garlic, minced 
• ¼-½ tsp. crushed red pepper, or to taste
• ½ tsp. salt, kosher if possible
• ¼ tsp. pepper, or to taste
• 1 2-14 medium or large fresh shrimp, peeled and deveined*
• 3-4 threads saffron 
• ½ cup beer 
• 1½ Tbsp. butter 
• 1 Tbsp. olive oil 
• 1 medium or large sweet onion, chopped finely 
• 1½ Tbsp. freshly chopped parsley, or 1 Tbsp. dried 
• 1½ tsp. additional butter
• 1 Tbsp. cornstarch dissolved in ½ cup cold water 
• 3 green onions, sliced for garnish 
• * Frozen shrimp, thawed, can be substituted. 

In a small mixing bowl, combine either Sazón Goya or 1½ tsp. homemade spice mix with garlic, red pepper, salt and pepper. Mix with a fork and set aside. 

If using fresh shrimp, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and set aside. If using frozen shrimp, skip the salt. 

Immerse saffron threads in beer, and set aside.

In a large saute pan, heat 1½ Tbsp. butter and the olive oil until melted. Add onion, and cook over medium heat until translucent. Add spice-garlic-red pepper mixture. Cook while stirring, 1 to 2 minutes. Add the beer with infused saffron, bring to a boil, and ­reduce for 2 minutes. 

Add the shrimp, parsley and remaining butter. When shrimp have begun to curl and turn pink, remove them to a bowl, then cover. 

Add cornstarch-water mixture to the pan, stirring constantly until the sauce is ­thickened. Return the shrimp to the sauce. Stir until warmed. 

Serve immediately over rice. Garnish with green onions and additional chopped parsley.

Homemade Shrimp Spice Mix

If not using Sazón Goya, mix together in advance: 1 Tbsp. each of ground coriander, ground cumin, turmeric, garlic powder, and kosher salt with 2 tsp. ground oregano and 1 tsp. ground black pepper. Save extra for future use.

Cook’s Note: If you’re doubling this recipe, do not add more Sazón Goya or spice mix. 

Prep time: 45 minutes
Difficulty: Easy
Can be made: At anchor

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