Musto has unveiled its MPX Impact Gore-Tex Pro sailing jacket and trousers, which are made with D3O pads in the elbows, hips and knees—a technology reportedly used by US Special Forces and Formula 1 racing to help prevent impact injury, cuts and abrasions.

Offshore racers are the target market for this line, which prints the pads onto mesh that is then bonded onto the fabric. The technology allows for a low-profile, lightweight, flexible pad that is waterproof without lessening the fabric’s breathable properties.

“D3O absorbs and dissipates the energy from impacts, reducing the amount of force that gets transmitted to your body compared to standard forms,” Mostyn Thomas, D3O global brand director, stated in a press release. “Each one of the broad range of D3O technologies is tailored to solve a specific problem or need in sport, motorcycle, electronics, defense and industrial workwear. We are delighted to have worked with Musto on designing MPX Impact, especially as we know offshore sailors can be dealing with some of the most brutal and hostile conditions on the planet.”

Armel Le Cléac’h, the French captain, navigator and solo, nonstop around-the-world racer, played a key role in the product’s design. “We go from 20 to 40 knots in just a few seconds. Accelerating this quickly and at these speeds means you are often thrown around on the boat, and that’s why impact protection is so important,” Le Cléac’h stated in the press release.

“Developing MPX Impact with Musto has enabled me to try and test various solutions in real ocean conditions, and we’ve worked together to design what I believe to be the ultimate offshore impact kit. It’s the first of its kind.”

Will Harris, co-skipper of IMOCA Team Malizia, tested the MPX Impact jacket and trousers on The Ocean Race and the Transat Jacques Vabre. He said: “With high-speed reaching in modern yachts, the slams and forces you have to deal with are multiplied, and protection all over the body is important. The jacket has all the features I need to be able to quickly jump on the deck during a maneuver while feeling protected from both the elements and the boat itself. The number of bruises I come back with afterwards being drastically reduced.”

The jacket has other cool features too: There’s an easy-access waterproof phone pouch with a touch-sensitive window on the forearm. Laser-cut pocket drainage prevents pooling. YKK Vislon AquaGuard zippers provide rain and windproof closures. Chest and hand pockets are trimmed with reflective details for higher visibility in darker conditions. The hood can pack away into the collar, and there is a hanging loop for stowage.

Where to learn more: go to www.musto.com.

The post Musto’s MPX Impact is Made for Offshore appeared first on Cruising World.

I would hardly describe myself as all-knowing, but at age 93, with a lifetime of offshore sailing experience in my bag, I’ve seen a lot. These days, I can walk on a boat that is preparing to head south and immediately start making a list of improvements.

Here are some of the most important things I’ve learned about how to make your voyage south safer and easier.

No matter what route you take to the Caribbean, or what time of year, your chance is high of running into blows of at least 25 to 30 knots. To prepare, when you’re still in your own home waters, head out with a crew in a good blow and push the boat really hard on various points of sail. Reef the main, and reduce the area of the headsail. On double headsail boats, get rid of the jib, shorten down to staysail and double-reefed main, beat to windward, heave-to, reach and run downwind. Install and test the emergency tiller.

You will undoubtedly discover deficiencies in sails and gear. Fix them, wait for the next blow, and then repeat the process. Your fear and anxiety about being on the boat in heavy weather will eventually vanish.

Next, check your mainsail and mizzen reefing systems. In moderate conditions. reef and double reef a couple of times. If you have single line in the boom reefing, then have a good rigger un-reeve it, get rid of the twists, and then re-reeve it.

Single headsail boats heading south should contact a great rigger. Have him design and install a removable staysail stay. This stay should be parallel to the headstay, meeting the mast about where the head of the reefed main will be. Then, have a hanked-on staysail built. Stow it and its sheets in a tight, double-zippered turtle bag, and secure it alongside the mast.

When cruising the Caribbean, before leaving the lee of an island, set up the staysail stay, hoist the staysail, roll up the genoa or jib, and reef the main. You’ll have a comfortable passage.

You’ll also want an easily rigged, easily disconnected main boom anti-jibing preventer rig and reaching sheet. (My own failure to install one of these ended my own boat’s 114-year career.) Start by securing a becket block to the end of the boom. To the becket, secure a wire or Kevlar line about 6 inches shorter than the length of the main boom. Secure the end of the line to the gooseneck with a light lashing. Through the block, reeve a line that’s double the length of the main boom, plus about 15 feet. Secure this line to the gooseneck, and coil the excess line.

From the stem head or bowsprit end, rig two spinnaker pole foreguys with both ends secured to lifeline stanchions alongside the mast. Once the wind goes aft, and the boat is sailing on a broad reach or almost dead downwind, you can disconnect the line under the boom, attach it to one end of the spinnaker pole foreguy, run the other end back to a cockpit winch or cleat, and set the man boom foreguy preventer up tight. You now have a preventer running from the end of the main boom to the stem or bowsprit end, making it impossible to jibe.

When sailing broad off, attach one end of the reaching sheet to the genoa. Run the other end through a block that’s well forward of amidships, then back to a cockpit winch. Trim the genoa with the reaching sheet. This will open up the angle, allow the main boom to be eased, ease or eliminate weather helm and eliminate chafe. The boat will also be faster.

A double headsail rig is great because it can be properly shortened down in heavy weather, but one problem is that when broad reaching, the jib sheet chafes on the main boom. This problem can be easily eliminated. Go hard on the wind, use tape to mark the jib sheet about 4 feet forward of the rail cap lead block, and then roll up the jib and cut the jib sheet off at the mark. Join it with the section that has been cut off by using a double sheet bend. Mouse the ends of the knots with whipping twine or electrical tape. Then, when sheets are eased and chafe begins, attach the reaching sheet to the jib sheet forward of the knot. Rig the reaching sheet as described above, opening the angle and eliminating chafe.

When you are out there pushing the boat hard, double reef the main and reduce headsail area. On a double headsail boat, experiment by rolling up the jib completely, sheeting the staysail flat, and tacking but holding the staysail sheet. Experiment with main trim and helm angle. Hopefully, you will end up lying about 60 degrees off the wind, with little or no headway slipping to leeward, leaving a smooth slick to windward.

If the staysail is roller furling, then roll up one full roll so that even the worst gust will not blow the sail out of the foil. Ketches and yawls usually will heave-to with the staysail aback and mizzen trimmed flat, or sometimes under mizzen alone.

The modern fin-keeled single headsail sloop with no forefoot to prevent the bow from falling off is almost impossible to get to heave-to. Just try jogging along on a double- or triple-reefed main. Each boat is different, so you’ll have to experiment. After trying to heave-to in a real blow in a single-headsail boat, you will probably be persuaded to install a removable staysail stay with a hanked-on staysail.

Next, have a sailmaker check all your boat’s sails. In general, on any well-used sail, have him stitch 2/3-foot in on the leach on each seam for the main and headsails. If the main is old, then replace it with a Doyle fully battened stack pack main or the equivalent. This quality of sail will outlast its cover, in my experience, especially if you protect the sail from the sun.

Change the fuel filters on your engine and generator under sail while the boat is well heeled over. It’s a different job than when you do it in port. Practicing will mean that on your way south, if the filters need to be changed at sea, you will be able to do it.

Buy spare belts, and make sure you have the tools to adjust tension. Change belts to make sure you can do the job with little difficulty.

When it comes to bilge pumps, the vast majority of today’s boats have a pair of 10-gallon-per-minute pumps with short handles. These can be inadequate to move large quantities of water. A 30-gpm Edson diaphragm pump with a 42-inch handle will move large quantities of water and can be pumped for long periods without wearing out the pumper.

Loss of steering or loss of rudder should not be regarded as a complete disaster, but rather a major inconvenience. On boats with a twin wheel installation, install an emergency tiller 6 feet long, hinged so the forward end is at a convenient height. If a cockpit table obstructs the end of the tiller, then the table base should be altered so that the table can be easily removed.

While sailing up and down the islands of the eastern Caribbean, spinnaker poles are rarely used, but if your trip south is at the beginning of a cruise to the Pacific (where you will be doing a lot of downwind trade wind sailing) then it is worthwhile to re-rig your spinnaker pole stowage. Stow the pole or poles vertically against the mast, with the inner end on a slider that goes up the mast. It makes rigging and unrigging the pole fantastically easy.

There is nothing that gets crews seasick faster in heavy weather than a stuffy cabin. Install proper ventilators. Double opening hatches—which can be opened facing aft under a dodger at sea, or reversed in port to gather air—are a great bonus. In port, good wind scoops will make life more comfortable belowdecks in even the hottest weather.

When heading south, you are not racing. If the wind goes light, you can motor-sail. If you keep engine revs down to 1,200 or less, your range will be considerable. If it starts to blow hard, then slow down to be comfortable.

Have a minimum of four crew with offshore experience. All too often, the crew is a couple heading south for semi-retirement with friends who may be good sailors, but who are not experienced offshore sailors. They run into heavy weather and things start falling apart, sometimes disastrously. If you fit that description, then hire a good delivery skipper to sail with you. In some cases, a boat’s previous owner can serve this purpose. After 52 years of owning the 46-foot yawl Iolaire, I sold her and served as the new owner’s sailing master/coach on a 500-mile passage.  

A good crew is also necessary because fatigue is the rust that destroys boats. With five crew on board, you can stand watches four hours on and six off. It is essential that there are at least two bunks set up so the off-watch crew can comfortably sleep, no matter the angle of heel. Test the bunks along with everything else in heavy weather.

Crew also need to be well-fed. I have always insisted on a solid breakfast, soup and sandwiches at lunchtime, and a solid dinner. There is rarely a reason to miss a meal, especially if, before you head offshore, you make up a pasta sauce, beef stew and a chicken for roasting. That will give you three meals semi-prepared for cooking in heavy weather. A pre-cooked ham is also wonderful for snacks.

Seasickness can take trial and error to resolve, but anybody who is prone to it should start taking their preferred remedy 24 hours before the trip starts. Those who are seldom seasick should start taking their remedy before heavy weather is predicted to arrive.

All boats heading offshore should stow the ultimate seasickness cure: suppositories of promethegan. Pills are useless, as they just keep coming up, but the suppository gets into the system and produces an amazingly fast recovery. I have had completely disabled crewmembers fully recover in four hours with the suppositories.

Keep this article handy when planning your passage south. If you follow the advice, you’ll boost your odds of enjoying a successful voyage south—even if you run into heavy weather.

The post Southern Comfort: Tactical Tips for Sailing South appeared first on Cruising World.

For the past 30 years, Andrew Burton has been trying to put himself out of a job—because he doesn’t want owners of the boats to miss out. 

“A lot of delivery skippers won’t have the owner on board,” he says. “I encourage it, because for me, the fun part is the offshore sailing. To take that away from the owner doesn’t seem right.”

He wasn’t always so concerned about sharing his biggest joy. He can remember, long ago, listening to a single-sideband radio to check in with other captains. 

“Six o’clock every day, we’d catch up with weather and see where everybody was,” he says. “And every now and again, we’d hear the Coast Guard in a conversation with somebody abandoning the boat. I was young and not particularly empathetic: ‘These idiots, going out there with no experience.’”

He shakes his head and adds, “As I matured, I started thinking about why those people were getting off their boats, usually giving up on a lifetime dream of sailing to the Caribbean.” 

Many folks just weren’t prepared for the reality of offshore sailing, he realized. 

“They get out there, and it’s blowing 35, and the motion is something they’ve never experienced because there can be three different components to the waves,” he says. “They’re wet, exhausted, scared, the decks are leaking, it’s the middle of the night, and they’re seasick. So it seems like the best thing they could possibly do is call the Coast Guard.”

Finally, Burton decided that he could help people learn to sail safely offshore—and maybe even find their own bluewater joy.

An Idea Emerges

in the 1990s, nautor swan managed a fleet of midsize and larger charter sailboats that migrated between summers in Rhode Island and winters in the Caribbean. Burton did a lot of those deliveries. 

“I worked out a deal where I chartered the boats and put paying crew on them, to help them learn,” he says. “For many, it was their first time out of sight of land or sailing at night.” 

That’s how Adventure Sailing was born. It’s Burton’s company, which teaches sailors how to enjoy, rather than simply endure, their time at sea.

All of Burton’s clients must have basic sailing knowledge and know how to steer a compass course. If not, he suggests they first get educated at a place such as J/World Performance Sailing School. “Tell them what you want to learn, then come back, and we’ll go,” he says.

Instead of asking for references, he has blunt conversations about experience and fitness: “I tell them, ‘If you bullsh-t me, it’ll be a waste of money. But if what you’re telling me is true, well, then, this is a really good value, and you’ll get a lot out of it.’”

“They get out there, and it’s blowing 35. They’re wet, exhausted, scared, the decks are leaking, it’s the middle of the night, and they’re ­seasick. So it seems like the best thing they could possibly do is call the Coast Guard.”   

Typical clients own a small cruising boat and are hoping to step up to one that’s bluewater-capable. Burton has two basic goals: “One, to help people realize their dream of going offshore by providing the tools to do it successfully. And two, to give them a good baseline in what offshore sailing is all about.”

His most successful passages have a convivial crew, and most have never met before they sign up. 

“If somebody sounds like an idiot,” he says, “well, then, I’m sorry, but we’re full.” 

Building the Business

Nautor Swan sold its charter fleet several decades ago, but on one of the last trips, Burton had nine boats leaving Newport, Rhode Island, with 54 people headed offshore. By then, his reputation had built a word-of-mouth private client base. 

By fall 2017, Burton and his wife, Tami, had spotted a Baltic 47 for sale. The boat needed new teak decks and an electronics upgrade, but it had what he calls “three really good” cabins, plus one for himself. The layout was perfect for Adventure Sailing. 

“Generally, it’s myself and six paying people,” Burton says, of Masquerade, adding that he encourages couples to sign up together. “We run three watches, with somebody new coming on every hour and a half, so everybody gets to know each other.” 

With six hours off, there’s plenty of time for ­relaxation. All of his clients have to steer, he says, “because that’s how you get the feel—to really know a boat. Unless we’re motoring, the autopilot stays off. We talk about storm tactics, weather, all kinds of things, but it’s not constant teaching.” 

For instance, he sits in the cockpit and tells sea stories and answers questions—lots of questions— because the whole point is to get the experience of being out there.

Burton also does the cooking, and says he really enjoys it—though he has an ulterior motive. Before GPS, he’d get out of dishwashing duty by charting the day’s course. Now that crewmembers can pinpoint the boat’s exact location themselves, cooking has become his escape. “GPS took a lot of the fun out of it, but it’s also allowed more people to get out there and do what I love to do,” he says.

Most clients eventually go offshore on their own, but not all. He’s had some customers step off the boat in Bermuda and buy a plane ticket home. “They’d say, ‘Hey, Andy, I really hated it,’” he recalls. “And: ‘Thank you very much. You just saved me a lot of money.’ I get it—there can be a lot to hate about offshore sailing.”

With some clients, he’ll offer a challenge: He takes them to the Caribbean, and then they have to bring the boat back on their own. Shipping is a good option for some boats, he says, but he estimates that delivering a boat on its own bottom costs about half as much. “And if you’ve got a good skipper, there’s not going to be that much wear and tear,” he adds. “Anybody worth his salt is gonna take really good care of the boat.”

Over the Horizon

As we chat, Burton is waiting for a weather window to ease his next delivery to the Virgin Islands. Forecasting has gotten better during the past 30 years, but even the best forecaster can get it wrong. On one delivery from Bermuda back home to Rhode Island, Burton decided to heave-to rather than bash upwind into a strong northwesterly blow. He was settled in under the dodger, admiring the huge whitecapped swells and “that gorgeous turquoise, when you look through the top of the wave,” when another boat passed by close enough to chat on the VHF radio. 

“They asked if we were all right,” he says. “I told them we were just having a cup of tea.” 

By the next morning, the wind had shifted ­southwest, so they set sail again—and soon passed that same boat, which was by then hove-to, with no one on deck.

“Our goal is to be ­inclusive. The idea is for all the owners to have the same thrill that I did finishing my first ­Bermuda race as ­skipper, because that thrill was still there ­finishing my ­second race.”

“They must’ve gotten just over the horizon and decided, ‘Yeah, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea,’” he says.“One of the things that I teach people is how to heave-to, because if everything hits the fan, you can stop and wait for it to go away.”

In 2018, Burton entered Masquerade in the Newport Bermuda Race. He’d delivered boats to the island hundreds of times before, but says they finished in “the cheap seats.” In 2022, Masquerade won its class and finished second in the cruising division. As he prepares for this year’s race, he’s also trying to help organizers streamline the entry process. 

“Our goal is to be inclusive,” he says. “The idea is for all the owners to have the same thrill that I did finishing my first Bermuda race as skipper, because that thrill was still there finishing my second race.”

Adventure Sailing is currently booking clients for 2025, and for Burton’s eighth and ninth trans-Atlantic crossings: to the Azores and Scotland in June and back to the Caribbean in the fall. Add in five Panama Canal transits and 40 years of multiple deliveries between the East Coast and the Caribbean, and it’s easy to believe his personal sailing estimate of close to 500,000 miles logged. 

Along the way, he’s helped many sailors achieve their dreams—all without accumulating many dramatic sea stories. 

“Boats give us so much pleasure, especially one like Masquerade that’s such a delight to sail,” he says. “I have such mixed feelings about making landfall. On one hand, we’re happy to be reaching the goal and looking forward to a celebratory beer. On the other, we know we’re really going to miss sailing offshore.”

The post Getting More Sailors Offshore appeared first on Cruising World.

Sailing rallies come in a lot of shapes and sizes. They’re a smart way to try long-distance cruising or a transoceanic passage with a group, to check out a new destination with people who know it well, and to meet some like-minded sailors who share your cruising goals. 

You don’t have to be an America’s Cup-level sailor to join a rally. Just the opposite: Many people join rallies as a way to improve their skills while having fun. You can be an entry-­level sailor and participate in all kinds of rallies. You can use your engine whenever you want a little extra oomph. You can bring the kids and the family dog along as crew. 

Being part of a rally is a way to become a part of a sailing community, only without the pressure of a timed race. You’ll very likely find yourself learning helpful tips and tricks to improve your cruising experience as you make lifelong friends.

Rallies happen at all times of year, on both US coasts as well as all around the world. Here’s a look at some rallies you might want to try if you’re thinking about getting involved with a rally for the first time.

Salty Dawg and NARC Rallies

The Salty Dawg Sailing Association is a nonprofit organization whose rallies focus on the United States and Caribbean. These rallies are open to all sailors, with some experience requirements. The group prides itself on offering preparation help, as well as weather briefings, a daily forecast, personalized routing guidance, and more. 

Salty Dawg’s Homeward Bound rally starts in Antigua in late April, headed for the US Virgin Islands, the Bahamas and, finally, Virginia on the US East Coast. The group’s Caribbean Rally makes the opposite journey every fall, starting in Virginia and heading south. 

In fall 2022, the Salty Dawg folks started working with Hank Schmitt and the NARC Rally, which has sailed from Newport, Rhode Island, to Saint-Martin via Bermuda since 2000. There are talks to combine the two rallies in the future, including sailors who want to start or end in New England, as well as those who want to start or end in the Chesapeake Bay.

Additional Salty Dawg rallies include the summertime Maritime Rally from Massachusetts to Maine and Nova Scotia, and the Downeast Rally, focusing on Maine.

The ARC Rally

The World Cruising Club organizes the ARC trans-Atlantic rally from Gran Canaria in Spain’s Canary Islands some 2,700 nautical miles to St. Lucia in the Caribbean. This rally welcomes cruising couples, families, and boats at least 27 feet length overall with at least two people on board. Departure is in late November, and the crossing takes most boats 18 to 21 days. The ARC offers two additional start dates and routes: The ARC Plus is a two-stage trans-Atlantic rally that departs in early November from Gran Canaria, with a stopover in Cabo Verde and a final destination of Grenada. The ARC January follows the longer, traditional route to St. Lucia, with a January departure.

WCC also organizes the west-to-east ARC Europe rally, leaving the Caribbean or US East Coast every May, with a stop in Bermuda and the Azores, as well as the seven-stage ARC Portugal, which sails south across the Bay of Biscay from Plymouth, UK, to Bayonne, France, and then on to Portugal, and continues south along the Portuguese coast.

If you really want to go for the gusto, there’s also the World Arc, a 26,000-nautical-mile circumnavigation leaving from St. Lucia and Australia. 

Panama Posse 

The Panama Posse sails between Southern California and Annapolis, Maryland, by way of the Panama Canal. It’s a go-at-your-own-pace, 5,500-nautical-mile rally, with stops that can include Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, Jamaica, Belize, Cuba and the Florida Keys.

Singlehanded sailors are welcome to participate in this rally, and some boats include families and pets on board. A list of participating boats is on the website; many are in the 30- to 50-foot range of length overall.

The Baja Ha-Ha

Held in late October and November, the Baja Ha-Ha is a rally from San Diego to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. It’s a 750-­nautical-mile journey, with two planned stops: in Bahia Tortuga and Bahia Santa Marina. Organizers make the schedule in a way that gives even the slowest boats about a day and a half of rest at each stop.

Boats that can participate in this rally must be at least 27 feet length overall, and be designed, built and maintained for open-ocean sailing. Organizers will also make exceptions for some smaller boats on a case-by-case basis, and powerboats can join as well. Each boat must have at least two sailors on board. 

Coho Ho Ho

The Coho Ho Ho is a rally from Seattle to San Francisco on the US West Coast. It departs at the end of August and makes it to California in early to mid-September. From there, some Coho Ho Ho participants join up with the Baja Ha-Ha rally and continue on down to Mexico. 

This is a smaller rally with about a dozen participants, and it occasionally includes powerboats along with sailboats. –Kim Kavin

Rally Shots?

We’d love to see your rally photos. On Instagram, tag us @cruisingworldmag or email us at editor@cruisingworld.com.

Newport to Bermuda

When Hank Schmidt of Offshore Passage Opportunities told me about a couple who had bought a slightly used Southerly 535 and were planning to sail it in the 2021 North American Rally to the Caribbean, known as the NARC rally, I needed very little convincing to join them and their professional skipper as crew.

Southerly built only two of the 535s before Discovery Yachts acquired the brand. This boat was Hull No. 1, berthed in Boston, where I stepped aboard for one night and got to know the boat well ahead of the rally. My first recommendation to the husband: Add a second anchor on the bow.

“Once in the Caribbean, you’ll be at anchor most of the time,” I said. “Put two anchors on the bow. You’ll feel better.” 

We looked at the steering system, engine, main reefing and furling systems, and retractable keel mechanism. This Southerly had in-boom furling and a Solent stay, a prerequisite for any offshore voyage (that, or an inner stay on which to hoist a storm jib).

It was a well-thought-out and nicely designed yacht that they had christened Schatz Sea, which they tell me means “my ­beloved” in Germany, where the wife is from. 

A few weeks later, they sailed Schatz Sea down to Newport, Rhode Island, in late October, ahead of the NARC rally the following month. As they entered the bay, things began to come apart. The starboard helm wheel disconnected from the rudder linkage; the bow thruster failed; the boom furling system jammed; and the mainsail ripped. Fortunately, the port helm still worked, so they got the boat safely into a slip at Newport Yachting Center Marina, where the NARC fleet was ­gathering. I joined them there as repairs were underway. Soon, our ­professional skipper also arrived.

While we were getting ready, so were the crews on 21 boats other boats. Seventeen were leaving from Newport, with another four departing Chesapeake Bay, all set to converge on Bermuda as their first stop. The fleet included five Swans, two Caliber 40s, an Amel, a Discovery 55, a Southerly 534, one Oyster, a Passport 43, a 50-year-old Hinckley 48 and one catamaran. The Newport crew totaled 75 people, some 22 of them making their first offshore voyage as crew. A few of the boats had made the trip a dozen times since the NARC began in 2000.

Off We Go

Bermuda is 640 miles southeast of Newport. At 6 knots, that’s 4 days, 12 hours. At 7 knots, it’s 3 days, 16 hours. A piece of cake, right? 

No. It seldom is.

Because hurricane season usually ends in late October, there are only a few three-day weather windows for leaving Newport. Weather Routers Inc. was predicting Friday afternoon that “this could be the easiest crossing you’ve had in years. Conditions on Sunday morning will be unpleasant, after a big storm on Saturday, but improving. Winds south-southwest, 10 to 15 early. By midmorning, as you get farther offshore, they will increase 15 to 20. Seas 5 to 7 feet, building farther offshore. The tendency will be for those winds to become more southwest, then west-southwest by the evening.

“You’ll have to contend with residual south-southeasterly swells, 8 to 10 feet, left over from Saturday’s storm,” the forecast continued. “The period is long, 8 seconds, but these will diminish over the day. The winds will continue to shift into the west, northwest and north, then drop. Monday, winds should be northwest, 14 to 18 knots. The southeast swells will be replaced by southwesterly swells, but on the beam.”

Although the start was delayed Saturday, with the predicted storm raging outside, we were all optimistic as we backed Schatz Sea out of its slip Sunday morning at 8:15. We motored out of Newport with a dozen other NARC boats, to be met by a brisk south-southwest wind blowing 15 knots up the bay. The sky was filled with yesterday’s storm clouds—an ominous start—but off to the west, behind us, was a hint of open sky. 

We hoisted half the main, unrolled the working jib on the ­inner Solent stay, turned off the engine, and made a left at Brenton Reef onto a southeast course. We then chased the storm clouds out into the Atlantic.

By noon, it was still cold on deck, but the sun was out. The wind, forward of the beam, was blowing 20 knots. The boat was heeled over, making 7 knots, climbing up and over yesterday’s southeast swells, only to plunge down into the troughs. 

It was then, I realized, that I had failed to take my seasickness medication. Off watch, I lay on the couch in the main cabin, looking out the windows at the horizon. I was still sick when I went to the cockpit at 2 a.m., but I was able to perform my watch. The wind had gone into the north, 15 knots. The ­southeast swells were unnoticeable. Around 4 a.m., I felt better.

By Monday morning, we’d traveled 190 miles, averaging nearly 8 knots. The day was sunny, winds northerly 12 knots. White, puffy clouds ahead told us that the Gulf Stream was near. We entered it around 2 o’clock that afternoon, 30 hours out of Newport.

The Gulf Stream

I’d downloaded the Gulf Stream chart from Windy before we left Newport and picked out a possible entry point. It’s a phenomenon to contend with: a narrow, fast-flowing current of warm, tropical water that comes up through the Florida Straits, glances off Cape Hatteras’ shoal, and heads east out into the Atlantic, eventually warming the shores of Ireland and England. The Gulf Stream is a moving river of water, a conveyor belt. You can use it, but you can’t avoid it. 

We were fortunate to have the Gulf Stream take a southeast meander, right on our rhumb line to Bermuda. All we needed to do was hop on as it turned southeast and ride it for 10 hours, exiting it when it turned north again. We’d pick up a 3- to 4-knot kick.

The wind turned light, over the stern, as we entered the Gulf Stream. We rigged the pole with the genoa so that we could run wing on wing for a few hours. The Stream was now pushing us along at 9 knots. 

Making Landfall

By Wednesday morning, our third full day at sea, we were less than 100 miles to Bermuda, with a projected arrival of 4 a.m. Thursday. The wind had clocked into the east, so we sailed for the afternoon. By dusk, the wind was southeast, 10 knots, 15 knots over the deck. In came the sails, and on went the motor. The southeast breeze kicked up a chop, and Schatz Sea ­shouldered into it, her flat bow pounding. 

I couldn’t sleep below, so I joined everyone else in the cockpit as the loom of Bermuda’s lights raised above the horizon. We headed through the narrow Town Cut into St. George’s Harbour at 3 a.m. and anchored in the Powder Hole, positioned to clear customs and immigration later that day. We were 3 days, 18 hours out of Newport. 

The weather forecaster was right. It was the fastest voyage I’d made in 20 years. –David H, Lyman

Read more of David Lyman’s stories of sailing in the Caribbean at dhlyman.com

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Ted Turner was lit, again, in more ways than one, and he was letting people have it. Oh, boy. There was a time and place for everything, and for heaven’s sakes, not to mention simple common decency, this was neither one. Cocktail in hand, Turner was holding court in a noisy hotel pub in Plymouth, England, on the fateful 15th day of August in 1979, and he certainly had cause for celebration. But he was also, certainly, pushing all the boundaries.

Off to the side, nursing her own drink and with plenty to occupy her already worried mind, Doris Colgate—to whom Turner, the well-known media mogul who was also a champion, world-class sailor, was clearly addressing his comments—could only shake her head. She’d seen this movie before.

Late the previous evening, Turner had crossed the finish line off Plymouth aboard his 61-foot yacht, Tenacious, the provisional winner on handicap time of what would come to be known as the deadliest, most destructive yacht race of all time, the ‘79 Fastnet; the race was so named for the prominent rock off the coast of Ireland that was the primary feature of the racecourse, which all the boats had to round before returning to the English Channel and the finish line. Four days earlier, a massive fleet of 303 yachts had set forth from Cowes to begin the biennial 605-nautical-mile contest, which descended into utter and complete chaos on the third day when a powerful gale—with 70-knot gusts and 40-foot seas, well beyond the sporty but manageable conditions that had been forecast—ripped across the Irish Sea.

Among the yachts getting creamed in the maelstrom was a 54-foot US-flagged vessel named Sleuth, skippered by a vastly experienced New York sailor and sailing instructor—one who’d raced across the Atlantic on multiple occasions, not to mention competing in the Olympics and for the America’s Cup, among countless other races and regattas—named Stephen Colgate.

He was also Doris’ husband, Steve, with whom, a little over a decade earlier, she’d fallen head over heels in love at her very first sight.

The 1979 Fastnet would become legendary…for all the wrong reasons. It would spawn several documentaries; numerous postmortem investigations delving into the seaworthiness and structural integrity of the competing vessels; and a small library of sailing books, including John Rousmaniere’s definitive report, Fastnet Force 10 (the name refers to the prodigious number on the Beaufort scale, an empirical measurement that relates windspeed to observed conditions at sea; one never wants to be boating—or for that matter, anywhere but solid terra firma—in Force 10 conditions).

Turner had set foot on sweet, dry land the night before, where he was met by a waiting press corps thirsty for a first-person, firsthand update from a scene that was quickly becoming tragic. Rumors were swirling—unsubstantiated ones. It was clear that many boats had been dismasted or toppled, and that a huge, unprecedented rescue effort was underway (it would ultimately become the largest peace-time rescue operation ever, spanning 8,000 square miles and 4,000 people, in navy vessels, lifeboats, commercial craft and helicopters). But how many boats had come to grief? Furthermore, it was also being reported that there were fatalities, perhaps plenty of them. Had five sailors perished? Ten? Twenty? Nobody had a clue. The only sure thing known at the time was that the storm was still raging. And sailors were still dying.

Into all this uncertainty stepped Turner, with the opportunity to provide both insight and empathy. He chose not to. Instead, when asked by a British reporter about the brutal conditions, he wisecracked, “If it weren’t for these waves and weather (off the south coast of England), you’d all be speaking Spanish right now.” (The implication was that the powerful Spanish Armada in the 1500s would’ve crossed the English Channel and conquered the British Isles centuries earlier had it not been deterred by a savage storm. Turner never graduated from his alma mater, Brown University—though he did captain the sailing team—but he apparently attended some history classes.) And the only “bitter disappointment” he expressed in those first moments ashore was the remote possibility that some other, smaller boat might squeak ahead of Tenacious on corrected time and deny him victory. Winning. Turner made it abundantly clear it was his only concern.

As for the dead and missing? Crickets. As in, silence.

He doubled down when he saw Doris, who happened to be accompanied by Steve’s mother, Nina, on a road trip along the southern shores of England that had taken a decided turn for the worse. (Even in the best of circumstances, which these obviously weren’t, it would’ve been a strange journey; Steve’s relationship with his mom was, well, “complicated.”) Apart from his own, Turner wasn’t interested in anybody’s feelings.

This became clear when he spied Doris sitting alongside Pat Nye, the wife of another Fastnet skipper sailing under the Stars & Stripes, Dick Nye aboard Carina (Steve had also logged plenty of miles aboard Carina back on his home waters of Long Island Sound and also in the prestigious, international Admiral’s Cup series, and knew the extremely well-sailed and seaworthy boat well). Turner acknowledged the two anxious wives and basically said, loudly, that it was extremely unlikely anybody would see Sleuth or Carina—or their husbands—ever again.

Yikes.

This whole Fastnet race was an anomaly in the Colgate’s marriage; it had become very rare indeed for the couple to be separated, even briefly. Actually, Doris had sailed plenty of hard miles and races on Sleuth, and the sole reason she wasn’t alongside Steve at this very moment was because she’d made the decision to have her mother-in-law join her in England for the festivities, and to drive her from Cowes to Plymouth for the start and finish, respectively.

However, it wasn’t just Doris and Steve’s shared love of sailing that fused them, or even their rock-solid matrimonial bonds. No, their partnership extended well beyond shared recreational pursuits and their deeply committed relationship. For they were in business together, a business called Offshore Sailing School.

Quite simply, before everything else happened, it’s how they met.

Steve had started it in New York City in the mid-1960s, after college and a stint in the service, almost as a whim; he was already one hell of a sailor, and it wasn’t like he had something else he wanted to do. Doris had discovered Offshore—and sailing and Steve, all at once—as a diversion from a stifling job and a shaky marriage. Once Steve and Doris were together, they found in their work a nearly perfect complementary balance, a yin and yang to their own best talents and aspirations. Steve turned out to be a natural teacher, with deep knowledge of his subject and an almost intuitive understanding of how to share it. Doris soon learned she had the soul of a burgeoning entrepreneur, and the workaday world at Offshore was also a portal to empowering women and spreading her wings into other fulfilling ventures.

In the final days of the 1970s, having run Offshore together for a decade, they’d built the business into something strong and lasting. Even so, there was no possible way they could’ve had any notion of what obstacles and adventures lay ahead, personally and professionally, in the ensuing decades to come.

Back on the racecourse, in just about every important metric, Steve Colgate was the antithesis of Ted Turner (though Steve had plenty of experience racing against him, and had deep respect for Turner’s gifts as a sailor). Some people find their creative passion in painting or writing or music. Steve found his in racing sailboats, a craft that he honed with the same care, devotion and determination as any accomplished Broadway actor. Steve sailed for neither fame nor money nor notoriety, but for the pure challenges the sport presented him, in all its nuances and competitiveness.

He prided himself on being an amateur competitor, a Corinthian yachtsman, not a professional. When he started racing, there were no such things as pro sailors; the closest ­applicable comparison was a hired boat captain. These days, there’s a clear professional class of sailors who compete for big paychecks. But when, for example, Steve sailed in the Olympics in 1968, anyone paid to play their sport was automatically disqualified. Steve was every bit as good as any “pro,” but it was a point of pride that he always played for free.

Furthermore, unlike with Turner, there was no spit or bombast in Steve. In fact, one of his attributes of which he was most proud was remaining calm and cool under pressure: There was no screaming or hollering or histrionics on the boats Steve sailed. Which was another way that he was separated from Turner. Over the years of his own prodigious sailing career, Steve had come to the conclusion that skippers who yell in the heat of competition rarely did well. Turner was a rare exception.

Beyond the competitive sailing arena, there was one other big difference between the pair: Turner was a very wealthy man. And while Steve had been born into a noted and successful American family, and enjoyed a rather privileged upbringing, he was now very much a member of the working class. When he started his business, he did have a trust fund, but it was actually kind of an inside joke: a whopping $62 a month. In fact, when he’d launched Offshore in Manhattan back in the mid-1960s, he slept in a tiny spare room in the school’s offices of its East Side walk-up. He couldn’t afford two separate rents.

Two years prior to the Fastnet fiasco, the Colgates had ­endured their first unpleasant Turner encounter, this time together, shortly after the nicknamed “Mouth of the South” had won the 1977 running of the America’s Cup aboard Courageous, in which he was ably assisted by a prodigal young tactician named Gary Jobson (Turner had stumbled into the winner’s press conference completely wrecked on the bottle of Aquavit that he was still swigging).

A few weeks later, Steve and Doris ran smack dab into Turner and his young protégé, Jobson, at a reception for the Cup defenders at the regal Manhattan headquarters of the New York Yacht Club on West 44th Street. Turner had taken it upon himself to mentor the 20-something Jobson and provide some career advice, and when he saw the couple, he just couldn’t help himself. “The Colgates!” he blared. “Jobson here is going to start a sailing school and run you guys out of business!” (Many years after, Jobson said that Turner was just being his usual “wiseass” and the last thing he ever intended to do was launch a sailing school: “Oh my god, you’d have to buy all these boats, and the insurance, and you’re stuck in one place…I wanted to keep moving and sailing.” Plus, he concluded, “that’s hard work!”)

But Steve and Doris had a difficult time letting it slide. When it came to what they were building at Offshore, it was personal, because they took their business very, very seriously. And now, yet again, here in England, Turner was back at it.

But there in the pub, unfortunately, for all his unnerving bluster and nonsense, even Doris realized Turner had actually raised a couple of very pertinent questions. For instance: How were Sleuth and her crew faring in the tempest?

And then, of course, there was the far more pointed one, for which Doris was pining for the answer: Where the hell was Steve?

Order a hardcover edition of Offshore High, autographed by Steve and Doris Colgate, at an exclusive rate available only to CW ­readers. The 288-page book has 177 full-color photographs and makes a fine gift, personalized, just in time for the holidays. Normally $39.95, CW readers receive 15 percent off. Visit offshoresailing.com/offshore-high (and use code CW15OH) to order. Published by Seapoint Books, Offshore High is also available in bookstores and the usual online booksellers.

CW executive editor Herb McCormick is the author of five ­nautical books, including As Long as It’s Fun, the critically acclaimed ­biography of cruising legends Lin and Larry Pardey. (Editor’s note: This book excerpt was edited for style and clarity.)

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Aboard Quetzal, anchored off Christmas Cove, USVIs, April 5 2020.

Tempers were short as a newly arrived sloop anchored too close to his neighbor. Sailboats at anchor social distance naturally, but if they don’t, like in this case, a discussion ensues, sometimes a heated discussion, until somebody moves a lot more than 6 feet away. Cooler heads prevailed and the new boat re-anchored and blew socially responsible kisses to his neighbor, all was well. Sailors, cruising sailors in particular, are friendly, helpful almost to a fault, and quite social. Prickly Bay, one of several inlets along the serrated south shore of Grenada, is a cruiser’s retreat with room for a lot of boats. There are often more than 100 at anchor and on moorings, with flags dancing astern from all over the world. As anchorages go, Prickly Bay is not beautiful, at least by Caribbean standards, and it can be roiled by a stealthy swell. But it lies a smidge south of 12 degrees, a magical line in the water as far as insurance companies are concerned. It’s deemed safe during hurricane season. But last week, when I wrote this, (which seems like a lifetime ago) few if any boats had left and others were desperately trying to clear into Grenada months before the usual storm season rush. Of course, that’s the new reality of the cornonavirus pandemic. There are no guidebooks or GRIB files to help navigate this storm-tossed world.

Instagram posts aside, about how a sailboat is the only place to be during these challenging times, Caribbean sailors were beginning to feel like refugees as one island country after another closed its borders and told them to go away. My wife, Tadji, and I, aboard Quetzal, had just finished our latest onsite Caribbean Cruising Workshop as the COVID-19 crisis began to impact Grenada and the cruising fleet. Many of our friends were resigned to spending the next 6 to 7 months in Prickly Bay, to ride out the virus and hurricane season, which actuaries, not meteorologists, insist begins with the turn of June. Adam and Khiara, our young friends from Australia, were getting creative adding content to their YouTube Channel, “Sailing Millennial Falcon.” Our former shipmate Ric, aboard Endorfin II, has been cruising the Caribbean for years with his wife, Diane. Now she’s in Canada and he’s in Prickly Bay, resigned to a long separation. New friends from Brazil, Zac, Lorena, and their young son, Ian, aboard Ventura, were ready to make Grenada home base for as long as required. So it went, cruisers, nomads at heart, were forced to hunker down and stay put like everybody else in the world.

We chose to sail north to the U.S. Virgin Islands. Tadji wanted to be in U.S. waters and have accessibility to our children, friends and families, and no amount of cajoling was going to change her mind. Mainland flights were still coming and going into St. Thomas, that’s all she needed to know. Rumors, facts, and wild exaggerations vied for attention among increasingly alarmed cruisers trying to plot their next moves. Supposedly, the U.S. Virgin Islands were still letting boats clear in and anchor with impunity. Also, I was irrationally clinging to a sliver of hope that our training passage from St. Thomas to Annapolis, Maryland, scheduled for late April and crewed by good friends, might still take place. (It’s been postponed.) With all that in mind, I dinghied ashore to pick up our propane tanks, squeeze every last drop of diesel into our four jerry cans, and make one last run to the mini mart to top provisions. Coffee and wine carried the day, but in my defense, the store didn’t have much of a selection and we didn’t know if we’d be quarantined upon arrival in St Thomas. 14 days without wine would be difficult enough, 14 days without coffee, that’s survival.

With the dinghy lashed on the foredeck I hauled the anchor and Tadji steered for Point Saline. Around the barren southwest corner of Grenada, we set the main, staysail and genoa and made our way offshore on a generous reach. Quetzal stretched her wings in appreciation. And that was just the start; it turned out to be one of those sails.

Waves are always the wind’s messenger. A churned sea state let us know that the northeast trades were wrapping around Grenada’s lush northern headlands and would soon come our way. We fell off, keeping the apparent wind just aft of beam, and zipped along at 8 knots. I decided not to be a slave to a waypoint, not to turn the promise of one of the best sails in the hemisphere, not to mention the possibility of it being one our last sails for a while, into a desperate charge toward safe harbor. The route north from the bottom of the eastern Caribbean is invariably good going. We had 420 miles to sail, we’d get there in 2 ½ to 3 days. There would be headers and lifters as the trade winds filtered around and between islands, and there would be squalls and lulls in local pressure gradients, but mostly there be would hours of magical reaching. Armed with freshly downloaded GRIB files, it was obvious to even a casual observer that the winds would be favorable all the way. There was simply no reason not to unshackle our beautiful boat and let her go with the flow. We’d been staring into our phones for days, anxious for every news update, and didn’t want to spend the next three days staring at a line on the plotter, counting down miles and minutes, putting a self-imposed timeline on our splendid interlude.

Twilight was cloudless, and even Tadji had to admit that a vivid green flash kissed the sun goodnight. She’s is a green flash denier, or was, and teases me that I need cataract surgery every time I claim to have seen the flash. Now? She’s still a skeptic, but there’s chink in her armor. I was determined to look at stars, not screens, and make time for celestial navigation. I teach celestial on every training passage; it’s one of my great passions. It was nice to putter around with the almanac and sight reduction tables, pre-calculating what stars and planets to shoot and not having to explain each step along the way. Twilight was elegant, even by tropical standards where darkness comes hard and fast. Peering over the port quarter with sextant and watch in hand, I took a series of sights on Venus and Sirius. I chose to take multiple sights on these two bodies because the lines of position from each would cross at 80 degrees, providing a nice fix. And they were brilliant. Venus, the glamourous goddess of twilight, was throwing glitter into the waves below. Sirius, the Dog Star, was preening, chasing Orion the Hunter. Then darkness, the total darkness that can only found on a moonless night at sea, enveloped Quetzal.

Tadji and I have a flexible watch system. She’s not a fan of getting up every three or four hours and prefers to take the first watch after dinner and stay up as late as she can. She usually makes it to at least midnight, often to 0100, sometimes even later, before waking me. After making a pot of coffee, I’m on duty until first light. While we both like the system, I was too entranced by the canopy of stars to head below, and I also wanted to reduce and plot my sights. She climbed into the starboard aft cabin, our underway sleeping bunk that has an easy motion and a hatch that opens into the cockpit. I dimmed the lights on the instruments completely. The darkness was inviting, I didn’t want to leave it. It felt safe and reassuring to be moving further offshore with every minute, with every wave. The Big Dipper was pointing the way toward the north star. We didn’t need the ship’s compass; we were headed two fists left of Polaris. Orion was getting ready to call it a night off to port, and Mintaka, the leading star in his belt, sets due west. We had our bearings, confirmed by the compass in the sea, the reliable easterly swell rolling us gently to port.

I eventually flipped on my head lamp and worked out the sights. Full disclosure: My time travel back to pre-satellite times was a tad dubious because I asked Tadji to jot down the GPS coordinates when I took my sights – just for comparison’s sake. The resulting lines of position produced a fix with coordinates, 12° 29’ N and 62° 02’ W. I just couldn’t help but check Tadji’s numbers in the log to compare, or as I later told her, to confirm that GPS had not been done in by the COVID-19 virus and was still working. She was not amused. We were less than 2 miles apart.

I roused her just after 2300 and climbed into the warm bunk. I asked to be woken at 0300. I wanted to see a rare trifecta of planets in the predawn sky. Back in the cockpit, with a cup of hot coffee in hand, we looked to the southeast. Jupiter, Saturn and Mars were bunched right next to each other like the piercings sandwiched into Tadji’s left ear. They reminded me of three basketball players confused by a zone defense, standing right next to each other instead of spreading out around the court. A single star, nearby Antares in my favorite constellation Scorpio, could handily cover all three superstar planets. Ok, enough basketball in the sky, but of all canceled events so far, I think I missed March Madness the most. Michigan State was peaking at just the right time!

I took the helm. The Hydrovane had been steering and doing a nice job of things but I wanted to chat with Quetzal and see what secrets she had to share. Blasting along on a beam reach, there was a bit of weather helm. I thought we might be happier with a reef in the main and a tuck in the headsail. Immediately I tried to banish the thoughts from my mind, telling myself that I didn’t really think them. My policy is simple: Once you think about reefing, you reef. I reefed. And Quetzal was happier, if a tad slower, but the ride was still fast, balanced and easy. I find myself steering by different inputs these days. While I use the slant of the waves for basic heading guidance, I also find that I can anticipate waves through my heels. Don’t laugh. Standing at the helm, my windward heel feels pressure just before the sea makes contact with the hull and I can start to steer down before riding the crest back up. After an hour of listening to my right heel, I locked the wheel and let Hydrovane take over.

Clouds spawned low on the eastern horizon began to spread across the sky, obscuring some of the stars I had hoped to take sights on at twilight. Arcturus was still visible, and with a later Sun LOP, would provide a decent and interesting running fix. The Southern Cross had also nosed above the horizon, with a rakish lean to starboard and I couldn’t help but start to sing. “When you see the Southern Cross for the first time…” But the stars had competition. Brilliant bursts of sparkly bioluminescence accompanied each wave rushing under the hull. It felt like Quetzal was riding a magic carpet of light. It was a wonder.

A red-streaked dawn lived up to the old saying, and we had a squally, gloomy second day. We didn’t care, the shade and cool temperatures were welcome, and Quetzal kept her pace. The cutter rig is made for across-the-wind sailing in capricious conditions. The apparent wind hovered between 20 and 25 knots, but gusts were often higher. We took the second reef in the main and played the gusts by furling the headsail in and out as needed, keeping the wind just aft of the beam, our happy spot. Robust furling gear, led to a winch that allows reefing with minimal luffing, and definitely without heading up, is essential to efficient ocean sailing. By late afternoon the clouds parted, the wind eased to 15 knots and we charged into the darkness under full sail.

Old friends, Venus and Sirius, provided another fix just after sunset, confirming that the GPS was still reasonably accurate. We resorted to our normal watch routine and the night flew by. The ocean south of the Virgin Islands was eerily empty, usually there is a flotilla of cruise ships lit up like small cities. We passed just east of St. Croix and at first light were 20 miles south of St. Thomas.

Just like that the stresses returned. Would we be able to clear in? Would we be quarantined? What was going on in United States, in the rest of world? Soon we’d have phone service and news, assuredly bad news, probably horrific news. We knew the kids were OK because they would have checked in via the sat phone, but otherwise the uncertainties were palpable. The wind eased and our speed dropped to 5 knots. Quetzal had unfinished business and was not ready for landfall. The wonders of a short, magical passage were already fading, forgotten as we steeled ourselves to re-enter a world gripped by fear and confusion.

I forced myself to steer away from those dark thoughts, at least for a few more hours. As Quetzal glided over a calming sea, taking her time, I recognized the familiar profiles of St. Thomas and St. John take shape. Over the years, as more miles wash under my keel, I have become philosophical. Or maybe I am just less restrained, and no doubt, more of a bore, as I dole out advice and so-called wisdom to those poor souls trapped aboard Quetzal. My contention, however, is simple: Time is the only thing that matters, it’s the currency of our life. How we spend it defines us. I believe that time spent sailing, especially deep ocean sailing, is time well spent. Even if it’s just a wondrous 2.5 days. As we eased toward familiar islands, I knew, like only an old sailor can know, that the current madness will pass. I knew that we’d do our part as humans, to help, to cure, and, to love each other. I also knew that I would continue to make voyages while I can, to leave myself open to the honesty and enlightenment that only the sea can deliver. It’s a wonder out there.

John Kretschmer’s latest book, Sailing to the Edge of Time, has just been released in paperback and as an audio book. John and his wife, Tadji, conduct offshore sail training passage aboard their well-traveled 47-foot cutter, Quetzal. In 2021 they will launch “The Big One,” a circumnavigation that will take them to latitudes big and small and longitudes far and wide. They will incorporate select training passages along the way and also report for Cruising World from far-flung quay sides.

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