Our Contessa 25, Skyebird, lay at its mooring in Sydney Harbour, looking forlorn after my year trapped overseas amid the COVID-19 pandemic. Finally back in the Land of Oz, I rowed out to her, my mind filled with thoughts of sailing. It was January—midsummer in our Southern Hemisphere—and my wife, Carole, and I had just enough time to prepare for a voyage north to escape the Australian winter.

Skyebird is a former racer-cruiser that knew Australia’s waters well in its racing heyday. Australia’s east coast is the country’s most popular sailing area—and the most populated part—so there is access to services along the way. Stretching from the edge of the Southern Ocean to the Torres Strait, along an island larger than Europe, the cruising region is one that I have enjoyed several times. It’s best broken into two legs: Sydney to Brisbane, and then the tropical leg north to the Torres Strait and the Indian Ocean. The route is pristine cruising with relatively few other yachts. 

After several months of preparations, we set out in April to cruise the first leg. We gave ourselves six weeks to sail in daylight or overnight, according to the weather. The southern half of the region is more temperate, and the tropical northern part is in the hurricane zone from November to February. The storms can be powerful; Cyclone Debbie, which destroyed much of the Whitsunday Islands charter fleet in March 2017, had the force of a Category 3 hurricane. 

Even after this destruction, the beauty remains. I think of the Whitsundays like the Caribbean in terms of weather, as well as quiet beaches, deep anchorages and, offshore, the beginning of the Great Barrier Reef’s sheltered cruising ground all the way to the Torres Strait. 

Settling into the cruise

Aboard Skyebird, the day had worn on and the wind had lightened, so I hanked on the genoa instead of the working jib for us to reach our destination of Broken Bay before nightfall. Motoring was not really an option because we had only an 8 hp outboard in the transom well. Broken Bay is the Sydney region’s main cruising ground—a network of estuaries, rivers and creeks that offer good shelter. As we sailed in, we passed the busy yachting area known as Pittwater, which is home to several yacht clubs and marinas. 

We glided into our favorite anchorage as the sun fell below the western hills. Later, whisky in hand and our fleeces on, we sat on deck enjoying the evening song of the kookaburras’ laughter. With the strong Australian sun having charged our battery from the two solar panels, I used my laptop to check the weather for the next leg, a 50-nautical-mile sail to the major port of Newcastle. 

Early the next morning, we hoisted sail before sunrise and glided seaward past the winking lighthouse at Barrenjoey Head. With safety in mind, I used my phone app to register our voyage with the Marine Safety Authority. At the tiller, Carole enjoyed the thrill of sailing Skyebird over the swells as the breeze filled in to about 15 knots and white spume flew from the wave crests.

Pilotage on Australia’s east coast is relatively benign at first glance: short tidal range, stable weather and lots of sunshine. But there are hazards, such as the strong, south-flowing East Australian Current. It’s a lee shore when strong easterlies blow, and many of the anchorages are guarded by shifting sandbars. Australian surfers are often world champions for a good reason.

The famous southerly wind caught up with us about 10 miles south of Newcastle and then backed easterly. On the foredeck, I wrestled down the genoa for the working jib as we sped along at 7 knots. Our inshore track was now dangerous, so we added some offing as the gusts grew to 25 and then 30 knots. A second reef was put into the mainsail. Slab reefing, gooseneck bullhorns and a topping lift had been my major changes to the rig, and they were all essentials on this voyage, along with using the heavy topping lift as a running backstay. Conditions worsened, so I worried about the east-facing entrance to Newcastle Harbour, a narrow gap known for cross seas. On approach, we followed an arriving coal boat and surfed in on the breaking swells as night fell over the town. 

As we settled into our berth at the Newcastle Yacht Club, a neighbor ­congratulated us on having the ­smallest oceangoing vessel there, beating his home-built Vertue 26 by a mere 6 inches. The next day, he kindly drove me to Whitworths, which is Australia’s main chandlery chain, and then to Jaycar (kind of like RadioShack) for electrical components. 

But we weren’t in civilization for long. A few days later, we headed north, sailing wing on wing along the seemingly endless beaches of the Stockton Bight. Light southerlies propelled us toward the towering headlands that marked the entrance to the next main cruising ground, Port Stephens. Larger than Sydney Harbour and with hidden estuaries and creeks, it attracts cruising and racing sailors. The main town, Nelson Bay, and the general region were once considered for Australia’s capital, but it’s a terribly shallow area where channels must be religiously followed, or sandbars and rocks await your keel. 

Approaching the heads at Port Stephens can be done only in mild conditions, so we skirted the southern headland below the lighthouse, then studied our Raymarine echo sounder. The numbers fell 6 feet before we found a public mooring at Salamander Bay during low tide. These moorings are meant to be for 24-hour use, but a couple of days can usually be spent on them. 

After rowing ashore, we celebrated our arrival in port from the balcony of the Game Fish Club with some gamefish on our plates, no doubt courtesy of the high-end angling boats that hunt the black marlin in the area. 

A relaxing stretch

The next day, a swim at the beach roused us just in time to watch the racing fleet pass. The four main marinas were packed for the annual Sail Port Stephens event. A grand-prix division of TP52s scythed past our boat, and I considered joining one as crew. My wife read my thoughts and reminded me that I was in cruise mode for this trip, so I ignominiously went grocery shopping instead.

Our next destination was only a 15-mile sail yet one of the most sublime, into the Broughton Archipelago. Guarded on all sides by shoals, some uncharted, its fortress-­type exterior deters most yachties, but I knew it well. As we came under the lee of its north side, the water revealed myriad browns (shoals), sky blue (sand) and deep blue (clear water). A shark swam by—the region is a gray shark nursery—as a muttonbird swooped in toward its burrow. Then, sheer bliss as the engine stopped, its sound replaced by the piping of sooty oystercatchers and the quizzical look of cormorants drying their wings on a nearby rock.

The Broughton Archipelago is a national park, but it used to be a fishing settlement. The Gumbaynggirr and other aboriginal tribes would have paddled the 2-mile mainland crossing when the surf was low. The mainland itself has towering gum and eucalyptus trees (the largest one in the entire state of New South Wales is nearby). The place is beautiful today, although its history is bloody; it’s the site of one of the worst aboriginal massacres in this bloodstained land. The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes is essential reading for those interested in the formation of white Australia. 

On Skyebird, the sweet scent from our methylated stove told me that Carole was preparing dinner while I landed a few zebrafish with the rod. After a run ashore, we knew that lingering at Broughton with a usable southerly was not wise, so the following day, we threaded through the reefs with a pod of 100 dolphins escorting us. “Look, a double-finned one!” Carole shouted, pointing toward one that turned out to be a large, gray nurse shark checking out our trailing lure—which I quickly retrieved. 

A few challenges

Just as well, because we were ­approaching one of the major ­headlands, Sugar Loaf Point. It’s strewn with shoals where sudden swells break. We could see them ahead, but I could see a few more were hidden from eyesight when I zoomed in on my Navionics smartphone chart and checked the Blue Charts on my Garmin plotter. 

Even knowing the area well, we were shocked as a huge swell reared up right beside us, just as a shoal, or bommie, revealed itself. Chastened, we carefully sailed beyond the lighthouse. Just like when I’ve raced this coast, we kept in low to avoid the 3-knot current, but it’s a dangerous game to rock-hop. Ahead, Skeleton Rocks bared its teeth at us in passing, just as the afternoon wind died. Avoiding drifting nearer required using the Mercury outboard, so with a plume of two-stroke smoke, we plodded along. The sun bit down on us, and we grew disgruntled, chomping on egg sandwiches while I thought of a plan. 

Motoring was not a long-term option on Skyebird, so I reluctantly resolved to put in at the river entrance of Forster, yet another sandbarred hamlet. However, with no easterly swell, that bar was quiet as we motored over it against the strong outflowing tide, dodging prawn trawlers as we went. The channel of only 50 meters wide in parts held our attention, as did the mere 1 meter under our keel. 

Finally, we lassoed a piling and came to a semigracious halt near the fishermen’s cooperative. Later, my worry about depth proved correct as I watched the full moon semidry us out, causing me to leap off and secure the mast to a nearby power pole. Our slightly drooping bow revealed the one major flaw in the Contessa 25 design: a cutaway angled forefoot on the keel, unlike the flat forefoot of the English Contessa 26 that regularly takes the ground in the tidal UK.

The next day, the town’s plentiful ­facilities—including Woolworths, a gas station, and a club where I enjoyed a draft VB, the most typical of Aussie beers—were easily within walking distance. 

Leaving Forster with only a light southerly felt like déjà vu, so again, we had to consider shortening our sea time. Like all diligent sailors, I did have a secondary port in mind—in fact, the only one: the commercial fishing harbor at Crowdy Head. 

This headland, like many Anglo-Saxon ones, was named by Capt. James Cook when he surveyed this coast in 1770. Drifting windless would only mean the current sending us southward, so we carefully glided into the shallow harbor with only inches below our keel, right alongside the jetty. 

Later, I threw out our smaller, second anchor to work as side rope—an old technique from my commercial-fishing days in Scotland, where 30-foot tides required creative mooring. The view of the Three Brothers mountains to the north was enjoyed with a Dimple whisky. My son and I regularly surfed the beaches around here, using the farm of a family friend. Famously, Australian novelist Kylie Tennant had a writing hut here and fondly wrote about some of that farming family in her book The Man on the Headland.

The next day saw us running north for our first overnight part of the trip, something that Carole was apprehensive about. With no ports of refuge on this leg, my weather planning had been done carefully, but it didn’t prevent strong winds and sail changes under the tall Smoky Cape. We were glad to see the lights of the all-weather port and town of Coffs Harbour and its good marina. It’s about the cheapest on the coast, and we stayed for 10 days, enjoying the restaurants and our walks up Muttonbird Island to view the nesting shearwaters.

A rough end to the journey

With the planned departure of my lovely wife, the next 200-mile leg was done alone. It began in big swells and wind as I caught the end of a gale to propel me northward before the forecasted lull. However, conditions were heavy and broke the Raymarine Tiller Pilot linkage. As I surfed down 12-foot swells with only the mainsail up, I considered my options. 

There was only one that seemed worthy: North Solitary Island, where I’d heard about fishermen sheltering. With night falling, I closed its wild coast and then sharply turned east into a tiny cove on its northern end. This rocky perch in deep water afforded me enough shelter to rebuild the shattered wooden linkage, and allowed some fitful rest before the long leg that would take me to my final destination on the Gold Coast in the state of Queensland. 

Contrary to the Bureau of Meteorology forecasts for the next day, conditions again worsened considerably as I passed the one possible shelter at the rivermouth town of Yamba, with its breaking sandbar entrance. More sail changes ensued, and then the ship traffic began. I’d been monitoring the ships via my Marine Traffic phone app with a good 4G signal, but there is a delay in this system. And, of course, an app is no substitute for proper shipboard AIS. So I found myself dodging coal ships and some unidentified vessels, including one that I thought was a barge tow, causing me real anxiety. 

Then the gale hit just as my autopilot batteries expired. Thankfully, I had prepared for this potential problem by catnapping in preparation for helm time. 

The worst of the gale came 20 miles off Australia’s most easterly point, Cape Byron, an often-feared place with the strongest of the East Australian Current. I trimmed the jib enough to allow Skyebird to self-steer with the helm lashed. Gaining some respite below from the rain and wind, I recovered, but I knew that the current had gotten me. I battled to douse the main, and with no autopilot, I tacked toward the powerful Cape Byron Lighthouse beam and, at last, beyond the river towns of Nambucca Heads and Tweed Heads, and the final obstacle, the shoals on the south end of the Gold Coast.

With daylight, the towering skyscrapers of this Las Vegas-by-the-sea welcomed me shoreward and provided some blessed relief from King Neptune’s realm.

Kevin Green is a sailor and yachting ­journalist based in Sydney.

The Contessa 25 

A quarter-tonner penned by Australian America’s Cup designer Peter Cole, the Contessa 25 has sweet sheerlines, a semilong and encapsulated lead keel, and a sizable skeg/rudder that, together with a 44.5 percent ballast ratio, makes it a stiff boat. There’s a fairly tall deck-stepped rig of about 36 feet with an inner forestay and a sail plan that has 120 percent genoa plus a symmetrical spinnaker. This boat’s class dominated the Sydney racing scene in the 1970s with 50 hulls launched. The hull is solid GRP that’s thickly laid, and all the bulkheads and cupboards are glassed. The mast has a 4-inch-thick wooden archway connected to the keel. 

The design is, in a word, sturdy. In 1972, one Australian magazine declared after the sea trial that its team would take the Contessa 25 around the world. Race results made some sailors famous, such as aspiring boatbuilder Bruce Ritchie. Bruce Fairlie, at East Coast Yachts in Gosford, built the Contessa 25 as a scaled-down version of the Cole 43 that won Admiral’s Cups and Sydney-Hobart races, and completed record-breaking circumnavigations. 

The deck was simply laid out with a tiller, self-draining cockpit, and large forehatch for spinnaker hoists. Inside, the Contessa was highly customized for each owner. Skyebird (most likely Hull No. 48) has a V-berth and quarter-berth, plus a third that is accessed by removing the table. It is an ideal cruising layout for my wife and me because there’s a large cockpit lazarette instead of a second quarter-berth. 

The standard galley came with a two-burner Maxie stove—the same type I retrofitted to Skyebird—along with a sink. Sharing the V-berth on some hulls was the Bryden Boy head. A useful fitting was the removable jerry-can water tank, handy for Junior Offshore Group racing. 

The standard inboard engine was a 5 hp gas-powered Albin with a feathering propeller. A diesel Volvo Penta MD1 could also be fitted.

The post Well, Hello, Old Friend: A Cruise Up Australia’s East Coast appeared first on Cruising World.

Making landfall in southeast Florida can be a shock to a sailor’s system: a barrage of fishing-boat wakes, ­ceaseless cars and dial-a-lawyer billboards. It feels at times as though someone invited over millions of people, turned up the sound, and left all the lights on. But Florida also has a sweeter, slower-paced side, as the crew of Liberte, our Beneteau 361, ­discovered in our latest explorations.

Over the course of eight leisurely weeks, my wife, Rebecca, and I cruised the heartlands of the Caloosahatchee River and Okeechobee Waterway, poked around Pine Island Sound, sailed Charlotte Harbor and visited Punta Gorda, then went south along the Everglades. This route brought fascinating human and critter encounters, beaches with no footprints, and night after night of wildly pleasing west-coast sunsets.

Rebecca and I have been cruising our boat Liberte every ­winter for 10 seasons now. We set out from Bellingham, Washington, in 2009 and eventually transited the Panama Canal. For the past three years, we’ve hauled out in Florida for the summer. Then, right after sharing a snowy Christmas in Idaho, we’ve flown into Fort Lauderdale, stayed with friends while we launched and commissioned the boat, then lounged about in sunny Stuart on Florida’s east coast while waiting for a favorable Gulf Stream crossing to the Abacos or sometimes the Exumas. Those Bahamian waters are mind-blowing, and nobody could blame us if we continued that same migration year after year, as did many of the sailors we met.

But the wanderlust that brought us all these miles was hard to ignore. So after we launched Liberte at Indiantown Marina in early January 2019, we headed west for new waters. Our first challenge loomed low. The Port Mayaca Railroad Bridge, at the eastern entrance to Lake Okeechobee, is normally listed at 49 feet above water, and Liberte has an air height of 49.5 feet, plus instruments. These numbers haunted my midnight hours, and lately I’d been obsessively refreshing the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers link for Lake Okeechobee water levels. A dearth of rainfall would help us sneak ­under, and a deluge would make the bridge impassible.

Plan B was to hire local innovator Billy the Tipper to heel our boat using drums lashed to the rail and filled with canal water. I had also schemed various ways to crack the nut ourselves, using, say, the tender at the end of the boom, loaded with water or anchor chain. To be honest, those rinky-dink solutions always ended badly in my mind’s eye.

We crept up to the bridge, and even though the website said we had a foot to spare, it sure looked like a no-go. As sailors on a Pacific Northwest boat, we had seen very few bridges before arriving in Florida, and crossing under the Golden Gate Bridge did not prepare us for this. As Rebecca and I peered skyward, we had a lively will-we-make-it, no-we-won’t discussion, but there was no crash as we went slowly forward, only the tick-tick-tick of the VHF antenna brushing rusty railway steel overhead. We were free to ramble onward.

At nearby Mayaca Locks, we met the first of the characters who keep this stretch of waterway rolling. The gruff but talkative lockmaster with a Texas drawl entertained us for the few minutes it took to lock up to Lake Okeechobee. Here, the numbers were on our side again—the lake was deep enough. I’d read accounts of boats crossing in shallow water and high winds while being dropped onto the keel in every wave trough, which didn’t sound like fun. That day we had Goldilocks conditions. The water was low enough to get us under the bridge and high enough to float our 5-foot draft safely.

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We even had a nice little afternoon sail in north winds around 10 knots, and finished the 22-mile crossing just before sunset, nosing up just outside the lake to a side tie at Roland and Ann Martins Marina & Resort just off the main channel. The dockmaster called me “Captain” and Rebecca “Mrs. Captain.” He lived aboard a small boat festooned in American flags, and said he was working the docks until he could save up enough money to head out again and chase some sunsets of his own. We of course gave him a tip for his cruising fund.

The next day we motored along a wide, placid section of the canal, passing one alligator after another on the banks. Apart from bass-fishing boats, there was very little traffic, which came in handy when we suddenly needed to sail. Our engine temp alarm sounded, so Rebecca shut down the engine and I rolled out the jib. I found a coolant leak at the top of the water pump, patched it with gasket-maker (while playing hot potato with the metal parts), and let it cure while we coasted along in the lovely sunshine. That evening’s five-star accommodations were in Moore Haven, where the waterway turns into the Caloosahatchee Canal. We pulled Liberte up to the seawall, walked 100 yards to city hall and paid our buck a foot. We found a pair of tree frogs still hitching a ride aboard the boat from Indiantown and carried them to the park.

The price was even better at our next overnight, the LaBelle City Wharf, where we’d read we could stay free for three days including power and water. Those docks were full, so we headed across the canal to Bob Mason Town Park, where we ended up spending two quiet nights. Rebecca and I walked daily across the bridge and through the friendly town under big oak trees hanging with moss, and returned to the boat carrying propane and groceries on our backs.

Liberte continued our unhurried pace west, the waterway now named the Caloosahatchee River. We were delighted by the lady bridgekeeper who carried a parasol and admonished us kindly, “You kids stay warm, now” on a morning that was easily 70 degrees. This was a pleasant countryside, with the kinds of houses that make you think, “Hey, we could live there,” mingled with orange groves.

We motored on, once again squinting straight into the sun (a downside of westbound travel in the late afternoon), and reached Fort Myers with just enough light to thread the white stakes marking the channel to the mooring field. We launched our dinghy using the spinnaker halyard to hoist it off the foredeck and the main halyard to lower the engine. The 4 hp Mercury fired right up after its long summer layup, and we gave hoots of joy.

We dinghied in to pay for our mooring, and Rebecca reported that the marina shore shower ranked a 10 out of 10. “It has hot water, good pressure, it’s clean, and there are places to hang your stuff,” she exalted. She smelled good, and I took her out on the town by walking a few blocks to the upscale River District, where we found gourmet tacos and live music. It was uncomfortably cold going back to the boat, a reminder of how chilly Florida winters can be. We had learned in previous seasons here to pack jackets, hats and even socks, although I tend to view putting on socks any time of year as a sure sign of defeat.

I wanted to make a better water-pump repair, so we booked a couple of nights at Cape Coral Godman Yacht Basin, across the river in Cape Coral. We enjoyed the pool and small beach, and watched every sunset from the Boat House Tiki Bar. We walked in to town for the Saturday farmers market, and then hailed the free Nickel Ride, with a big man named Tiny bringing us back to Liberte. I replaced the water pump with our spare, and we upgraded our six-year-old Trojan T105 house batteries, which bulged around the terminals. A local vendor dropped the new batteries by as I lugged him our old ones, easy as could be.

What a feeling of freedom to cast off and head for nearby Pine Island Sound with our systems sorted, our boat provisioned to the gills, and our spirits ready to explore. We sat back and watched the sunset show from our anchorage off St. James City with particular satisfaction. This was the first of many places we would choose on this trip using the Navionics boating app, where other sailors leave notes on anchorages, marinas and hazards. It proved a handy source of information throughout our travels.

Our next anchorage was 17 miles north via the Intracoastal Waterway. We kept the red marks to starboard—“Red right returning to Texas,” as the saying went—and stayed in the channel to avoid the dredge spoils on either side. Pelican Bay at Cayo Costa State Park had come up in every conversation about Pine Island Sound, and we approached with a sense of anticipation. The narrow, unmarked entrance hugs the beach, and we found plenty of room to anchor with 20 or so other boats.

Since we began cruising Liberte, we have loved the contrast our boat provides of spending a few days in civilization and then heading out for more-remote places. The Canadian Provincial Parks spoiled us in this regard. So did the Sea of Cortez, the Las Perlas and San Blas islands of Panama, and the outer atolls of Belize. Here, in one of America’s most densely populated states, we were once again living the dream: anchored in a wild, beautiful place, rowing ashore for a beach workout and shell hunt, and returning to Liberte to enjoy chimichurri egg tacos for lunch, while photons flew 93 million miles to warm our skin and power our simple needs.

At Cayo Costa, we could tie the dinghy to the park dock, put our $2-per-sailor entrance fee in the box, and walk a mile on a sandy path across to the Gulf of Mexico side of the island, where a lovely beach stretched as far as we wanted to go. In our daily rambles, Rebecca and I saw pine, cactus, palmetto and oak trees in pleasing juxtaposition, and spotted new flowers and birds. This was a pace and place we could have enjoyed for days, or even weeks. But weather was coming, and although Pelican Bay is a sheltered anchorage in most conditions, we were happy to accept an invitation from friends in nearby Punta Gorda.

Charlotte Harbor is renowned for good sailing, and Liberte had a splendid 16-mile romp in a southerly breeze. We reluctantly struck sails outside Ponce de Leon Inlet. Punta Gorda has several good marinas, but better yet, our friends had welcomed us to tie up at their dock in the canals. The tide had just turned and we were unsure about depth, and as we deliberated, out of the channel came a sistership, another Beneteau 361, with the owner smiling and saying, “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” If only every entrance could have such a cheerful oracle of local knowledge.

We motored through the canal system, ogling homes and boats along the way. What a treat to see Lori and Tom again, cruising friends we’d met on the Pacific side. We made a fine home at their dock for a few days while the weather raged. Tom cooked insanely good barbecue, and Lori told stories of growing up in Italy. Punta Gorda has 55 miles of canals, a nearly nonexistent crime rate, and a charming downtown and waterfront. Like many places we’ve visited while sailing, it was hard to leave.

The weather passed, and with the wind back to the prevailing northeasterly, we had another glorious reach retracing our route across Charlotte Harbor. Just after dusk, we dropped the hook off the private island of Useppa, avoiding the cable areas on the chart. A fragrant wind came from shore, little lights twinkled, and we seemed quite far from the worries and cares of the rest of the world. The boat rocked and rolled in a couple of passing wakes, and then we had the place to ourselves.

Ah, Cabbage Key, with its Inn & Restaurant, and all the places only a boat can take you! It was a bright sunlit ­morning as the dockmaster helped us tie up the dinghy and we scrambled ashore, eager to get the measure of the place. The gift shop was tempting and the nature trail beckoned, but Rebecca once again had the smart play. “Let’s grab a table now,” she whispered, and sure enough, right about the time we tucked into our shrimp and potato salad lunch and Cabbage Creeper drinks (the local favorite), our island was invaded. Tour boats and private boats arrived by the dozens, then people came ashore looking hungry and thirsty. We gave up our table in good etiquette, and had a prowl around the place, another couple of Cabbage Creepers in hand, looking for Jimmy Buffett’s dollar bill. Fortunately, it’s framed behind the bar, because the walls and ceiling are thick with layer upon layer of bills, signed by visitors the world over. Our bartender’s T-shirt listed answers to the most frequent visitor questions, including the fact that $70,000 is taped to the walls and $10,000 falls off each year (and is donated to charity). We added our own dollar bill, inscribed with Liberte, our names and our favorite sailing toast, “We’re all here because we’re not all there.”

We escaped the crowds by climbing the island’s water tower, where if we squinted, we could imagine the boats that had come before: Calusa and Seminole canoes, Cuban fishing craft, and elegant wood runabouts with wealthy dropouts, artists and writers, film stars and dignitaries, island owners and castaways. Near the tower, two of the charming local ­tortoises were working on making the next ­generation of tortoises, but the male was getting nowhere fast. I chased Rebecca around the nature trail, which took us over a shell midden, the high point of the island where shells cast here by ancient inhabitants still crunched under our feet.

Then it was back to the yacht and south to an inauspicious afternoon. We’d managed to keep Liberte off the bottom all this time, despite the shoal depths that sometimes had us tiptoeing gingerly through skinny waters as we sang the new Lady Gaga song from A Star Is Born: “In the shallows, the sha-ha-lowwws…”

Happily abuzz with our Cabbage Island outing, exultant in the sunshine, and egged on by what turned out to be dodgy advice from a longtime local mariner, we took a gamble we wouldn’t have ordinarily taken, and parked our boat soundly atop a sandbar in midchannel to Captiva Island. We applied plenty of rpm in reverse, then in forward, with no results. I unfurled the jib to heel the boat in the wind and Rebecca gave it full revs again, but it was obvious we were here to stay for a while. We’d made the mistake of not leaving ourselves the margins we normally do. Captiva was to be our shelter for the night with southerly weather coming, and now the tide was going to turn and it would soon be dark.

I called TowBoatUS for the first time ever and asked for help. In fact, it was the only time in 15 years of owning and ­extensively cruising Liberte that we’d needed this kind of assistance. But sooner or later, as they say, there are two kinds of sailors, those who have been aground and those who lie about it. So consider this my true sailing confession.

Fortunately our Gold Unlimited membership meant there’d be no charge. But there was an interminable wait, and when our rescuer arrived in fading light, we found out why. They had been pulling boats off the bottom all day due to southerly winds affecting the depths and time of tides in the sound. With the tugboat straining and our boat heeled way over, there was a lurching release, and, we were finally free—(with shouts of triumph) a remarkably joyous sensation unrivaled in humdrum daily existence.

We made the most of that freedom with the rest of our time in the Florida sunshine. Sailing friends Marie and Bill flew in, and we picked them up for a best-of-the-islands itinerary. As we left Pine Island Sound to go south, we encountered fog we hadn’t seen since San Francisco. Now dodging crab pots, the constant watch in these waters, became a more interesting game. The fog cleared as we made the channel to Factory Bay on the north end of Marco Island, where we took a slip, walked to West Marine and the grocery store, and watched the Super Bowl.

The contrast was stunning the very next night, when we were the only boat anchored north of Indian Key in the Everglades. No condos, no crowds—just the moon, stars, water and our cozy floating home, which now seemed much bigger than when tied to the dock among the behemoths. The next morning as we sipped our coffee, the pelicans put on a stellar fishing exhibition, joined by osprey and an eagle.

The Everglades treated us right, with few bugs and no other boats. Rebecca and I celebrated a milestone anniversary at Cape Sable, another marvelously remote anchorage. We’d married 20 years ago on a beach in the Grenadines and run off on a sailboat, so this was the very best place we could be. We hadn’t even pulled the ­dinghy ashore before the ladies were squealing with joy. Strolling the beach at low tide, they found handful after handful of bright shells: Sunray Venus, Turkey Wing, Paper Fig, Lettered Olive, Lightning Whelk and many more. I went on ahead, and found the tracks of sea turtles and something far bigger. South Florida is the only place in the world where alligators and crocodiles coexist, and while I pondered these tracks all alone, I felt the thrill of astonishment.

As we watched another epic sunset from the cockpit and saw the stars come out, we felt the pulse of our own planet beneath us. The only sign of civilization was the glow of Key West. We were spoiled beyond measure, once again ­rewarded for pointing the bow toward new places, just to see what we’d find.

David Kilmer spends his summers running the 60-foot daysailer Sizzler in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, and his winters by the sea, cruising warmer waters.

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Cruising down the California coast in the long, lazy days of late summer was extremely satisfying. Despite much of the conventional wisdom, the bays and harbors that dot the shore are actually well-situated for comfortable daysailing, and slow-paced mornings segue into exhilarating afternoons galloping ahead of the sea breeze to reach the next anchorage by sundown. As my husband, Neil, and I sailed southward aboard our Liberty 458 sloop, Distant Drummer, we sought out attractions to amuse even the most seasoned cruiser; nature and history provide a wealth of interesting places to explore, the cities are teeming with shopping, and there is a plethora of sights to see from fun parks to film studios.

While cruising in California, I was captivated by the tales of R.H. Dana, who spent two years aboard a Boston brig loading hides between San Francisco and San Diego. His memoir Two Years Before the Mast served as an intriguing cruising guide, and it was interesting to compare our passage of today with his voyage nearly 200 years ago.

Monterey Bay and Point Conception

After a voyage south from Alaska, we had been in the San Francisco Bay area for six weeks, and had explored most of its nooks and crannies. We had cruised up the Delta, hung out around the Bay, and sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge enough times to finally catch it unadorned by its habitual foggy shroud. As we passed under the bridge for the final time, we were graced with a visit from a pair of humpback whales. It was fantastic to watch them surfacing and breaching so close to the entrance to the bay.

The passage from San Francisco to Monterey was a leisurely three-day cruise, motor-sailing in the gentle morning breeze until a brisk northwesterly filled in during the early afternoon. The first night we tucked in behind the breakwater at Half Moon Bay and stopped for the second night at Santa Cruz. We dropped the hook on the east side of the pier, slap-bang in front of the world-famous Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. As an aficionado of fairground kitsch, I rushed ashore to revel in all the fun of the fair. Later, as we tried to sleep, it was not the throbbing music and screams from the amusement park that kept us awake, but the raucous barking and snorting from the sea lion colony beneath the pier.

Crossing the bay to Monterey on a crisp, blue-sky day with a 20-knot breeze on the starboard quarter was magical sailing; we were almost sorry to arrive there. A mooring field occupies the area to the west of Fisherman’s Wharf, so we anchored on the east side and settled in for a calm, clear night. Monterey Harbor is one of the few anchorages that is exposed to winds from the north, but luckily the breeze had backed to the southwest and we were protected behind Point Pinos.

Back in the early-1800s, Monterey was the seat of the Spanish government and boasted the only custom house on the California coast, which can still be found standing in the presidio by the wharf. We sauntered along Cannery Row past the old clapboard sardine-canning factories, which have been renovated and transformed into fashionable shops and restaurants. The town was lively with summer tourists, but we saw no sign of the “cock-fighting, gambling of all sorts, fandangos, and every kind of amusement and knavery” that Dana reported. It’s a shame, really—it sounded like fun!

Heading south from Monterey, we had a boisterous overnight passage around Point Sur with a 6-foot swell and the wind gusting over 40 knots on the starboard beam. At sunrise we noticed that a seam close to the top of the mainsail had split, so we decided to stop in Morro Bay to repair it. We slipped through the channel between the sand spit and the peak of Morro Rock, and thankfully dropped the hook in the anchorage area opposite the old power plant. A colony of sea otters lives in Morro Bay, and they are constantly diving and feeding, playing with and nursing their fluffy pups in the tranquil water. Watching their antics provided a perfect distraction as I sat in a billow of canvas stitching the mainsail.

RELATED: Sail to Catalina

Point Conception is a cape with an unhealthy reputation for strong winds and rough water; Dana reported “gales, swept decks [and the] topmast carried away.” We were somewhat luckier, enjoying a beautiful sail from Morro Bay to Santa Barbara in a 15- to 20-knot breeze with a full jib and two reefs in the newly stitched mainsail. We stopped overnight in Cojo anchorage, a small cove that shelters behind Point Conception and has a great view of the lighthouse. It is one of the oldest lighthouses on the California coast but is rarely visited because land access is restricted by the military and a private ranch, so only mariners get to see it.

Santa Barbara and the Channel Islands

Santa Barbara is a day’s sail from Point Conception. The wind was light, but we had the dependable southerly California Current helping us along, and we arrived in time to drop anchor to the east of Stearns Wharf as the sun set. We enjoyed sundowners on the aft deck with a view of the twin towers of the mission peeping out among the whitewashed walls and red-tiled roofs of the town, and the surf pounding on the golden beach.

Santa Barbara is a day’s sail from Point Conception. The wind was light, but we had the dependable southerly California Current helping us along, and we arrived in time to drop anchor to the east of Stearns Wharf as the sun set. We enjoyed sundowners on the aft deck with a view of the twin towers of the mission peeping out among the whitewashed walls and red-tiled roofs of the town, and the surf pounding on the golden beach.

The only downside of being anchored in Santa Barbara was the difficulty in finding a place to land the dinghy to go ashore. The surf makes a beach landing difficult; Dana described a group of Sandwich Islanders as they rowed their boat in to the shore: “They gave three or four long and strong pulls and went in on top of the great wave.” We weren’t quite up for that, and eventually we were able to buy a three-day permit to use the “skiff row” inside the marina.

It was a clear, sunny day when we departed Santa Barbara, and we had a fantastic sail across to the Channel Islands. With just the headsail up, we were flying along nicely in a steady 20-knot sea breeze that blew until the sun went down. Santa Cruz Island is the largest of the group of steep, craggy isles that lie on the south side of the Santa Barbara Channel. We anchored in Pelican Cove, a pocket-size crevice in the sheer cliffs that make up the north coast of the island. The anchorage is exposed to weather from the north, but even a mild westerly swell wrapped around and in to our spot, giving us a slightly rolly night. Pelican Cove has no beach, so getting ashore is hazardous. Instead, we pumped up our inflatable kayak and explored the bay from the water, paddling among dramatic caves and sea arches.

Little Scorpion Cove at the east end of Santa Cruz Island is an imposing anchorage lined with tall cliffs and tottering sea stacks. The water is as clear as gin, and it was mesmerizing to watch the kelp fronds swaying in the swell as it dashed against the rocky islands. We dinghied ashore to a small sandy beach and climbed up the steep path for a walk along the clifftops.

It was a glorious day, the visibility was sensational, and it was wonderful to see Distant Drummer anchored in the bay below and with Anacapa Island fading away into the distance.

Ventura and Santa Monica Bay

As we continued southward down the coast, finding somewhere to drop anchor became more of a challenge. San Diego and the bays of the Channel Islands are the only natural harbors in Southern California. Many ports have an anchorage area behind a breakwater, but anchoring in these zones is often limited to a ­maximum stay of 72 hours. These areas are patrolled by harbor police who seemed bent on steering us into marinas like sheep into a fold. As an alternative, many yacht clubs in North America have a brilliant system of reciprocity, of which we took advantage. They offer a few days of free moorage and hospitality to cruisers visiting from other clubs, and this provides a great solution to cruising without mounting up huge marina bills.

The strong northwest winds that whistle around Point Conception and the western Channel Islands in the summer months tend to die out once they reach the Santa Monica Basin. We recrossed the Santa Barbara Channel from Santa Cruz Island to Ventura, motor-sailing in light airs, and tied up at the Ventura Yacht Club. We received a hearty welcome at the club and an invitation to join in a potluck dinner at the clubhouse that evening. We had a fine time chatting with the locals, listening to a few yarns, and gaining a bit of local knowledge about favorite spots.

We were warned that Point Dume is another headland with a ruthless reputation. The Pacific swells pound through the gaps between the Channel Islands and wrap around Point Dume, making the anchorage at Paradise Cove just behind the point untenable except in the calmest seas. We struck it lucky again with surprisingly serene conditions and spent two fantastic days anchored there. Snorkeling at the point with a couple dozen sea lions was an unforgettable experience. They circled playfully around us and were very curious, often swooping up for a closer look. Their bodies, which seem so cumbersome on land, were lithe and graceful underwater.

The Malibu shoreline between Paradise Cove and Santa Monica is home to some of the hottest real estate in the world; stars including Leonardo DiCaprio, Jack Nicholson and Ellen DeGeneres keep the prices sizzling. As we sailed around the bay to Marina del Rey, we enjoyed gawking through binoculars at the luxurious beach houses and sumptuous palaces in the hills above.

At Marina del Rey, a roadstead anchorage lies close to the entrance channel, however the outer breakwater provides little shelter from the swell, and anchoring there can be pretty rough. Instead we tied up inside the harbor for a few days, first courtesy of the Del Rey Yacht Club and then the California Yacht Club; we were beginning to get the hang of the reciprocal system. Marina del Rey is just south of Venice Beach and Santa Monica, and is an ideal place to leave the boat for a visit to Hollywood and Beverly Hills. We bought a 48-hour hop-on/hop-off bus ticket, climbed up to the open-air top deck, and gorged ourselves on Hollywood craziness.

San Pedro Bay and Catalina Island

It is a short hop down the coast from Marina del Rey to San Pedro, where Dana noted, “There was no sign of a town, not even a house to be seen.” Incredible! Nowadays it has been engulfed by the Los Angeles sprawl. The dock area of San Pedro and neighboring Long Beach is enormous, channeling vast quantities of imported goods into the United States. The harbor in San Pedro has an extensive complex of marinas, but a small corner behind the breakwater has been allocated for anchoring. We dropped the pick there and soon had a visit from the harbor police, who generously gave us a permit to stay for two weeks. This gave us plenty of opportunity to explore the area and share some good times with cruising friends who are based there.

Dana reported that the “rascally hole of San Pedro” (love that description) was unsafe during the violent northeasterly winds that blow out of the desert in fall and winter. These hot, dusty winds are known as Santa Anas, and the west coast of Catalina Island is a great place to shelter from them. It is also a favorite place for Angelinos to unwind on the weekend and, as a consequence, the most popular bays are full of moorings. However, cruising boats can usually find room on the fringes and in the deeper water to drop the hook. We anchored in Catalina Harbor on the west coast and walked across the isthmus to the small community of Two Harbors, which lies on the east side of the island. The red dust and eucalyptus trees reminded us of northern Australia. We propped up the bar in Harbor Reef Restaurant, sipped a couple of icy cold beers, and enjoyed the casual and easygoing pace of island life in the low season.

Little Harbor lies south of Catalina Harbor on the west coast. It has no settlement—just a couple of empty beaches, a campsite, and a dirt road connecting it to the rest of the island. In the evening, we went ashore to use the showers, and as we were soaping up, we were startled to see two bison grazing among the palm trees. It was astonishing to see these primeval beasts on a small island just off the Southern California coast. Apparently, 14 bison were brought to the island in 1924 to be extras in a film called The Vanishing American. When the filming finished, so did the money to transport them back to the Great Plains (or so the story goes), but they seem to be thriving in their exile.

The Oil Islands provides another surreal anchoring experience. These are man-made islands that lie off Long Beach Harbor and were constructed in order to develop the Wilmington oil field that underlies San Pedro Bay. The good people of Long Beach liked the money but didn’t like the view of ugly production platforms. So islands with palm trees were built around them, and fake apartment buildings were erected to disguise the unsightly drilling derricks. Although anchoring is allowed behind White Island only on weekends, the Oil Islands offers a bizarre alternative to tying up in a marina.

Dana Point and San Diego

After a couple of weeks of happy gunkholing in San Pedro Bay, we departed for San Diego, the last leg of our California cruise. A light wind was blowing from the southeast, and we tacked laboriously between container ships and the Oil Islands. We passed Newport Beach, where the coastline begins to rise and high cliffs replace the famous sunbaked Californian beaches. After a hard day of tacking, we reached Dana Point and decided to call it a day, hoping for better wind in the morning. The bay at Dana Point is protected by a long breakwater and is almost completely full of marina berths. There is a small anchoring area behind the breakwater, but we enjoyed a reciprocal night at the dock courtesy of the Dana Point Yacht Club.

Dana Point is the zenith of Dana lore; statues of him abound around the town, and a reproduction of the brig Pilgrim lies in the bay. He is immortalized for an incident that happened at San Juan while they were collecting and loading hides. Dana wrote that tossing the hides from the bluffs down to the beach was much quicker than carrying them down the dangerous cliff path. When a hide got stuck part way down the cliff, he was lowered down “by a pair of top-gallant studding-sail halyards” to dislodge it. In doing so, he became a bit of a local legend, and the area previously known as San Juan was renamed Dana Point.

When we woke the next day, the wind had veered to a robust southwesterly, and we had a glorious sail down to Mission Bay—a large, shallow inlet that lies just to the north of the city of San Diego. Low bridges prevent sailboats from accessing most of the bay, but Mariners Cove is a lagoon close to the entrance channel, and it’s where we found a spot to anchor. Sipping sundowners in this tranquil cove while basking in the golden light of the setting sun was heavenly. The next day we rounded Point Loma, giving it a wide berth because of the kelp field on its seaward side, and passed through the channel into San Diego Bay.

Dana considered San Diego to be “the best harbor on the coast, being completely land-locked, and the water as smooth as a duck pond.” These days, the duck pond behind the sandbar is filled with container ships and naval vessels, superyachts and sailboats. The anchorage rules in San Diego require visiting boats to be inspected for safety and seaworthiness at the Harbor Police Dock. Having passed inspection, we were issued a 30-day permit for the A-9 Cruisers Anchorage that is located conveniently close to downtown. From the anchorage, it is just a stroll along the waterfront to reach the Maritime Museum and USS Midway, and a short walk up the hill to the San Diego Zoo in Balboa Park. The downside of the anchorage is that it is located adjacent to the runway of the international airport, and the noise pollution is off the scale.

The late-summer and early-fall months were a perfect time to be cruising southward down the California coast. Although the winds were often light, we could rely on the afternoon sea breeze to switch on the turbo, and on our good buddy, the south-setting California Current, to keep us moving in the right direction. We greatly appreciated the yacht-club reciprocal-membership system, and give a big shout-out to the clubs that generously hosted us along the way. In the 200 years since Dana visited California, mega-metropolises have mushroomed in once-deserted bays. Harbors are now cluttered with marinas and anchoring rules, but for the most part, we were pleasantly surprised to learn that there is still room for the freedom-loving cruiser to swing on the anchor and be delightfully content.

After purchasing Distant Drummer in Thailand 13 years ago, Suzy and Neil Carmody have crossed the Pacific, and sailed down the West Coast from Alaska to Panama. This year they will transit the Panama Canal to cruise the Caribbean. For more on their adventures and tips on living aboard, visit their blog.

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The Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 319 had me at hello. Well, more accurately, it won me over soon after we’d hoisted sail last October off Annapolis, Maryland, during our Boat of the Year sea trials in a gusty 15- to 20-knot northerly on Chesapeake Bay. With a couple of reefs in the mainsail and a turn or two on the 85 percent self-tacking furling jib, the 32-footer put on a peppy display of get-up-and-go, easily knocking off a solid 6 knots hard on the wind. The 319 has a single wheel (a Lewmar number that folds inward when dockside to open up the cockpit) but twin rudders, and the helm was buttery smooth yet totally precise. What a joy it is to drive an extremely capable, compact little sloop in a fresh breeze.

Created by Jeanneau’s in-house design team and built in Poland at a new facility for the company, the 319 is a model of simplicity. That said, there are options galore, and you can really trick the boat out to your own liking depending on where and how you sail. For example, our test boat was equipped with an in-mast furling main, a swing keel and the aforementioned blade headsail. But you can also get one with a traditional stack-pack main, a fixed keel, an overlapping 110 percent jib and a dedicated, fixed ­bowsprit off which can be flown code-zero-style reaching sails. That’s a lot of choices!

RELATED: Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 410: Best Midsize Cruiser Over 38 Feet

“In recent years, we’ve watched a lot of production and semicustom builders go up and up in size,” said BOTY judge Tim Murphy. “I think they’ve been addressing the rising age and wealth of the sailors who buy their boats. One of the goals of this boat was to bring younger sailors into the market. But the Jeanneau representatives said they were surprised to find that there were also other longtime ­sailors, older sailors, downsizing to this boat. And I think that makes perfect sense.”

Down below, there is only one layout available, but it’s a fine, time-tested one (although the interior space will be slightly altered and opened up if you go with the fixed keel instead of the swing version, the trunk of which is ­incorporated into the central dining table). There are two double cabins in the opposite ends of the boat, with a particularly roomy berth aft to starboard. Given the size of the boat, an impressively large head is opposite, to port. A good-size galley and a real navigation desk are flanked to either side of the companionway, and just forward of those features is a pair of long settees with the folding dining table ­sandwiched between them.

It’s funny, you step aboard a lot of boats a good 10 feet longer and are hard-pressed to find a decent sea berth on any of them, but on the 319, there are three good ones (make that four if you don’t mind sleeping in the bow). And while you probably don’t want to take six folks on a cruise of any duration on the boat, you certainly can.

The team at Jeanneau is having a very good year, having earned multiple prizes in the 2019 BOTY contest (see “Hail to the Chiefs,” January/February 2019). Of their three new models, the 319 — the only one not honored — sort of slid under the radar. But perhaps that was an oversight. This is a neat little yacht, clearly envisioned and ­assembled by sailors who love sailing and kicking around on boats. It’s hard to lavish any more praise than that.

Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

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There are certain matters in life that are just sure things, where you go in realizing that professionals are involved and you’re in good hands. You walk into a theater for a Meryl Streep film, and you know the acting’s covered. You board a Qantas flight understanding there is zero chance it will fall from the skies. You cut into a steak at a Ruth’s Chris knowing that it is about to melt in your mouth. If only everything was this way.

In sailing, thankfully, there are lots of givens: Harken hardware, Edson steering, Raymarine electronics, LeisureFurl in-boom furling mainsails. Boats equipped with these brands have those items all figured out. And here’s one more nautical surety, as reliable as the sun rising in the east: When you step aboard a yacht designed by seasoned naval architect Tim Jackett, you do so with the realization that it’s been extremely well thought out, that there has been a reassuring attention to detail, that it will sail like a bloody witch, that it will do precisely what it was created to do.

Which brings us to the latest ­example of Jackett’s vision, the Tartan 395 (which, not coincidentally, is fitted out with all the gear previously mentioned).

Like many American builders, Tartan Yachts, which is based in Ohio, has had its share of ups and downs in recent times. But Jackett is now one of the principal owners, and judging from the introduction of its new 39-footer at last fall’s U.S. Sailboat Show in Annapolis, Maryland, the company has again found its footing.

As Boat of the Year judge Tim Murphy said after inspecting the yacht, “It’s really nice to see Tartan back again. This is an interesting boat. It really brings together some nice elements of craftsmanship. You step below, and the big deck cowls are bringing lots of good air through there, and it’s just very comfortable. And you sit down in the cabin with that light maple finish (cherry and teak are also available), and it just looks and feels good. You feel like some real craftsmen have put this interior together.”

One thing Jackett is loath to do is fix things that aren’t broken, and so the 395 boasts features that have proved tried and true on previous appealing designs. Chief among these is Tartan’s elegant and versatile CCR (cruise control rig) sail plan, composed of double headsails (a self-tacking jib on an inner stay, a code zero reacher on the outer), set off a light double-spreader carbon-fiber spar. This configuration is an effective, efficient way to shift gears quickly depending on changes in the breeze or on the point of sail.

Nor has Jackett fussed much with the lines of the boat; it has a handsome, traditional-looking profile, with a very gentle sheer line, a relatively long coachroof, and stout coamings framing a deep and cozy ­cockpit. If your taste slants more toward slab-sided, expansive Euro topsides and contemporary razor-sharp hull chines, look elsewhere. This right here is a homegrown product of ’Merica, son.

It’s also a well-constructed one. Several generations of Tartans have now been built in an infusion process employing modified epoxy resin (not polyester like so many of its competitors) in a laminate that is sandwiched around closed-cell foam coring in the hull and balsa core in the deck. Tartan eschews the iron ballast many builders use in favor of good old lead (there are three underbodies available, including an optional deep fin, the standard “beaver tail” fixed keel or a keel/centerboard). Thanks to the company owning its own autoclave, not only is the rig carbon, but so is the rudderstock. Bottom line? There’s no squelching on materials.

“The anchoring system was beautiful, with polished stainless-steel chain, a stainless-steel anchor and a big, beautiful windlass,” said BOTY judge Alvah Simon. “It’s a good old-fashioned interior layout that just works. The pushpit, pulpit, stanchions, lifelines and gates are all terrific. The deck hardware is of high quality and well-installed. The little things really add up on this boat.”

Moving on, there’s a whole lot happening in the cockpit. In addition to the two pedestals for the twin steering wheels, there’s a third pedestal of sorts just forward of and between the helms, where the engine and lights controls are housed, as well as the Raymarine chart plotter. Built into the transom is a fold-down step to access a modest swim and boarding platform. The idea with the dual wheels and the transom door is to create a natural ergonomic flow from the companionway to the stern, but to be honest, it’s pretty busy terrain.

During our sailing trials, I absolutely loved driving the boat — it sailed great, like all Jackett’s boats, especially when we eased sheets in a nice Chesapeake Bay norther and the boat trucked along at an effortless 7 knots. However, the seats at the wheel seemed low, and I never could get totally comfortable. That said, I quite liked the German-style mainsheet that was ­double-ended port and ­starboard to big winches ­within easy reach of the driver.

Down below, there’s a tidy double cabin aft to starboard; a generous shower stall and head is to port. The forward-facing navigation station and a good-size galley are stationed to port and starboard, respectively, of the companionway. Comfortable settees flank a central dining table in the main saloon; there’s a second double cabin all the way forward. Eight opening ports overhead in the cabin emit plenty of welcoming fresh air. The Tartan 395 is not quite as beamy as the competing boats in its size range in the 2019 BOTY fleet, but resting there and taking in the surroundings, things felt snug and secure. Two words, ultimately, came to mind.

Proper. Yachting.

Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

Tartan 395 Specifications

Tartan Yachts
440-392-2628
tartanyachts.com

Sea Trial

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Inspiration is not always intuitive. The first model in the seventh (and latest) generation of Beneteau’s Oceanis cruising yachts, the new 51.1, owes its distinctive hull form not to the world of luxury sailboats but to an all-carbon, hard-chined rocket ship, the Juan Kouyoumdjian-designed Rambler 88. The result is a distinctive, and I think good-looking, change to a product line that’s now entering its third decade. But while Rambler in race mode is a stripped-out shell that requires a full squad of race-hardened deck apes to sail, the creature comforts abound on the 51.1, from its plumb bow to the push-button fold-down swim-platform transom, and by design, it’s a sailboat that’s meant to be cruised by a couple, with occasional friends and family. Several seasons ago, Beneteau reintroduced chines as a design element, originally in its First line of racer-cruisers, then in several Sense models and more recently in the Oceanis range. The hard-edge look, quickly adopted by a host of other builders, is credited with providing (in varying degrees, depending on whom you talk to) style, form stability and interior volume.

With the 51.1, Beneteau general manager Gianguido Girotti and the designers at Berret Racoupeau have taken the whole chines concept to an extreme — on the 51.1, they literally run from bow to stern — an idea, Girotti says, that came from observing the lines of Rambler, arguably one of the fastest boats in the world.

In theory, carrying the chines the length of the hull allows for a fine entry, decreased wetted surface and greater buoyancy, which translates into a faster and more powerful hull form in the case of Rambler, and not by coincidence, more interior space for luxury living in the 51.1.

This is a big boat. The cockpit is the equivalent of what you might find on a 55-footer, says Girotti, and down below, well, just take note that in the forward cabin, besides the separate head and shower compartments and a pair of hanging lockers, the island queen berth has room to walk on either side of it and port and starboard nightstands and couches too!

Stepping aboard to have a look, the first question that came to mind was “How will this boat sail?” It turns out the 51.1 moves along quite well.

In a little more than 10 knots of breeze, the speed on the GPS read 7.4 knots upwind under main and 90 percent self-tacking jib. And it held that pace when we bore off to a reach and rolled out a code zero set on the boat’s composite bowsprit.

“Twin rudder, spins quite fast,” I jotted in my notes as I tacked the boat back and forth a couple of times without lifting even a finger to adjust either the main or jib sheets, both of which were led to winches near the twin wheels.

If I had to gripe about something, it would be the full bimini that covered the cockpit and made it difficult to see the sails, particularly the main. There’s an obvious solution, of course, which would be just to take it down.

The 51.1 comes standard with in-mast furling, the aforementioned self-tacking headsail and a 7-foot-7-inch iron keel. From there, there are options for a 105 percent genoa, code zero, asymmetric spinnaker, shoal keel (6 feet 1 inch) or a Performance package that adds about 5 feet to the standard 70-foot-1-inch mast and includes a deep iron keel (9 feet 2 inches) with a lead bulb.

Beneteau vacuum-­infuses its hulls, which, like the decks, are balsa-cored. A layer of vinylester resin protects the hull from blistering. The boat can be ordered either with a German-style ­double-ended mainsheet system, as on the boat we sailed, or with a cockpit arch on which blocks for the mainsheet are mounted. I’d opt for the former, which gives you better control over sail shape.

For the record, a base boat sells for right around $600,000, but a long list of options — including up to five cabins and three heads, not to mention finishes, fabrics, teak decking, air conditioning and Dock & Go rotating saildrive package — can add considerably to the bill. The boat we sailed carried a price tag of $630,000. It was powered with the optional 110 hp Yanmar, with shaft drive. An 80 hp Yanmar and saildrive are standard.

Wide side decks on the 51.1 are appreciated when moving about. Lower stays are brought inside to the cabin top and outers attach to the hull, which means you don’t have to wiggle around either when heading forward. In the cockpit, there are large cushioned lounging areas to either side of the companionway that would make fine berths with the dodger up at night, or sun beds with it down during the day. I found the cockpit seats to be quite comfortable thanks to the cushioned coamings. They flank a sizable drop-leaf table that has a fridge beneath it forward and room for a life raft in a compartment aft.

Like other recent Beneteaus, the companionway below is more like a staircase, with good handrails to either side. The boat we sailed was fitted with two aft cabins, each with hanging lockers and their own head and shower.

A well-equipped galley is forward to port, followed by what the builder calls the “owners area” — essentially a combination nav station and desk with an interesting seat that morphs into an athwartships recliner. Opposite all of this is a gigantic table surrounded by U-shaped seating that, all told, will seat 14.

The boat shown last fall at the U.S. Sailboat Show in Annapolis, Maryland, had brushed-oak woodwork offset by white fabric-covered panels. Ports in the hull and cabin top let in loads of light, and overhead hatches promised good ventilation in the owners cabin and saloon.

Abovedecks and below, the 51.1 offers multiple spaces for enjoying days and nights on the water, which is right in line with all the other models in the time-tested Oceanis range.

Specifications
Beneteau 51.1

Beneteau
410-990-0270
beneteau.com

Sea Trial

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Graced with white-sand beaches, swaying palms and shallow waters teeming with wildlife, Isla Saona would seem the perfect waypoint for a cruising catamaran — say, for instance, Fountaine Pajot’s new midsize model, which actually bears the same name as the popular destination that lies off the southeast tip of the Dominican Republic.

The Saona 47 was introduced last spring during the international multihull show in La Grande-Motte, France, and it completes the makeover of the Fountaine Pajot sailboat range that includes models from 40 to 67 feet, all named for exotic, sailor-inspiring landfalls. Like its siblings, the Saona was developed by Berret-­Racoupeau Yacht Design and FP’s in-house engineers, with interior styling by Isabelle Racoupeau. As a result, a distinctive look and feel — reverse sheer, flared-out hulls, stylish cabin top, and modern finish throughout — flow from one boat to the next.

Stepping aboard the Saona during the show, I was immediately taken with the light pouring into the saloon through wraparound windows, long overhead skylights and sliding glass panels that open onto the cockpit to bring the outdoors in. Later, under sail, I was equally impressed by the ease with which I could move around the boat, from transom to bow, up the three steps from the cockpit to the raised helm station to starboard, and up another three stairs to the lounging area atop the bimini, to port of the centerline. Better yet, the designers found a sensible way to provide headroom under the boom (63 inches) for those enjoying the view perched on the topside couch and sun cushions while keeping the gooseneck on the mast just 37 inches off the cabin top, so opening and closing the mainsail’s boom pouch doesn’t require the acrobatics needed on a lot of other cats.

On the day of our test sail, the breeze was light. Still, the Saona clicked along at 5.4 knots closehauled in about 7 to 8 knots of wind. The cat felt quite agile and the helm felt responsive for a boat that carries more than 25 feet of beam. As the breeze perked up to 11 or so knots and we fell off to a reach, the speedo jumped to 7.6 knots. For chartering, the Incidence main and slightly overlapping genoa (set on a Facnor roller furler) should provide ample horsepower for hopping along from anchorage to anchorage. For cruising, I’d definitely add a downwind sail to the mix and take advantage of the boat’s sprit.

The helm station, which can also be entered at deck level, is similar to the arrangement FP employs on the Helia 44 Evolution. The helmsman sits on a three-person bench, with the wheel and engine controls mounted just forward on a pedestal. There is a pass-through between the pedestal and the cabin top, where three winches (one’s electric to handle the halyard) and line-handling clutches are mounted. This lets the crew assist with sail trim but requires the skipper to step forward to reach the sheets — a maneuver I found easy enough to do without bothering to engage the autopilot, for minor adjustments at least.

Saonas are built in two configurations: a three-cabin Maestro private-owners model and a five-cabin charter layout.

In charter mode, the starboard hull has a fore-and-aft double bunk in the aft cabin and an athwartship berth forward, with en-suite heads and showers between. There is a single crew cabin in the bow. To port, a single-bunk cabin sits amidships, between two double cabins, all with athwartship berths and en-suite heads. The Maestro layout features an owners suite that takes up the entire port hull, with a double berth aft, desk and cabinetry amidships, and a head with a distinctive shower arrangement forward that’s set off from the toilet, sink and vanity by a fore-and-aft wall of glass. The starboard hull is laid out the same as for charter.

Topside, living takes place on a single level. There’s a forward-­facing couch across the transom, with a grill and cutting board at its starboard end. The teak dining table and seating for eight are to port; to starboard there’s a fridge and lounge chair built in under the helm seat, with storage space also available for a life raft. Hatches in the bimini open to draw in the breeze.

When sailing, an RIB can be stored on a teak-grated swim platform that’s raised and lowered hydraulically between the hulls.

Stepping into the saloon, the L-shaped galley has sinks and a counter aft, with two fridges under, and a corner-mounted convection oven and countertop range along the port side. Forward of the companionway, there’s a nav station with plenty of room for charts and excellent visibility for standing watch while protected from the elements.

An island counter amidships provides additional space to work or entertain. In the starboard forward corner of the saloon, a coffee table is surrounded by couches that would be my choice for a perch to catnap when off watch. The interior of the boat we sailed had gray countertops and upholstery that blended well with the light-oak woodwork and white fiberglass panels. Other options for both colors and woodwork are available.

FP infuses its foam-cored hulls and decks to control weight and add strength. Bulkheads are glued and glassed to the hulls. The bimini is also an infused-and-cored composite sandwich. The boat I visited was powered by a pair of 50 hp Volvos with saildrives (40 hp engines are standard) and had a Cummins Onan generator as an additional power source. The price for the Maestro version at the time of the show was $570,000; add another $12,000 for the charter model.

The Saona offers good visibility from the helm, multiple places to chat with friends or relax in the sun, comfortable accommodations and a clean and bright interior. I liked it, and I thought that if it were in the cards, it would make a fine craft on which to visit its tropical namesake.

Specifications:

Fountaine Pajot
+33 546 357 040
www.fountaine-pajot.com

Mark Pillsbury is CW’s editor.

The post Fountaine Pajot Saona 47 appeared first on Cruising World.

As with other members of the Groupe Beneteau family, Jeanneau became one of the largest builders of production sailboats in the world by designing fine-sailing boats that appeal to a wide audience of sailors. At the top end of its Sun Odyssey line, the 519, for instance, can be ordered with three to five cabins, two to four heads, multiple styles of woods and fabrics, and even an in-line or aft galley, all of which fit within the same hull and deck. Depending on the layout below, the boat appeals to families, groups of friends, racers, cruisers and those looking for a waterfront home, or it can even go into business as a charter boat.

But the French builder took a different tack with its recently launched Jeanneau 51, a boat of about the same size, and the newest and smallest boat in the company’s Yachts range, which includes siblings up to 64 feet. By design, the 51 isn’t for everyone. First and foremost, it’s a couples boat, intended for owners who are ready to spend considerable time aboard, both at anchor and under sail, often alone, though with guests joining them from time to time.

In practice, that translates into a boat that can be easily sailed by a shorthanded crew, with multiple sail-plan options, upscale accommodations below for a couple of couples, and loads of storage space for gear, grub and toys.

Jeanneau introduced the boat to North America last winter at a splendid beach party in downtown Miami during the International Boat Show. The 51 sat anchored just offshore, literally in the spotlight. She looked elegant — and just a bit sporty — with a plumb bow, gracefully arching cabin top, dark-tinted ports and hard chines. In other words, the 51 fit the Yachts range to a T.

All Jeanneau Yachts have been designed by Philippe Briand, with interiors by Andrew Winch, and they share elements such as the “terrace,” where the aft deck between the twin wheels lifts and folds down with the swim platform to create a waterside space, complete with cushions, for lounging by the swim ladder.

Because so much time is spent in the cockpit, a lot of attention was paid to its layout. Forward of the twin wheels, there’s a substantial cockpit table, the aft end of which contains a locker for a life raft. It has teak drop leaves on either side, and there’s a well at its forward end for either storage or a cockpit fridge.

Winches usually found on the cabin top for halyards and reef lines have been moved to either coaming. That’s allowed the designers to put cushioned lounges to either side of the companionway. With the dodger down, they make swell sunbathing spots; with it up, they’re protected from wind and spray, and would be a fine place to relax while on watch or to keep the skipper company.

One more word about the cockpit before we move below: The double-ended mainsheet and jib sheets are led under the deck on either side to stoppers and a winch just forward of each wheel. This setup keeps the clutter of lines from invading those relaxing, and puts them right at the helmsman’s fingertips, where they belong.

Below, the standard boat, which is what I saw and sailed in Miami, has the owners cabin forward. A pair of overhead opening hatches let the air pour in, while ports in the hull let light do the same. This cabin is large enough to want to spend time in. Nightstands and benches flank a queen-size berth, with two large drawers beneath for storage. There’s more room to stash things in lockers that run fore and aft overhead along the cabin sides, plus a large hanging locker to port as you enter from the saloon. The cabin door is offset to port, which makes room for a large head and separate shower compartment to starboard.

The company calls the guest accommodations aft a VIP cabin. It’s to port of the companionway and has a square queen-size berth that extends to the boat’s centerline. There is impressive headroom over the berth for a boat this size, and the cabin offers plenty of storage space, should the visit be a long one.

There is an option for a smaller, third cabin to starboard, but in the standard layout, this space is a large workshop/storage area that can also be accessed from the cockpit. This could also be fitted out with a single bunk for a captain. Just forward is a utility room, where additional refrigeration or a washer/dryer can be located, or it could be fitted out as a day head.

I found the saloon, with its four opening overhead hatches, port lights in the hull and cabin windows, to be a lovely place to hang out, both at the dock and underway. To port, there’s a full-size, front-facing nav station at the foot of the companionway and a comfortable couch forward. Opposite, the U-shaped dining table is intended to seat six (as is the cockpit table). The galley, with loads of counter space, drawers and cupboards, is just aft, and has the cooking and refrigeration equipment you’d need for living aboard.

The boat I sailed had the standard in-mast furling main and 110 percent genoa, stored on a Facnor furler. There is a fitting on the double anchor roller for downwind sails, and an optional track is available by the mast for a self-tending jib, as well as a provision for adding a removable inner forestay, if one’s desired. This gives an owner many sail choices, depending on conditions.

The 51’s hull is hand-laid solid glass; the deck is resin-infused with a balsa core; high-density plywood is used where hardware is mounted. Keels are cast iron and available in deep (7-foot-5-inch) and shallow (5-foot-8-inch) configurations.

Our test boat had the optional 110-horsepower Yanmar engine with shaft drive. With the throttle down (3,200 rpm), we had plenty of power and cruised at better than 8 knots in a light chop; the boat comes standard with an 80-horsepower Yanmar and saildrive.

But really, the boat was meant to sail. In 10 to 12 knots, with the sails sheeted tight, the 51 heeled onto its chines and scooted along at 7 knots. Off the wind, the speedo dropped maybe a half a knot, hinting that a code zero on a flexible furler would be a sensible investment.

As is often the case with a range of boats that vary in size by just a few feet each, it’s tempting to pick a favorite. I’ve sailed on both the 58 and the 54, and if I were putting my own money down (in this case around $525,000 for a well-equipped model; the base boat’s $405,000), it would be on the 51. To my eye, all the pieces fit as they should. Below, it feels roomy; at the helm, manageable; and under sail, well, it was one sweet ride.

Specifications

LOA: 50’5″ (15.37 m)
LWL: 45’9″ (13.94 m)
Beam: 15’5″ (4.70 m)
Draft: 7’5″/5’8″ (2.26/1.73 m)
Sail Area: 1,163 sq. ft. (108 sq. m)
Ballast: 9,480 lb. (4,300 kg)
Displacement: 31,747 lb. (14,400 kg)
Ballast/Displacement: 0.30
Displacement/Length: 148
Sail Area/Displacement: 18.6
Water: 169 gal. (640 l)
Fuel: 63 gal. (238 l)
Holding: 27 gal. (87 l)
Mast Height: 72′ (21.95 m)
Engine: 80 hp Yanmar
Designer: Philippe Briand/Andrew Winch
Price: $525,000

Jeanneau
410-280-9400
www.jeanneau.com

Mark Pillsbury is CW’s editor.

The post Jeanneau 51 appeared first on Cruising World.

As far as test sails stack up, a ride on Elan Yachts’ new GT5 late one sunny morning this past spring proved memorable. First and foremost, of course, was the boat. The GT5 — GT stands for Grand Turismo — is the first in a new Rob Humphreys-designed range that melds the Slovenian builder’s race-tested performance hulls with all the creature comforts and space that a deck-saloon cruising layout can afford.

With twin wheels and rudders, and a sporty T-shaped keel that carries the weight where you need it most — down deep — the boat handled like a sports car on mountain roads. We started the day in relatively calm conditions. Still, in about 7 knots of breeze, we sailed upwind at 5 knots, and gained another couple on the speedo as the wind built to about 12 knots.

The venue for our sail was remarkable as well. On starboard tack, Croatia lay dead ahead; coming about to port, we could have easily reached Trieste, Italy, in time for a late lunch. Though Slovenians claim 26 or so miles of twisting coastline, either neighbor is just a short but lovely straight-line sail away.

Speaking of mountain roads, we began our day with a tour of Elan’s sprawling yard, nestled tight against the snow-covered Alps in the small rural town of Begunje na Gorenjskem. From there, we jumped in a car and drove a couple of hours to the Adriatic coast and Marina Portoroz, where the GT5 sat stern-to at the end of a busy dock, one of several located inside an impressive stone breakwater.

Our host, Matic Klemenc, marketing manager for Elan Yachts, nimbly leapt across the couple of feet of open water between quay and transom to lower (thankfully) the boat’s teak-covered swim platform so a colleague and I could easily step aboard. Our path led us between twin wheels aft, where all the sailhandling takes place, and forward into the main portion of the cockpit, where drop-leaf tables to either side kept the centerline free and open.

As Klemenc got the boat ready for departure, I took a tour below.

The four flat companionway steps lacked nonskid but were not steep and were easily negotiated when headed below. Once there, the height of the cabin house that at first blush had looked slightly out of scale from afar, provided an impressive amount of living space, a trade-off I’m willing to accept.

The boat’s natural teak woodwork and white ceiling gleamed in the light that poured in though the deck saloon’s tinted ports. They provide a 180-degree view forward and to the sides.

The 43-foot-3-inch GT5 shares a hull mold (thanks to a bolt-on extension) with Elan’s 39-foot-2-inch S5 and E5 models, both performance-­oriented sailboats. These hulls feature a plumb bow, fine entry and beam that flares amidships and is carried aft on pronounced hard chines that deliver stability and interior volume. To make the most of the space below, the team at Humphreys Yacht Design inverted the traditional saloon layout to position the galley forward against the main bulkhead. The result is entertaining and living space that takes full advantage of the boat’s 12-foot-8-inch beam.

The GT5’s interior comes in four layouts, with two or three cabins and one or two heads. The boat we sailed was, I thought, quite functional for a couple with occasional guests. In the visitors cabin, to port and aft of the companionway, a sprawling berth stretched inboard, over the engine compartment. To starboard of the stairs was the sole head and shower, with access to an enormous locker under the starboard cockpit settee. In the V-berth, the owners accommodations included a queen-size centerline berth with settees aft and to either side, followed by a pair of large hanging lockers.

A third guest cabin could replace the storage locker aft, and owners could give up the port locker and settee forward if they desired a private en suite head and shower.

Just aft of the main bulkhead sat the galley, where a cook could whip up meals and still be in on the action. There was a two-burner gimbaled Eno stove and oven to port, and nearby, with the flip of a switch, a microwave oven rose from an opening in the countertop. A large single sink and refrigeration was to starboard.

Moving aft, the dining table with a folding leaf and L-shaped settee occupied the port side of the saloon; a shorter settee with a nav station at its forward end sat opposite. With the table’s leaf folded closed, its support amidships provided an excellent and rugged handhold — a nice touch. For relaxing, or to accommodate guests, the table dropped to create another large berth. Numerous overhead hatches and side ports opened to let the breeze blow through.

More lounging space was available topside thanks to leaves on both cockpit tables that drop and open to turn the adjacent benches into sun beds. The cockpit itself was laid out with a shorthanded crew in mind. Sail control lines — sheets for the 107 percent genoa and conventional main included — were led under the deck to a pair of winches at each wheel (for the record, the helms were silky smooth thanks to Jefa steering). I found it easy to move from side to side and tack the boat myself. Though the cockpit coamings were tall, providing good back support, they were easy to step over when going forward.

A belowdecks furler kept the pointy end clean of clutter, and its drum appeared to be easily reachable in the deep anchor locker. The boat we tested came with an optional combination anchor roller and composite bowsprit for off-the-wind sails. The boat also carried a windlass, all items that most cruisers would want. Other possible options of interest to long-range sailors include increased tankage for water (from 66 to 140 gallons); fuel (50 to 124 gallons); and choice of engines: either a 40-horsepower Volvo or 45-horsepower Yanmar are standard, with upgrades to 50 and 57 horsepower, respectively. The boat I sailed had the 50-horsepower Volvo.

Elan infuses all of its hulls using multidirectional fiberglass, closed-cell foam core and vinylester resin. The GT5’s main bulkhead was also infused and laminated in place, as was the composite grid that carries rig, keel and engine loads.

All-in-all, I thought the GT5 delivered a lot of little luxuries for a boat that, relatively well equipped, you could sail away for about $350,000 here in the States (base price, delivered to the U.S., is $294,774). With the company actively building out its North American dealer network, and considering its many years of collaboration with Rob Humphreys, the new flagship from Elan is certainly worth a look if you’re in the market for a cruising boat that promises some get-up-and-go.

Specifications

LENGTH OVERALL: 43’3″ (13.18 m)
WATERLINE LENGTH: 40’6″ (12.34 m)
BEAM: 12’8″ (4.41 m)
DRAFT (STANDARD/SHOAL): 8’0″/6’5″ (2.45/1.96 m)
SAIL AREA (100%): 847 sq. ft. (78.7 sq. m)
BALLAST: 5,900 lb. (2,676 kg)
DISPLACEMENT: 17,800 lb. (8,074 kg)
BALLAST/DISPLACEMENT: 0.33
DISPLACEMENT/LENGTH: 120
SAIL AREA/DISPLACEMENT: 19.9
WATER: 66 gal. (250 l)
FUEL: 50 gal. (189 l)
HOLDING: 18 gal. per head (68 l)
MAST HEIGHT: 60’3″ (18.36 m)
ENGINE: 40 hp Volvo, 45 hp Yanmar
DESIGNER: Humphreys Yacht Design
PRICE: $294,774

Elan Yachts
+386-4-53-51-109
elan-yachts.com

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Mark Pillsbury is CW’s editor.

The post Elan GT5 appeared first on Cruising World.

Several years ago, in a bid to expand both its product line and its participation in the charter field, the German builder Bavaria, known well for its monohulls, took the bold step of acquiring the French builder Nautitech, whose specialty was catamarans. To date, the collaboration has produced a trio of cats: a 40-footer, a 54-footer and its latest offering, the Bavaria Nautitech 46 Fly, the last word signifying “flybridge” (the company also builds a model with conventional steering in the cockpit, the Nautitech 46 Open). It’s a boat that’s capable of stirring your imagination toward thoughts of distant shores.

Not surprisingly, the centerpiece of the design is that flybridge, a feature that’s becoming ever more popular on cruising cats. Frankly, on some boats it can look clunky or odd. But on this 46-footer, designer Marc Lombard has performed a magic trick of sorts; the flybridge is incorporated into the prominent coachroof, the forward part of which has an eyebrow over the generous saloon windows while the aft section provides seating topside and a hardtop bimini over the wide-open cockpit, offering ample shade and covering. It all makes for a streamlined appearance. So, visually, the only thing that looks somewhat out of place is the gooseneck for the mainsail boom, which is well above the waterline. That’s a trade-off the builder was willing to make in exchange for a commanding helm station that has plenty of lounging space as well.

The flybridge is accessed through a five-step staircase. The wheel is offset slightly to port. The helmsman’s seat has a movable backrest that can be flipped one way or the other when underway or at anchor. There’s another raised backrest on a U-shaped settee bordering the flybridge that can be lifted like a chaise lounge. All in all, there must be comfortable seating for upward of 20 people. It’s remarkable.

Most lines are led to the helm station, with a suite of Lewmar winches and accompanying Spinlock clutches. Unusually, the genoa sheets are not led to the wheel but to a set of primary winches on either side of the cockpit, which would make singlehanding difficult. A small hard dodger for sun protection for the driver is also available.

Down below, when open, a big sliding door marries the saloon with the cockpit, which can be completely enclosed with a series of clear, drop-down plastic screens or windows. LED lights built into the overhead bimini are a nice touch. There’s a fine L-shaped settee to port, another long settee to starboard and a third at the aft end of the cockpit. Engine access, under molded steps in each hull, is excellent.

In the saloon itself, to port, there’s a standing navigation station that doubles as the furniture covering the refrigerator and freezer. The U-shaped galley is forward and also to port, with plenty of counter space and a pair of sinks. A well-­executed L-shaped settee and dining area are to starboard. Plenty of natural light pours in through the wraparound coachroof windows. We tested one of the charter versions of the boat, which meant four staterooms down below, with a pair in each hull, and en suite heads for each. (A private-ownership version features a large owners stateroom that encapsulates the entire port hull.) In the charter model, the cabins share a big common shower stall that’s situated between them (though there are also showers in the heads). Once again, with LED lights built into the overhead, there’s a warm feeling of light and spaciousness below.

Back on deck, the forward trampolines have cushion inserts for yet another place to lie in the sun. There are double headsails with a fixed sprit for a code zero sail or an asymmetric kite, and a traditional genoa on its own furler. The boat we sailed also included a Cummins generator, full air conditioning throughout and electric winches.

The Boat of the Year judges found lots to like about the 46 Fly. “I was impressed by the joinery, the lovely teak grates and the nicely done interior,” said Carol Hasse. “I liked what they had done to appeal to the U.S. market, with the larger AC units and a lot of the systems they put in,” added Ed Sherman.

Unfortunately, we were skunked for breeze on Chesapeake Bay on the day of our scheduled test sail, though the boat did perform well under power, topping 9 knots at 2,600 rpm. We were left with the impression that the hulls of the boat were slippery and she’d sail well too. With such spacious accommodations and smart accoutrements, for anyone in the market for a versatile cat, here’s one well worth a look.

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Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

The post Bavaria Nautitech 46 Fly appeared first on Cruising World.