Caribbean

Windward Islands

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

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Leeward Islands

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

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Lesser Antilles

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

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Cuba

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

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USA, Canada and Atlantic

Bahamas

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

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Intracoastal Waterway

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

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Southern New England

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

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The Great Lakes

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

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Bermuda

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

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Nova Scotia

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

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Europe

Greece Isles

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

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South Pacific

Fiji

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

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Marquesas

Smack dab in the middle of the South Pacific, the remote and untamed Marquesas are an unforgettable sailing stop – if you can get there. The topography of these young islands ­reflects the dawn of time; the exquisite drama of the islands’ violent, volcanic origins has not yet been smoothed and worn, with towering peaks rising above anchorages.

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Tasmania

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

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Whitsunday Islands

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

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Southeast Asia

Phang Nga Bay

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

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Africa

Cape Town

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

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Madagascar

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

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South America

Chile

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

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Antarctica

Antarctica

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

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

When we cruised into Banjul—the dusty, bustling capital city of Gambia, on the western coast of Africa—the customs agent knew exactly what he wanted.

“The office has run out of coffee, and the team doesn’t have enough money to buy any—ahem, ahem,” he said as we tried to clear in. 

My first thought was that he at least had different taste in palm-greasing than the port captain, who was required to view our onboard stores but didn’t think he’d have the time if we bought him a Coke. At immigration, it was a $5 “donation” they needed from us to help the department buy its own boat. 

Yes, this was our welcome after deciding to trade cruising amid coconut trees and tropical fish for cruising up a muddy river full of hippos and crocodiles. As we ventured onward, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. 

I’d first heard about Gambia from a German couple cruising in the Canary Islands. I’m a cruiser who likes to explore, and the more culturally diverse the places are, the better. Gambia receives just a handful of yachts each year, making it about as off-the-beaten-course as a destination can get. And so, we added it to our itinerary as a stopover destination between the Canaries and the Caribbean. We at least knew it would be different.

I’d had visions of sailing slowly up the Gambia River with the tide. When we got there, though, I had to learn to temper my expectations. This is no wide, Amazon-type river; there isn’t the distance between banks to make sailing practical. You need to tack as soon as you complete your tack, and continue running sails from port to starboard until you concede defeat and turn on the engine. We did sail, a little, but only when the wind was directly behind us and the tide was running with us. 

We also encountered the Gambia Bridge, which cruising boats can get under with masts up to about 55 feet tall, but that’s it. This bridge serves as a barrier to some vessels from exploring the upper reaches of the river—and a trip to Gambia is all about those upper reaches. We ended up with only a foot of clearance from the VHF radio aerial in an intense moment when I had to make the call whether or not to proceed. 

Other factors became evident once we were safely (whew!) on the other side of the bridge. The wider river turns into smaller creeks, offering secret hideouts to tuck into. The options aren’t always obvious because a creek’s entrance can get shallow before the water becomes deep again. With our draft of more than 7 feet, we often drew a line in the mud with our keel on our way into a creek. We’d then find ourselves nestled up tight amid the reeds. And we had to drop anchor directly in the creek’s center so as not to bump the mangroves on either side. 

We also learned about who else lives along these small creeks: moths that love anchor lights at night, and vicious mosquitoes whose itchy bites last for days. Fortunately, we had a three-tier netting system: netting around the cockpit for the worst of times, netting for the hatches and companionway as standard use, and netting above the beds in case barriers one and two were breached. There wasn’t a night we weren’t thankful for the sanctity of our impenetrable fortress.

What’s missing from this river is consumable water. The river is muddy all the way up its reaches, so using a watermaker is ill-advised unless you have a bilge full of filters. We filled our 370-gallon tank with water from the community well before departure, and used water sparingly. We washed our bodies, clothes and dishes in river water, and used our tank water exclusively for drinking and cooking. This meant scenic deck showers in the early evenings, a hose dragged through the cockpit to fill the sink, and white-turned-brown clothes pegged on the rail to dry.

Food is also sparse outside the larger towns, and transport is difficult. If you aren’t up for a long and dusty walk, then your choices are a hot minivan or a rickety donkey cart. The cart is preferable because a limited number of bodies can fit atop it, though witnessing people being bumped off means your safety is not guaranteed. To me, it still beat being trapped inside a nine-person minivan with 30 other people along hot, dusty roads for the four hours it takes to move 12 miles. We’d get back to the boat in darkness, all for a sack of onions and potatoes. 

What makes all of this worth it is the solitude and seclusion in Gambia. You can spend weeks up a creek hidden from the world, with only birdsong to remind you that other life exists. Villages are welcoming, but there’s no cruising community.

Another big difference is that as a longtime cruiser, I am used to the ripple of wind across water, the constant roll over gentle waves, and the swell of the ocean as if it breathes. It has been a long time since I’ve looked out over water that has no movement, no heartbeat, no breath. Yet, a muddy river can be full of vibrant color: blue, green, red, white, black. The water captures the life that surrounds it and tosses it back, with the sky, forest, sun, moon and people in beautiful, perfect reflections. 

These river views dominate the country. Gambia stretches 350 miles from west to east, and the river runs the entire distance. The river is the country, as are the animals that depend on it. I was told that I’d see hippos and crocodiles; what I didn’t appreciate was that this was guaranteed. Trampled reeds and river access holes through the bush mark every creek. 

On Christmas Eve, we took chimes up on deck in the evening to convince the kids that they’d heard Santa’s sleigh. A cute idea, until a hippo’s bellow drowned out the chimes. And instead of something that looked like Rudolph, a crocodile crashed through the reeds into the water about 15 feet from our anchor. 

On New Year’s Eve, we sat in our tender watching crocs laze on muddy shores and hippos cool down in the shallows as men laid out their fishing nets. We also sat in our dinghy in the national park, watching a family of chimpanzees size us up from a tree overhanging the water only yards away. Dolphins were a pleasant surprise. 

This is what it means to be surrounded by silence and nature. The magic of chance encounters with animals are entirely different than those typically seen by yacht. 

As for the welcoming villages, they are everywhere. Invitations to visit are readily made by waving hands on the shoreside. If you aren’t drawn in by their visual signs of welcome, the people will paddle out in a pirogue—a long, narrow canoe made from a tree trunk—to deliver greetings in person. The children are gregarious and inquisitive, as children tend to be, but adults also extend a warm welcome. It helps that English is widely spoken. 

Yes, these are developing-world locations, but I experienced little of the “give me” attitude we’ve encountered elsewhere. If anything, the handouts came the other way. I had more meals made for me, was asked to drink more tea, and was gifted more fish and vegetables than in any country I’ve cruised. Even the wood-carving peddler offered two additional carvings as gifts for the kids after I bought one small bowl. The batik artist gave my daughter a dress even though I didn’t purchase anything. Self-selected guides would offer to walk with us, making introductions along the way. It was fantastic to have an ambassador who helped us to experience a deeper layer of the community. 

In one village, we were invited to join in a Christian ceremony, where we followed a man around town who was wearing a horned headdress and gourd-covered back. He represented the evil spirit of an animal that the community chased after to scare it away. I’m not sure what part of Christianity was being referenced, but in a predominately Muslim community, I don’t think that was what mattered. That the fruit bloomed and the vegetable gardens were safe was of much more practical concern. 

We were also invited to join a family in the naming ceremony of their newborn son. The day prior, we undertook the minibus journey to town to source fabric, track down a seamstress, and have a ceremonial outfit made. The next day, we were invited into the house to watch the 7-day-old’s head get shaved before his first appearance to the world. A continuous stream of women walked in with donations of rice because the new mother would be taking some time away from the fields. The community elders gathered, chanted and whispered the child’s name into his ear. There were prayers for his health and welfare, and then the name the elders selected was announced. The men and women sang and prayed as separate groups, followed by a shared bowl of sweet ground rice and betel nut. A shared lunch followed.

Again and again, I saw the passing of small change between hands, slipped over on a handshake. This way of interacting is taught from an early age. Everything is divided and shared. Kids split their half-nibbled cookies and gummi worms. 

In that context, the port entry officials asking for a drink or a couple of dollars suddenly seemed a whole lot different.  

We spent a portion of time at Lamin Lodge, which had fallen into disrepair, but where locals had established a daily communal meal to ensure that everyone was fed. The center of activity was usually under the trees between a bar that, due to the lack of electricity, sold soda from a chilly bin, and a restaurant that, due to the lack of clients, served only instant coffee. The 2 o’clock meal was most frequently served at 5 p.m., with the rice (95 percent), fish (4 percent) and vegetables (1 percent) cooked for several hours over charcoal in a large iron pot. They fry the fish in a gallon of vegetable oil and remove it before adding the veggies, herbs, and spices. Then they remove that and cook the rice in the richly favored oil. Three hours later, the meal is layered on a platter in reverse order and served. 

And let me tell you, the food is delicious. We’d sit in the dirt, eating with our hands from the communal platter with total strangers. It was a daily ritual of camaraderie, and it was hard to pull ourselves away when it was time to leave.

So, yeah, I’ll trade a few rum cocktails for a trip up the Gambia River. I’ll take the motoring in the silent, tranquil creeks. I’ll elbow through a mile of mud to sip tea with a stranger. I’ll battle a billion mosquitoes to hold a hundred little hands in my palm. 

And now, I’m more than happy to buy a Coke for whoever wants one.

Kia Koropp and her husband, John Daubeny, have been cruising the Pacific, Southeast Asia, and the Indian Ocean for the past decade with their two children, ages 7 and 9, aboard the 50-foot Ganley Solution Atea.

The post Destination Gambia: A Lesson Worth Sharing appeared first on Cruising World.

Zanzibar: the very name evokes exotic images of sultans, spices and 18th century explorers. I was traveling in Africa with my brother Dan, and it was time for him to head back to California—but I couldn’t go home without a quick visit to Zanzibar, an archipelago off the coast of Tanzania. I was so close, and I doubted that I would ever sail there aboard my own boat. My guidebook talked about beaches, ­restaurants, hotels and history, but the photos of the traditional sailing craft were what really hooked me—somehow, I was ­going to sail a dhow.

The plane landed in the dark, and I was whisked off to a hotel in the heart of Zanzibar City, a crumbling collection of Arab- and Indian-inspired old buildings that remind one of Old Havana. My driver insisted on escorting me all the way to the hotel office; I later learned that this wasn’t because of crime, but rather that there are no street signs. He assumed (correctly) that I would have gotten hopelessly lost in the night.

The many people I met over the next few days on this mostly Muslim island were poor but kind, and delighted to exchange a few words of simple Swahili or English with a clueless foreigner. Jambo, habari? (hello, how are you?) is a great icebreaker.

For close to a millennium, the dhow was the primary mode of transportation for Zanzibaris, providing vital trade and establishing Zanzibar City as the hub of commerce between mainland Africa and the Middle East. The stout craft are ­constructed of mahogany, teak and ­whatever else is available; are usually ­between 30 and 40 feet long, with a draft of around 3 feet; and have a ­wooden Bimini over a poop deck with a low waist. There is only one small ­marina on the islands, so visiting yachts are rare and usually anchor out. Most of the dhows anchor offshore and back their sterns to the beach to load cargo and passengers.

I arranged a ride through Eco+Culture Tours, a local company that donates a portion of their profits to community-­development initiatives. At the beach the next morning, I was introduced to Capt. Ahmed and his mate, Hafi, who welcomed me aboard Cima, and then they quickly prepared to get underway. Soon the Yamaha fired up, the grapnel was weighed, and we were off.

Once clear of the anchorage, the crew hung the rudder and tiller off the transom, released the ties on the long gaff of the lateen rig, and hit the engine kill switch. We were sailing now! I explained to Ahmed that I’m a sailor from the US, and his eyes lit up. “Would you like to steer the boat?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I thought you’d never ask!” And he gladly handed over the tiller. It was the end of dry season, the winds were blowing gently from the south, and the boat tracked beautifully, cruising along at about 5 knots.

Most dhows carry only life jackets and an outboard engine. There were no modern navigational instruments, electronics or running lights. Sailing was by line of sight, and the bilge was emptied with a bucket. In short, the boat hasn’t changed much in 1,000 years.

We were bound for Changuu, aka Prison Island, once used as a detention center for rebellious slaves and then as a quarantine station for yellow fever. I enjoyed a sublime half-hour at the helm until it was time to bring her into the wind and drop the hook.

After a quick tour of the island, we were back on board for the return trip. The wind had veered, and I learned of the dhow’s primary shortcoming: the keelless boats don’t sail to weather. I asked Ahmed for a primer on tacking. “It’s much work,” he said, then went through an abstract explanation that I had difficulty grasping as he started up the outboard.

All too soon my time was up. Waiting for the airport taxi in Forodhani Gardens I took a last look out at the ­harbor and the timeless dhows drifting back and forth, grateful for my time here in this magical place.

The post Sailing a Dhow in Zanzibar appeared first on Cruising World.

We play a game on Momo, our Mason 43. When we arrive in a new place, we throw out our first impressions before we have time to build up anything else. Before we establish any rhythm or create any lasting feelings. Then, after spending a few months in the place, we compare notes to see how our early impressions have deepened or changed. In Indonesia, our crew of four — my husband, Bernie, daughters Lola and Jana, and me — arrived in the Kai Islands after spending 10 years in the Pacific. We noted our early impressions in the log: “Gentle, active, smiling, loud, curious, welcoming, photo-obsessed, smoking, Islamic.”

Then, after nearly two years in Southeast Asia, we arrived on the other side of the Indian Ocean in what felt like the other side of the world.

“Bustling, colorful, uninhibited, sails, dusty, poor, welcoming, bright, edgy, energetic, red dirt, thrumming, loud,” I wrote in the log when we arrived in Madagascar.

Even before we arrived, we could smell Madagascar from offshore: the hint of burning wood and grass, something green, something else faintly sickening and almost sweet. Something mysterious, something ancient — but new to us. We snapped photos of our colorful first impressions: dancing women and children, drumming men and boys. Embroidered tablecloths and post-colonial police stations. Friendly lemurs that reminded us of Madagascar, the animated movie, and curious chameleons. Ebony zebu herded along dusty red roads. Silvery fish drying in the subtropical sun. Fishing kids and sailing skiffs.

But there was more to Madagascar, more than we’d understand even if we stayed on a while.

Just east of Mozambique, Madagascar is the fourth-largest island in the world. Its culture is a delightful convergence of Europe, Africa and the Middle East, as evidenced by the gourmet French meals, baked goods, mélange of rum drinks, vibrant materials for both traditional and modern dress, and the combination of French and local Malagasy language. A fleet of sailing dhows scatter up and down the coastline daily, triangular sails set against the rising and setting sun, reminiscent of traditional Arab sailing vessels.

In Madagascar we found lemurs, ylang-ylang, distilled rum, vanilla, dancing, late-night revelry, lazy mornings and lavish lunches.

We arrived in late August after 25 days’ sailing from Sumatra. We were originally headed for Rodrigues, but had changed our plan midcourse when the Indian Ocean got a little too rowdy. The weather maps showed more intense wind and waves to the southwest, so we bore away 30 degrees. By the time we rounded Cap d’Ambre, Madagascar’s northern tip, and began the comparably softer sailing down the protected northwest coast toward the island of Nosy Be, we were happy to have made the change in course. We were sorry to miss Rodrigues and had added an extra 500 miles to our passage, but who can complain when you drop anchor after more than 3,000 miles in a town called Hell-Ville? We just had to chuckle.

One of the first things we noticed when we set the hook in Hell-Ville, as the city of Andoany is commonly known, is that it’s a sailing world. We quickly discovered that the people of coastal Madagascar rely on the local breezes to bring them out into the bay and back again. Madagascar is out of the trade winds, so the breezes are land- and sea-based. The wooden dhows we saw had no motors — a stark contrast to the lineup of Yamahas we’d seen in Mexico. We didn’t hear boats vroom-vrooming or tuk-tuking by; instead they sailed in and out of the crowded anchorages at all hours of the morning and night. If the late-night breeze petered out, they dropped anchor until morning. Many nights I watched a dhow ghost past our hull, close enough to reach out and touch, before pulling quietly into the shallows.

Some of the dhows we saw fished locally in and around Hell-Ville and returned each day. Others fished around their villages and dried the catch on large wooden racks, bringing their goods to the city for sale. Some larger boats sailed around the main anchorages of Nosy Be with tourists on board, ferrying them to nearby island resorts. All of the boats we saw relied on the wind and the wind alone.

In the mornings, we sat on our bow with our coffee, watching the line of boats sail out; in the evenings, we did the same, watching the line of boats sail in. It was easy to feel the breath and rhythm of the place from the glassy anchorage. Nosy Be inhaled and exhaled with the offshore and onshore breeze.

During the first few days of our stay in Hell-Ville, a music festival got riotously underway. The festival kicked off with a parade that noisily marched by a bar where we were lunching with a few other visiting cruisers. We followed the crowd along the waterfront road to a very large field with a main stage and a perimeter lined with makeshift bars and restaurants. Women prepared food in the back; children played out front. A girl selling cupcakes made her rounds; a boy balancing a plate of bread smiled sweetly. The parade participants were called to the stage to perform again and receive congratulations or possibly awards; we couldn’t tell because no one in our group spoke Malagasy. We learned quickly how to go with the flow. We drank local beer and a soda that tasted like bubble gum; then, over the ensuing days, we drank more beer and avoided the bubble-gum soda. Some of us even danced.

We were met by an outwardly open attitude during those festival days. A light celebratory feeling permeated the air. In cafes, people chatted with us from the next table over, reaching out to shake hands with our children. “I’m playing in the bar two doors down,” an elegant and commanding woman we met told us one afternoon. “Here’s my number!” Didia, it turned out, is from Nosy Be but now lives in Paris; she was back in town for the big music festival.

We never did make it to see Didia sing, but the music raged on for four days and nights. Some nights we just enjoyed the driving percussion and heavy bass thrum of the salegy rhythms from the bow of Momo. Nightclubs and bars overflowed with gyrating men and women, and the field we had visited on the first day was filled each night with partygoers, with the mood building to the climax on the last night as Madagascar’s top salegy performer, Wawa, took the stage. To one side of the field was another field: the designated latrine. I didn’t go there myself, but reports from my husband and friends made me glad I never had to. We could only assume that the field is well fertilized by the end of each of these community festivals.

Shortly after the festival, we set sail to explore other nearby islands and villages. We laughed each time we pulled up our anchor and sailed in and out of anchorages, thinking back to our early days on our engineless Triton in the Chesapeake. Back then, we had come to grips with sailing in and out of tight places by necessity. Now we did it because it was fun. Unlike in Southeast Asia, where we drifted many an afternoon or night, we could almost always sail in Madagascar from one island anchorage to the next. The breeze was predictable and steady. The pattern was easy: In the mornings, when there was little wind, we readied the boat, gathered groceries or completed last-minute chores. Then, by midday, when the westerly breeze filled in, we pulled up the anchor and set sail for a new anchorage on the next island over. The next destination was never very far. Within 40 miles of Nosy Be, we found a dozen good anchorages with clear water for snorkeling and diving, beaches for roaming and playing, and villages for visiting and socializing.

Each island we stopped at was more memorable than the last. At picturesque Nosy Sakatia, northwest of Nosy Be, whales gently meandered through the pass and cruiser kids splashed from one boat to the next. In the well-protected and roomy Baie des Russes (also known as Russian Bay or Ambavatory Bay), sailors gathered for barbecues and even two birthday parties. Lemurs were everywhere on the small island of Nosy Iranja and came to greet us almost as soon as we’d set foot onshore. We made a day stop at Nosy Tanikely, where the crystal waters and diversity of life around the coral reef beckon divers from around the world.

We picked up some of our favorite local carvings and crafts and soaked up the hospitality of the restaurants of Nosy Komba, and topped up from a water source offered by Yolanda’s, a cruiser-friendly local eatery right on the beach. In Honey River, we were given a small dried fish, which locals use as an exfoliator (we think, based on the broken French and gesturing). We hung this most peculiar keepsake on Momo to remind ourselves of this generous villager who insisted he offer a gift (perhaps as compensation for having to deny our enthusiastic request for honey).

At Crater Bay, the cruising hub of northwest Madagascar, we were welcomed at the yacht club for a Sunday pig roast, a weeknight pizza and the Rugby World Cup, which we enthusiastically watched with sailors from Australia, South Africa and our beloved New Zealand.

We stopped in the archipelago Nosy Mitsio, only 30 miles north of Nosy Be but far from the noise. With beautiful bays both east and west (and a couple of small villages), the largest island of Mitsio offered plenty to explore, and we found fantastic harbors for swimming at the nearby surrounding islands.

But even as we sailed from anchorage to anchorage, smiling and dancing our way through each new encounter, and even as we snapped photos that captured the vibrancy of Madagascar, I realized we couldn’t photograph the underlying cultural rhythms and tones. Poverty begets petty crime and sometimes more dramatic instances of violence on the island, and there is an inevitable clash of the thriving local culture and a strong expat community (which seem to exist, for the most part, in relative peace).

We couldn’t photograph the way we skirted the edges of dirty streets lined with tenement housing and pulled our daughters in close as we wandered home late at night, holding hands and making sure no one strayed from the group. We accepted local help when it came to extending our visas (and quickly came to understand the tipping system for the man who knows a man who knows a man) but sensed we should decline the offer to travel inland, overnight, with cash in hand for an expensive payoff to help expedite the visas. We understood the need to be cautious about the two different money systems still in operation, and the pitfalls of being gullible foreigners. We traded first-world clothing and tools for bananas, mangoes and other local goods, and strived to be curious visitors and good guests.

And even though we danced with late-night partygoers and felt the vibe, I couldn’t lay it down precisely on the page, or even capture it with a Nikon. We found Madagascar to be playful, edgy, smart, witty, friendly, maybe a little too friendly, welcoming, forward, salacious and — sometimes — dangerous, too.

We documented fishermen and sailing dhows, wildlife and roadside activity, and the outwardly colorful culture. If we had stayed longer in that mysterious and welcoming country, we might have been able to say more about complex cultural undercurrents and countercurrents. In the meantime, we decided to stick around the region to explore Tanzania, Mozambique and Kenya. We’ll see how our first impressions deepen and change in the coming months. There’s plenty to take in. And there’s plenty of wind, too.

Michelle Elvy is a writer, editor and manuscript assessor, originally from the Chesapeake and based in New Zealand’s Bay of Islands. She has lived aboard her sailboat for more than 12 years and is currently exploring Kenya, Tanzania and Mozambique.

The post First Impressions: Madagascar appeared first on Cruising World.

What is it about Cape Town?

One of the world’s great landfalls under any circumstance, it’s all the more so when the Tablecloth — that seasonally permanent cloud that continuously spills over the side of Table Mountain — is set.

Generations of westabout circumnavigators have faced a consequential choice when they reach the Indian Ocean: keep Africa to port and transit the Red Sea to Europe, or turn left and eventually tangle with the treacherous Agulhas Current until rounding the Cape of Good Hope, also known as the Cape of Storms.

Readers of Dove will recall that Robin Lee Graham originally chose the Red Sea route. But the 1967 Six-Day War, between Israel and Egypt, sent him south instead, spurring nine months of South African travel with his new bride that constitute some of his classic book’s most idyllic passages. By the early 1990s, most voyagers, including participants in the early World ARC round-the-world rallies, bypassed South Africa in favor of the northern route through Europe. The balance tipped again in 2009, when pirate attacks off Somalia compelled Lloyd’s of London and other marine insurers to declare a war zone and withdraw yacht-insurance coverage for large stretches of the northwestern Indian Ocean. Since then, round-the-world rallies and greater numbers of individual voyagers have chosen the southern route.

The payoff here is undeniable. Sure, the weather can get big off South Africa’s Wild Coast, but seasoned sailors learn to pick their windows, hopping southward down the coast between blows. The South African Weather Service (weathersa.co.za/home/marine) provides excellent forecasting, and Durban-based Cruising Connections (cruisingconnec tions.co.za/index.php/weather) compiles daily synoptic charts.

In Cape Town, the highlights span from the mundane to the magical. World-class marine services are available here, and provisioning is relatively inexpensive and abundant. At press time, U.S. dollars go further than ever before, with an exchange rate near 15 rand to the dollar. Cape Town is a cosmopolitan city, with restaurants and shopping that hold their own with Paris and New York.

And you don’t need to go far outside of town to find the magic. It’s there at the top of Table Mountain, and throughout the whole Table Mountain National Park (sanparks.org/parks/table_mountain), stretching over 100 square miles down to the Cape of Good Hope, a destination that deserves a place on every sailor’s bucket list. Home to 8,200 distinct plant species, the park includes the Cape Floral Region, designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Penguin colonies, chacma baboon families, great white sharks and orcas — all these inhabit the cape.

Yes, there’s something about Cape Town, something that deserves a long, deep look.

— Tim Murphy

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After we sailed halfway around the world from Vancouver, British Columbia, our arrivalin Madagascar was a revelation. In most places we’ve traveled, the fact that my husband,Evan, and I sailed there, from so far away, on our own 40-foot Meander catamaran,with a kid and a cat, has earned puzzled laughter and questions about pirates, stormsand kitty litter. But in Madagascar, international sailboats are taken in stride — of course we’dsailed Ceilydh there. Why would we travel any other way?

At sunrise the dhows slip out of Crater Bay, past anchored boats, on the first whispers ofwind. As the breeze fills in, the huge sails billow and strain against the willowy tree-trunkmasts. Filled with all manner of passengers and goods (fruit, chickens, granite stones), theships set off with whoops and hollers from the crew, crossing the wide bays on the sort of d \ependable breeze that makesmotors seem like a foolish investment.

While the local boats are assleek and graceful as any moderncruising boat, that’s where thesimilarity ends. Without a sailmakerlogo in sight, the squareandlateen-rigged sails are sewnfrom canvas or rice sacks andpatched with old cloth. Keepingwith the DIY theme, the riggingis more likely to have been collectedfrom the forest than foundin a hardware store — sails are seton long yards of lashed-togetherbranches.

Even the hulls are hand-hewn.We watched several boats beingbuilt in villages and marveled atthe use of hollowed logs, galvanizednails, tree pitch and motoroil. Suddenly the fact that onecrewmember was always assignedthe task of bailing made sense.While cruisers are masters ofingenuity (we had assisted in aremote Indian Ocean rescue inwhich palm coir was used as astructural material to rebuild abroken rudder), Madagascar wasa reminder of a simpler type ofsailing. We think Ceilydh is relativelyfast for a fully loaded cruisingcat, but more than once wewere left in the wake of a dhowthat seemed to be flying morerips than sail. When one dhowdid need help, all that was requiredwas a length of rope (discardedby us as too old), and theywere off again moments later.

Madagascar is a place wherethe Age of Sail never ended. Eventhe boats with engines seldomuse them. Instead, when windsare light, they ghost along, chattingwith nearby crews and laughing(with the universal smugnessof true sailors) when we, in a misguidedhurry to be somewhereelse, turned on our engine.

Read more about sailing in Madagascar here.

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