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.

The forecast was wrong, but then the forecast was always wrong during the South African summer of 2016-17, so I left anyway.

I had watched the weather for two weeks while antifouling and provisioning my ultralight Moore 24, Gannet, and then for another week after I was ready to sail, without ever seeing what I wanted.

This was my fourth time in South Africa, my third sailing west from Durban. On previous voyages, I had been able to wait for a high to drift over the region, providing three or four days of light east wind, which with a boost from the Agulhas Current, easily enabled me to cover the 400 miles to Port Elizabeth in three days before the wind changed. But that summer, the wind never remained east for even 48 hours.

By February 9, I was tired of waiting. The seven- and 10-day GRIBs I downloaded with LuckGrib showed the continued pattern: east wind for Friday and Saturday, followed by 30 knots from the west for 12 hours on Sunday; east again for a day or two, followed by west at 25 to 30.

Once I go to sea, I don’t worry about the weather. I expect that I can deal with whatever happens as I always have, and my “always” is longer than most. I don’t seek outside weather information. I look at the sky, at the sea and at the barometer. So I decided to turn a coastal passage into an ocean voyage. Instead of trying to duck in and out of harbors — and there are none for the 240 miles from Durban to East London — I would go to sea and stay there, easing Gannet offshore beyond the strongest of the Agulhas Current and hopefully most shipping; sail hard when the wind was behind me; and lie ahull when it was from the west. As far as I know, Gannet was the smallest boat to clear into Durban that year. She certainly was the only one of any size to clear out for St. Helena. The immigration official asked where that was. Sorry, Napoleon.

A local friend, Chris Sutton, came down to see me off. At 0730, a breath of wind came from the southwest. Chris took the dock lines and walked Gannet out of her slip. When I put the electric Torqeedo outboard in gear, Chris called that its quiet whirring sounded like something from Star Trek and that she was Starship Gannet.

The Torqeedo’s battery is old and has limited range. I was not confident it would last the 2 miles from Durban Marina to the outer end of the channel breakwaters, so as soon as we were clear of the moored boats, I raised sail and alternately glided and powered at 3 knots across the busy harbor. Ahead of us, two tugs were pulling a ship sideways from its berth, while to port, a slab-sided car carrier had just tied up.

As the last hour of ebbing tide carried us to the end of the entrance channel, we cut across the wake of a pilot boat. When the bobbing ended, I leaned over the transom and removed the Torqeedo and outboard bracket. They wouldn’t be used again for thousands of miles. I turned Gannet southwest. In the next few days, the boat would round 700-mile-distant Cape Agulhas three times, have its longest day’s run ever and its shortest. The longest came first.

Gannet slashed through the night: pale water everywhere; surging bow wave; foaming wake; cresting 6-foot waves; sounds of rushing water and wind. Despite being heavily laden with provisions for more than two months, the boat had constant, quick motion. It slid down some waves, surfed evenly for several seconds on others. Gannet has no tendency to broach. It surfs straight, and the Pelagic tiller pilot was steering well.

Several hours earlier, I had lowered the mainsail and set up a running backstay. An hour after that, I furled the jib to half size. Even under such a small amount of sail, with 25 knots of wind behind her, Gannet was sailing at 8 to 10 knots, more when she caught a wave, and with the boost from the Agulhas Current, we were seeing speed-over-the-ground between 10 and 13 knots. Light rain and a falling barometer heralded the approaching front.

When at 0100 the wind began to push Gannet‘s stern around, I altered course to head farther offshore. Reportedly, the Agulhas Current is strongest on the 200-meter curve, roughly 660 feet deep, and I didn’t want to be on it still when the wind headed us and blew against the current. The coast from Durban to Port Elizabeth trends southwest. From Port Elizabeth to Cape Agulhas, the southern tip of Africa, west. At sunset that first evening, we were 6 miles offshore, and by the following dawn, more than 30 miles.

I don’t usually sleep well the first night back at sea, and I was up often that night, looking for ships, of which I saw surprisingly few, and making sure Gannet was balanced and under control. The next morning, I dozed off repeatedly at “Central,” as my place sitting on a Sport-a-Seat facing aft on the great cabin floorboards is known.

The wind decreased to 20 knots and the waves to 6 or 7 feet. Some of them slammed into us with a percussive sound that in Gannet makes me feel as though I am inside a drum. By noon, the barometer had dropped 10 millibars in 24 hours, and we were 43 miles offshore.

I put a waypoint into the iNavX chart plotting app on my iPhone each noon and measure daily runs back to it. With any change in course, Gannet sails farther than this straight-line distance, but I have always preferred understatement to hyperbole. That day, the noon-to-noon distance was 180 miles, Gannet‘s best ever. Because the wind had been light the previous afternoon, I was certain that a 24-hour run from 1800 to 1800 would be even greater, perhaps approaching 200 miles, but I had no way to measure that.

Enough water was coming on deck that I had to put on my foul-weather gear any time I poked my head out. I stood in the companionway briefly, not wanting a wave to flood below, and looked around. A sunny, mostly blue sky. This was great, exhilarating sailing. I wished it would last, but I knew it wouldn’t. Tomorrow, stronger wind would head us. I was not looking forward to it.

The wind began to back at sunset, and at midnight I decided to lie ahull while it was still relatively easy to move about on deck. I put on my foul-weather gear and furled the jib, lowered the main, disengaged the Pelagic tiller pilot, tied the tiller amidships and took the tiller pilot below. All this was a little premature, but I slept better, and by dawn, the wind was gusting the predicted 30 knots and heeling Gannet 15 degrees just from pressure on her mast and hull.

With wind against current, I expected the waves to build, but they remained only 6 to 7 feet, though some broke over us. Inspired by a Danish reader of my online journal who sent me photos of a small spray hood that quickly folds down on his small sloop, I had one made for Gannet in Durban. I can raise and lower it from inside the cabin, and now it was up, proving itself by preventing most of the water washing the deck from coming below.

My now two-day-old forecast proved to be precisely right. It showed southwest wind lasting 12 hours. I hove to for 13. The wind continued to back, and by 1300, it was no longer heading us and had decreased to just under 20 knots. I unfurled part of the jib and the little sloop began to sail at 4 to 5 knots. By 1630, I had let out more jib and Gannet was making 7.

Monday, our third day at sea, found us 25 miles south of Port Elizabeth. Even lying ahull for 13 hours, we could have reached the harbor in three days, but I was glad we had not tried. It would have been a tense dash to get in before the wind shift.

Cape Agulhas was now 282 miles ahead, almost due west. I began to hope we might make it around before the next front brought head winds, but those hopes vanished with the breeze. In good visibility I could see land and more ships than I wanted to, some even passing outside us, but none worryingly close. The tiller pilot kept our bow pointed west, and the Agulhas carried us that way at a knot or 2 with little assistance from limp sails.

After one slow day, the wind returned, and we still almost made it. In fact, we did make it. For a while.

Sunset of our seventh night at sea found us 11 miles east and 35 miles south of Cape Agulhas, almost on the same latitude as Opua, New Zealand, and, as I thought incorrectly, the farthest south we would go on this circumnavigation, with decreasing and ominously backing wind. The gray sea, jagged earlier in the day, smoothed. I stood in the companionway and looked around for ships. I didn’t see any, but they were certainly there somewhere. Knowing I would be up often that night, I closed the companionway and went to sleep.

Sleeping was difficult. I sleep on whichever is the windward pipe berth, behind a lee cloth and with flotation cushions wedged between my knees and back and the hull, and a hard edge of wood around the companionway. The Avon Redstart and two waterproof food bags live on the lee berth, and when the backing wind compelled me to jibe Gannet to port, I had also to jibe the dinghy and bags and my sleeping bag and pillow.

At midnight, my iPhone showed the bearing to a waypoint at Cape Agulhas to be 10 degrees. We were in the Atlantic, but as the ancients knew, there is but one ocean, and our modern divisions are arbitrary. We had a straight course to the Cape of Good Hope, but Gannet sped through the night only for three more hours. By 0330, the wind was blowing 30 knots directly from Good Hope. With reduced sail, Gannet can beat to windward in such conditions, and I have, but it is miserable to do so. None of my boats, with the exception of Chidiock Tichborne, whose mizzen weather-cocked its bow into the wind, have hove to well, so I went on deck and again set Gannet up to lie ahull.

In an interview a few months earlier, I had been asked what I am still learning. It is a good question to which I did not have a good answer. Now I realized that perhaps what I am still learning is when not to suffer needlessly. There are times when you have to push yourself and your boat hard, but there are times when you don’t.

I looked around and saw the running lights of two ships miles north of us. The wind was shrieking in the rigging. A wave crashed over the bow and flooded aft. I quickly stepped below and pulled up the spray hood, which must be lowered every time I go through the companionway. Then I shut the hatch.

Dawn found us still in the Atlantic. By afternoon, we weren’t. The barometer was rising as quickly as it had fallen the previous day. Without sail up, Gannet is a cork, and while her motion was wild, we were not in any danger, except from shipping, and we were beyond most of that. I wedged myself in at Central, read and watched on the iPhone as Gannet was pushed back southeast.

In midafternoon, the wind began to decrease. At 1620, the bearing to Cape Agulhas was 0 degrees, and we returned to the Indian Ocean.

Two hours later, the wind abruptly dropped to 11 knots and backed southwest. Under main and partially furled jib, Gannet again sailed toward the Atlantic, but the wind soon died away completely and we didn’t make it that night.

The following noon found us sailing at 5.5 knots, back in the Atlantic, Cape Agulhas passed for the third — two west, one east — and, I hoped, last time, and a noon-to-noon daily run of 13 miles. Gannet‘s tortuous course had covered considerably more distance during those 24 hours, but, as I measure, it was by far its slowest day’s run ever.

The sky cleared and the afternoon became pleasant. When the wind continued to back and lighten, I set the North G2 asymmetrical and sat on deck, enjoying Gannet sailing at wind speed. For 8,000 miles, ever since rounding Australia’s Cape York, our course had been west. Now it was north.

Two dawns later, I watched the sun rise behind the Cape of Good Hope, which Sir Francis Drake called “a most stately thing and the fairest cape we saw in the whole circumference of the earth.” It was a beautiful sight, the cape peninsula dark gray, almost black, against an orange-and-rose sky.

As we continued north, we startled several seals sleeping with one fin out of the water 20 miles offshore. They were fortunate Gannet is an innocent bird and not a great white shark, which also frequents those waters.

Table Mountain and Cape Town, which has one of the most beautiful natural settings of any city in the world, came into view. On two voyages I’ve happily stopped there. But this was an ocean passage, and I was glad finally to leave the land behind. I turned Gannet out to sea.

Webb Chiles, 76, a five-time circumnavigator, will return to *Gannet at Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, in late August, and if the weather cooperates, sail the Moore 24 ultralight to the Chesapeake in early September. He will speak at the Chesapeake Maritime Museum’s Small Boat Festival on October 6. In January 2019, he will sail for San Diego via Panama to complete the Gannet voyage and his sixth great circle. *

The post A Slow Voyage Around South Africa 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

The post Captivating Cape Town appeared first on Cruising World.

At 0500 Monday, August 22, our 53rd day at sea since leaving Darwin, Australia, the wind died, and Gannet, my Moore 24, and I were becalmed 10 miles from Durban Harbor, South Africa. Confident that the remainder of the 6,000-mile passage would be over in a few hours, I took advantage of the smooth conditions to fit the outboard bracket and electric Torqeedo onto the stern. The Torqeedo had not been used in months, not since I’d powered the last half-mile to the marina in Bundaberg, Australia. I was pleased when it started at the first push of a button. Then I removed the tiller arm and tilted the Torqeedo from the water. It has a limited range, and I would use it only after entering the port.

A few minutes later the wind, which had been light and behind us, returned with a rush, but from directly ahead. I raised a triple-reefed main and partially unfurled the jib.

The wind continued to build and build. Had I not so wanted to get in, I would have stopped sailing by 0600. But I did and kept on. Gannet was heeled 40 degrees, thrashing through and under water, the lee rail buried. Activity below was impossible. One of the rules on Gannet is the same as in boxing: Protect yourself at all times. Trying to heat water for coffee, momentarily I didn’t, and was thrown across the cabin. That wasn’t far, of course, but I lost some skin and got a good-size lump on my elbow. I drank the coffee with room-temperature water and ate a protein bar for breakfast.

With the wind coming partially over the point of land to the south, I thought it possible that the sea would be smoother closer to the coast. I was wrong. The wind there was as strong and the waves steeper. I threaded my way through a half-dozen anchored ships awaiting entrance to the harbor, until I ran out of room and a mile offshore tried to come about. Despite moving at speed, Gannet didn’t have the weight to do it. The wind stopped and shook the boat like a dog shakes a bone. I had to do what I didn’t want to, and jibed. The power of the boom going over was immense. Gannet went to almost 90 degrees, but Moore 24s are self-­correcting boats. They seem to want to do the right thing, and as I eased the sheet, she came up. Some. As I steered back past the anchored ships, one of them gave a blast on her horn that I decided to interpret as applause. To the south I could see the breakwaters at Durban, 7 miles away.

Wave after wave swept over Gannet and me. While being flailed in the failed attempt to tack, the jib sheets had tied themselves in a Gordian knot. Once clear of the ships, I tied down the tiller and lowered and subdued the mainsail, then went forward to untangle the jib sheets so I could furl the headsail.

All brutal and dangerous.

Finally, under bare pole and being pushed north, I called on the handheld VHF to the anchored ships, asking for wind speed and forecast. One of them answered, reporting a wind speed of 45 knots, forecast to go to 50 with 20-foot waves and easing in 24 hours. Gannet’s cabin was as wet as it has ever been, but she felt safer and much less likely to be rolled. She had taken a beating. We both had.

I don’t think the waves ever reached 20 feet — perhaps 12 to 14 — but I have always preferred to err on the low side rather than high. Whatever their height, they were steep walls of seething water and big enough.

After an unrelenting afternoon and night, the wind began to drop at 1000 Tuesday, almost as abruptly as it rose. Even after all these years, I am sometimes amazed by how quickly waves decrease with the wind. By 1300, Gannet was headed back toward Durban, now 40 miles away, making 3 and 4 knots under full sail across a mildly undulating sea on a sunny afternoon. Two whales spouted a few lengths away. Albatrosses glided above us. We entered the harbor late the next morning and tied to the international jetty at noon.

This 6,000-mile passage had been difficult and sometimes tested my limits, first with too little wind. A week out of Darwin, we’d been becalmed for almost 24 hours on a glassy sea, and Gannet had her slowest day’s run ever, of only 28 miles. I went overboard for a swim, startling a fish that seemed to be living beneath us.

Then we’d had two weeks of too much wind: 25-plus knots going to gale force twice. This was complicated by tillerpilot failure. I probably did 5,000 of the 6,000 miles using sheet-to-tiller steering. In strong wind, this approach can result in accidental jibes. Twice I had to lie ahull because the risk of being rolled was too great. And Gannet’s interior was entirely wet, as was I. Every surface was covered in slime and mold. My sleeping bag was intolerably sodden, so I slept in wet foul-weather gear beneath a foil survival blanket. Finally that ended, and we again had mostly too-light wind.

On a moderate day, with only 6-foot waves, one of the waves broke and caught us just right, rolling the masthead into the water. I know it went in because afterward the masthead Windex was hanging off the side, and the masthead Raymarine wind unit was gone. I somehow don’t think this will be covered under warranty. (Gannet is the fourth boat whose masthead I have put in the water. This is a club you ­probably don’t want to join.)

Gannet has covered more than 9,000 miles since we sailed from Opua, New Zealand, less than four months ago. Despite being driven and tossed on the deep blue sea, she hasn’t suffered any structural damage that I can see.

We have done what we planned to do this year. We are both going to rest.

Six-time solo circumnavigator and writer Webb Chiles began his most recent great circle aboard Gannet in San Diego.

The post Gannet Makes Landfall appeared first on Cruising World.

The warm Agulhas Current puts our Gulf Stream to shame. Flowing southbound out of the Indian Ocean and down through the Mozambique Channel, it attains an astonishing 6 knots by the time it crowds in close to the craggy South African coast. Beyond that current lie the Roaring 40s and the Southern Ocean, and beyond them, Antarctica. Three ocean systems, very warm and very cold, clash here, spinning off a regular train of gales that come crashing into the current.

Several years ago, Duncan Lethbridge was delivering one of his new St. Francis 50 catamarans along South Africa’s Wild Coast with a novice crew as one of these recurring blows was building up. He handed over the helm to get some rest, leaving clear instructions to stay in close to shore and out of the current. When he came back on deck a couple of hours later, he knew straightaway what had happened, and it didn’t take long for ­conditions to deteriorate. “The seas were four stories tall,” Duncan told me, “and the top two stories were collapsing.” They’d strayed into the ­current. For the next many hours, he said, he had to use every steering skill he’d learned sailing Hobie Cats through the beach surf in Jeffreys Bay to stay upright and sailing — except now he was doing it at sea in a 12-ton catamaran.

Duncan founded St. Francis ­Marine in 1988, and he stands as a godfather of today’s South African ­boatbuilders. When St. Francis shifted ­production from 44-footers to 50-footers in the early 2000s, Duncan sold his ­tooling for the 44s to Kevin Fouche, who used it to start Knysna Yacht Co. ­Rudi Pretorius ordered a Knysna 440 for his family and loved the build process so much that five years later he became a boatbuilder himself, starting Maverick Yachts in 2007. Meanwhile Kevin’s neighbors at ­Vision Yachts built a 45-foot cat from tooling created by Peter Wehrley at ­Matrix Yachts. In fact, the more you talk with South African ­boatbuilders — the Paarman brothers at ­Nexus Yachts, Tim van der Steene at Tag Yachts, Mark Delaney at Two Oceans Marine Manufacturing — the more you understand that the whole industry is a network of interconnected ­relationships, both within companies and between them.

Collectively, South Africa produces 30 percent of all the cruising multi­hulls in the world, second ­only to France. Yet the business models prevailing in the two countries could hardly be more different. With the exception of Robertson and Caine, which will build 175 boats this year at four separate plants near Cape Town, the South African builders produce just a handful of yachts each: four boats, eight boats, 12 boats a year. These are typically family businesses operating not as high-output factories but as artisan shops. And without exception, each of these mom-and-pop enterprises is run by very good sailors, many of whom started their company out of the desire to build a single cruising boat for themselves. Several of these builders spent years as full-time cruisers or charter skippers. Most have taken boats across oceans. Each is a veteran of the Cape of Storms.

A Boatbuilding Country

Last December I traveled to Cape Town and the Eastern Cape to meet South African boatbuilders, tour their yards, and sail some catamarans. What I found surprised me: If the ­business models hearken back to an ­earlier time, the technology from which ­many of the boats are built looks ­distinctly forward. Among this group, I saw some of the lightest, stiffest, highest-­tech sailboat structures available anywhere in the world. If you’re in the market for a new cruising cat, it’s a trip I recommend. Knysna Yachts’ ­Kevin Fouche recommends it too; he says he’ll even reimburse the travel costs of anyone who comes to visit his yard and places an order for a boat. With the rand, or ZAR, at historic lows against the dollar (at press time, U.S. $1 buys more than 15 rand), that’s an arrangement you might be able to negotiate with other builders as well.

Cape Town is the undisputed hub of South African boatbuilding. The big marine chandleries and materials suppliers are here, as are the sailmakers and riggers and boatyard crews. Other boatbuilding pockets lie farther east, past Cape Agulhas — the true southern point of Africa, and the boundary between the Atlantic and Indian oceans — and then along the Garden Route and Eastern Cape coastlines, particularly around St. Francis Bay and Knysna. Die-hard surfers are drawn to Cape St. ­Francis for the “10 million-to-1” waves at Jeffreys Bay, made legendary by the 1966 documentary The Endless Summer. Idyllic Knysna, with its vast ­lagoon and dramatic oceanfront cliffs, is a gateway to several renowned big-game reserves. The drive from Cape Town is about five hours to Knysna or ­seven and a half hours to St. Francis Bay, and the ride itself, through ­national parks and along the coast, is worth the time. Twice on the N2 ­national highway, I had to slow my rental car to let ­baboons cross, and a detour to the penguin colony at ­Simon’s Town is one I’ll never forget.

As for Cape Town, orienting yourself is easy. Take the funicular to the top of Table Mountain on a clear day, and you’ll see the whole region laid out before you. To the south stretches Cape Peninsula and some 50 miles to the Cape of Good Hope, as the Cape of Storms is known on modern charts, much of it national park that offers spectacular hiking and cycling. To the southwest lie Hout Bay and the modernist beach neighborhoods of Llandudno, Camps Bay, Clifton and Sea Point. Out west across Table Bay, 8 miles off, lies Robben Island, the prison where Nelson Mandela spent 18 years of his sentence, now a UNESCO World Heritage site. Spread out just below are the city center and the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront, where Cape Town’s marine services mix with high-end shopping and entertainment. And northwest of these, out near Table Bay’s western strand and the industrial zones of Woodstock and Montague Gardens and Atlantis, lies the real interest: Here is where the boats get built.

Why Build Boats in South Africa?

South Africa’s business climate differs in some ways from the climate in North American and European countries, and in other ways from the ­climate in Latin American and Asian countries. Three forces shape any business environment: labor markets, government regulation, and procurement of materials and components.

South Africa’s blend of these ­forces is unique. When Rudi Pretorius ­examines the costs in a new Maverick 440, this is what he sees: components, 35 percent; raw materials, 19 percent; labor, 14 percent; overhead, 17 percent; and tooling, 15 percent. The big-ticket items are not labor or real estate or marketing, but components and equipment that come in from abroad. “If you were in Australia,” said Rudi, “labor would have been much, much higher.”

Phil Berman, of the Philadelphia-­based Multihull Co., conceived the broad outlines of the Balance 526 performance-cruising catamaran, then commissioned Cape Town yacht designer Anton du Toit to ­design it and Nexus Yachts of St. Francis Bay to build it. I met Phil in Cape Town for the launch of hull number one. Over the last decade or so, Phil has commissioned other new builds in Brazil and China. “The big advantage of South Africa over Brazil is procurement,” he said. “Cape Town has such a yacht-building facility that these guys can get what they need. We’ve got the Harken guys here. Southern Spars came to the boat to set up the rig. Ullman in Cape Town made the sails.” In Brazil, by contrast, “Everything had to be ordered six months out, shipped in and then trucked. So you have all this costly material, and it’s just sitting there.”

Interestingly, Rudi told me that Robertson and Caine’s high production scale inadvertently exerts an ­influence on the cost of components for all South African boatbuilders. “If I order a winch that’s on one of their boats, it’s a lot less expensive than one that isn’t,” he said.

South Africa’s most distinctive feature is its labor market: What skills are available, and at what cost? The legacy of apartheid and its aftermath fundamentally shape business here, creating both opportunities and constraints that are unlike those you’ll find elsewhere. Some of these factors take shape in government and industry programs; others are deeply rooted in ethnic culture. South Africa officially designates people according to race: Black African, Coloured (mixed race), White and so on. Through an official program called Black Economic Empowerment, based on score cards and created to redress the inequities of apartheid, the South African government formally grades each business on its degree of diversity.

Boatbuilding jobs are welcome in South Africa, as nationwide unemployment figures float around 25 percent. The going rate for an entry-­level laminator, according to one Cape Town builder I interviewed, is 40 rand ($2.70) per hour; highly skilled workers earn 100 rand ($6.70) per hour. Assuming eight-hour days and 240 ­working days in the year, that amounts to annual salaries of between $5,000 and $13,000. By contrast, a recent study by the state of Maine showed the ­average marine-trades salary in that state to be just over $40,000.

As an industry, South African boatbuilders are working to develop the necessary trade skills among potential employees. Trade groups like the South African Boat Builders ­Export Council (SABBEX) and ­Marine ­Industry Association South ­Africa (MIASA) collaborate with False Bay College on a three-year yacht and boatbuilding program that combines six-month cycles of classroom work with equal intervals in apprentice­ships. Every Cape Town yard I ­visited employed students from this program. Otherwise, each company trains its own staff.

“Virtually every one of our guys has been trained by us,” said Peter Wehrley of Matrix. “A lot of our guys had never been employed before. We generally start them at sweeper and see how they operate. Then, slowly but surely, we train them up. It’s ­actually quite rewarding to be part of the ­community.”­ Phil Berman compared his boatbuilding experiences in South Africa and China. “In China,” he said, “Lee [Xiangong] builds our boats. Lee went to a university of boatbuilding, but he isn’t a lifelong sailor. Lee is going to do exactly what I tell him to do.” In ­China, he said, communication took longer, and so it took longer to get projects done the way they wanted. And in South Africa?

“Jonathan [Paarman] isn’t going to do exactly what he’s told to do,” Phil said, laughing. “If he thinks something’s stupid, he’s going to let me know about it right away — because he’s a sailor. He intuitively knows.

“In South Africa,” he continued, “you have this core of South African build guys. There’s a culture. Guys like Jonathan, they don’t come along very often. And it takes a lifetime to get that kind of skill set.”

The Technical Spectrum

Fiber. Resin. Core. No matter who’s doing the work, the story of composite boatbuilding is the story of those three ingredients.

The simplest, lowest-tech way to build a boat is to lay out dry fiberglass (E-glass) in a female mold, then roll or spray catalyzed polyester resin into it and let it cure. “Hand-layup, solid construction” is the shorthand for this method. Since the late 1940s, it’s the predominant way that boats have been built.

“Sandwich construction” adds a core of foam or wood between fiber­glass skins to attain the desired strength with less weight. Hand-laid construction has two potential downsides. For one, the fiber-to-­resin ratio may vary widely from one day to the next: Too little resin compromises strength, while too much resin adds needless weight without adding strength. Secondly, in a sandwich construction, the bond between the fiber skins and the core depends entirely on what kind of day the laminator is having.

Vacuum-bagging is a method for evenly applying pressure on a laminate and then evenly distributing resin as it cures. This process starts out like hand-layup, but laminators cover the fiberglass, core and resin with an airtight film before the ­resin and bonding material cure. Then they submit the sandwich laminate to vacuum pressure. Consider that atmospheric pressure is 14.7 pounds per square inch. Over a span of one square foot, that works out to a ton of pressure. Core materials, whether foam or wood, start as flat panels that are scored on one side, allowing them to take on the complex shapes of a sailboat hull. Vacuum-bagging ensures that resin evenly covers the core’s surface and fills the spaces, called “kerfs,” that open up when core panels are bent. This is the method employed by Knysna Yachts, Matrix Yachts, Maverick Yachts, Nexus Yachts, Robertson and Caine, and Two Oceans.

Resin infusion is initially more ­involved and arguably riskier for the builder. How does it differ from vacuum-­bagging? Resin infusion means laying up the fiber reinforcements and core, sealing the dry laminate under plastic, then drawing resin through the bagged laminate under vacuum pressure. Infusion is ­cleaner for the workers and better for the ­environment. Classified as a “closed-mold” technology, infusion significantly reduces styrene emissions during construction. Many builders in Europe and North America have ­adopted this method in order to meet government-imposed air-quality standards. For boat owners seeking high performance and low weight, infusion can offer the ideal fiber-to-resin ­ratio. Phoenix Marine, St. Francis Marine and Tag Yachts employ resin infusion in their hulls and decks. Other South African builders are beginning to ­infuse smaller parts.

Among resins, polyester has been the base line for 70 years. Vinylester is newer, more expensive and more resistant to osmosis. Epoxy’s properties are best, but it costs about four times as much as polyester and can be tricky to work with. Matrix Yachts builds its 760 model in polyester, then applies an epoxy barrier coat below the waterline. Knysna Yachts uses vinylester in the hull’s outer skin; St. Francis uses vinylester throughout the layup. Nexus, Tag and Two Oceans build their boats entirely of epoxy. To ensure that the epoxy cures fully, some builders post-cure the entire laminate after layup. “We put it in a tent and heat it up to 80 degrees Celsius,” said Mark Delaney of Two Oceans. “Then you ramp the temperature up slowly.”

“Exotic fibers” are those with better properties than E-glass. Of these, carbon offers exemplary stiffness per weight, though it’s several times more expensive than E-glass. Matrix, Tag and Two Oceans each offer all-­carbon boats. They and Nexus also build boats with E-glass and carbon reinforce­ment for high-load areas.

Such deliberate use of materials and techniques delivers lighter, stronger boats. If high performance and low weight are what you’re ­after, the boats with the ­lower displacement-­to-length ratios tend to be the ones employing the more advanced materials and techniques. The dollars-per-displacement column gives an idea of the premium placed on lighter weight.

The Artisan Experience

South Africa’s blend of boatbuilding skills, maritime culture and ­labor rates distinguishes it from every ­other boatbuilding region. At the heart of that distinction lie the differences between high-production and artisan approaches. A 45-foot cruising cat from a high-volume yard might be built in around 5,000 man-hours, on assembly lines that employ advanced organizational techniques to reduce labor hours. Each boat ­designed for this high-volume business model must appeal to a broad demographic of sailors, which might include charterers.

By contrast, one South African builder told me his company ­invested 20,000 man-hours in a 40-­footer; ­another estimated between 25,000 and 30,000 man-hours for a performance-­oriented 50-footer.

Neither business model is ­clearly better or worse than the other. ­Rather, it’s a fundamental qualitative choice. There are advantages to owning a boat from a well-­capitalized company whose practices over dozens or hundreds of units have been standardized. More labor hours ­aren’t obviously an advantage until you go aboard the boat and assess for yourself how well those hours were spent. From one artisan-style yard to the next, the answer will not be the same. Building on a small scale means that the personality and the choices of the builder will be more indelibly stamped into the boat, for better or worse. But what’s indisputably a good thing across the spectrum of builders is that there’s such a range of choice. When you look at them all, you may just find the boat — and the builder — that you want to spend a good long stretch of your life with.

Tim Murphy is a CW editor at large and a longtime Boat of the Year judge.

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It was just past midnight on Friday the 13th. Anasazi Girl, our family’s Open 40, was rounding the Cape of Good Hope in the dark.

“Are you superstitious?” he asked me.

Our lines were now lying on the dock of the False Bay Yacht Club in Simon’s Town. My partner, James Burwick, liked to do this — depart at night and leave the lines. We were setting out on a nonstop passage from South Africa to Western Australia. James was driving the boat. The kids were in dreamland, tucked into one sleeping bag in the quarter berth. I was lying next to them, trying to rest.

“No,” I answered.

I was not superstitious, but mixed with the usual excitement of leaving was an elevated sense of apprehension. This was not our first voyage. However, we were beginning our most challenging journey as a family.

It’s always such a mind trip to leave port, especially after being on land for a long time. Nearly four months had passed since we’d made landfall in Cape Town. Our son, Raivo, was now 1, and our daughter, Tormentina, was 3. We had split our time in South Africa between Cape Town and Simon’s Town, and had rounded the Cape of Good Hope three times prior to this.

The preparation for departure was the standard: high-intensity and high-stress, with long and detailed work lists compiled and completed. The watermaker membrane was replaced; all systems checked; food, fuel and water provisions stocked; everything packed and stowed. Unnecessary items were purged or given away. Our bicycles, boat spares and shore clothes were on a freighter. Bills had been paid, emails sent, passports and boat documents stamped. We were cleared to leave the country.

More than anything, I was ­utterly exhausted, and relieved that at last we were underway. It was such an irony to be so tired before we had even left port.

The entire time in South Africa, James and I had agonized, out loud together and silently in our own minds, about the upcoming ­voyage. We went back and forth countless times about whether or not we would all go, or if James would sail this next segment alone.

Our family approach to life is to stay open and flexible in our plans. We take action only when we are certain it is the best decision for the family. This method of living often leaves our immediate ­future ­unknown. Just days before we departed, neither of us was completely sure how things would unfold.

We’d already got a small taste of Southern Ocean sailing with the kids on the South Atlantic side, en route from Cape Verde to South Africa. James was well seasoned, having completed a solo loop around Antarctica prior to the birth of our first child. We were eager to experience with our children the isolated beauty of sailing across the southern Indian Ocean, but we were also aware of the risks that would be involved if anything went wrong in the high latitudes. Even with excellent onboard communications and safety gear, we would be a very long way from any possibility of help.

In port, I’d read Derek Lundy’s Godforsaken Sea and Ellen MacArthur’s ­biography Taking On the World. These Vendée Globe stories revealed to me the most extreme version of what could happen in the Southern Ocean. It was in the 1996-1997 Vendée, profiled in Godforsaken Sea, that sailor Gerry Roufs disappeared in the South Pacific. In the same race, it was the Indian Ocean segment that ­capsized racers Dinelli, Dubois and Bullimore. Fortunately, all three were rescued, but not before teetering between survival and death. I knew we would not be pushing the boat as hard as they did, but their tales gave me a real sense of the difficulty of our upcoming task.

No matter how much preparation, care and caution we took to get the boat and ourselves ready, we always had to contend with chance and the possibility of dangers that were totally out of our control.

Who would choose to go there with their kids?

When we discussed the voyage, James and I would often ask ourselves if we were completely out of our minds for wanting to make this passage.

Who is lucky enough to sail this stretch of wilderness with their family?

Other times, we felt that we’d been given a rare and extraordinary gift — a chance to experience with our family one of the wildest, purest, most inaccessible places on the planet.

South Africa held for me a similar kind of edge between beauty and danger. In Cape Town and Simon’s Town, we were surrounded by the most stunning landscape you could imagine. It is a world-class destination for rock climbing, sailing, surfing, paragliding, kitesurfing and cycling.

The flora and fauna in and around Cape Point provided a perfect natural classroom for the kids. Blended into the scrubland known as the fynbos were baboons, turtles, lizards and wild ostriches. There were both cobras and guinea fowls in people’s backyards.

The ocean was healthy. A treasure of marine life awaited the kids’ discovery in tidal pools. African penguins played on the same rocks the kids scrambled over. Sea lions swam alongside us in the ­marina and basked in the sun next to us on the docks. We spotted whales and dolphins in Table Bay and False Bay. We even had the sad experience of seeing and touching a 4.5-­meter great white shark accidentally killed by fishermen in False Bay.

We experienced the ethnic diversity of South Africa, and we saw the British, Dutch, Portuguese and Malay influence on the culture. We met African refugees from Zimbabwe, the Congo, the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Somalia. We learned words in Afrikaans, Xhosa and Zulu. We were exposed to the distinctive styles of African art, crafts, dance and music. We went to braais, drank South African wine, ate biltong and tried bunny chow.

Though we appreciated all of the above, we were not naive about the reality of being in a post-apartheid country. We were sickened by the segregation, racism and corruption that still thrived in the modern day. We maintained a simple life on the boat, but I knew that even our humble standard of living was lavish compared to many others’. We saw the disparity between rich and poor, from the township slums to the affluent neighborhoods. Daily we read about the crime and violence that had become a fact of life. In South Africa, you can easily pretend these things do not exist, but the reality is that the landscape is woven with concertina wires, security gates, alarms, locks and armored vehicles.

As a woman with two small children, I was constantly on guard to prevent any harm that might come to my ­family. I ­hated the feeling of being unable to simply look people in the eye as a human ­being without also suspecting they could be a threat to our safety. I didn’t go out at night or very far alone with the kids. I avoided situations that I wouldn’t have thought twice about entering in other parts of the world. South Africa was such a bittersweet place to be.

In that oppressive reality, I often felt we had the same chance of facing peril on land as we did setting forth in the Southern Ocean. Success on land or at sea had a great deal to do with how we managed the risk. To a lesser degree, it simply had to do with timing and luck.

In the end, James and I chose to take our chances with the ocean. Fear of nature felt like a much healthier sentiment for us to battle than fear of man. We wanted to give our kids a wild and adventurous life. Sailing and an ocean crossing were something that worked for us as a family.

We departed South Africa with an enormous amount of trust in the strength of our carbon-composite home, Anasazi Girl, as well as in our own strength as adventurers, sailors and parents.

Away we shifted, from the Cape of Good Hope, from the chaos of the land and the people.

Forward we went, into the dreamy realm of the albatross.

Our objective was simple: make zero errors on the voyage and arrive safely in port without breaking down or calling for rescue.

It was mid-April — late in the season for the Southern Ocean to many, but not to us. James and I felt we could sail just above 40 degrees south, avoid ice and miss the low-pressure cells dropping off of the ­Indian Ocean tropical cyclones. For us, leaving this late just meant more darkness; all the bad stuff on a voyage seems to happen at night, so with longer evenings, there would be a greater possibility of more bad stuff to address. Longer, colder nights also meant an increase in air density and, in turn, greater wind pressure.

Despite these factors, we felt the risks could be managed.

Our roles underway were easily defined based on our levels of experience.

My primary responsibility, as a ­mother, was to keep the kids safe and make sure we were all fed, clean and healthy. My ­secondary role was to support James whenever needed, and stand his watches when things were calm and smooth. My third obligation was to photograph and document our trip.

As captain, James had the heaviest weight on his shoulders. All the boat preparation prior to leaving, systems checks while underway, and weather forecasting and routing decisions were his. If there were any problems or repairs to be undertaken while en route, he was accountable. We would discuss options and make decisions together as much as possible, but ultimately he was responsible for the safety of the crew and vessel.

His previous solo circumnavigation on Anasazi Girl had given him the needed experience to go south again. On one ­level it was easier, because he’d already been down there. With me on board, he also had some relief from his solo watches, and a second set of hands when needed. But in another respect it was a million times harder, because now he was carrying the priceless cargo of our family.

As soon as Anasazi Girl was underway, James and I shifted into high-performance mode.

After passing Cape Point, James pushed hard to get us ahead of a fast-moving low-pressure system forecast by Commanders’ Weather. It was uncomfortable with the wind still forward of the beam, but we made it, and soon we were sailing southward.

We cut the corner of the Agulhas Current too tightly; the seas were a confused mess that made both Tormentina and me completely seasick. Then there was a close call with a freighter. Fortunately, that was the last ship we saw for the next month.

James’ plan for a safe passage was to keep the high-pressure systems to port and the lows to starboard. Just once did a high slip under us, and the three days of easterly headwinds weren’t pretty. We chose to go due south, which meant the true wind was on the beam, but on speedy Anasazi Girl, the brisk apparent wind was in our faces. The easterlies eventually passed and the cold fronts progressed. The nights were long and dark. Our typical sail combination was three to four reefs in the main and a fully battened storm jib made of Spectra. I did not go on deck to help James with sail changes, as I had on our Atlantic crossings, because often the seas were too aggressive, and I had to be vigilant down below to make sure the kids were always safe.

In extreme sailing conditions, the ­simple acts of moving around the ­cabin, cooking basic meals, eating, maintaining personal hygiene and using the head ­become a real physical effort. The galley becomes dangerous; knives, hot ­liquids and flames must be kept in complete control. A toddler on the toilet is very ­vulnerable when a big wave hits the boat.

The constant objective was to stay ­balanced, braced and safe. Order was maintained to avoid flying objects that could create a mess, cause damage or ­inflict injury. Above all, we wanted to ­prevent broken bones and burns.

When the wind and seas were perfect, we experienced the wild sensation of Anasazi Girl accelerating and surfing in the Southern Ocean. When the wind speed increased from 20 knots to 30, then to 40-plus knots, it was a velocity rush — like the first steep drop after climbing a giant crest on a roller ­coaster. The cabin became pressurized, and I found myself just holding on. Speed down south was our friend, keeping us in front of the weather systems.

We passed below remote St. Paul and Amsterdam islands just in time, as a 982-millibar low we were surfing finally caught up and rolled over us. We were 100 miles past the islands when the gusty shift of nasty southwest air arrived. We jibed to starboard tack and headed due east.

When the seas were confused and ­coming from multiple directions, I experienced some paranoia about the ­possibility of Anasazi Girl breaking. I think I was especially wary because the Volvo 70s, sailing at the same time in the 2011-2012 Volvo Ocean Race, were getting pounded. James reminded me that the Volvo boats were being pushed extra hard. In order to be competitive, they were ­also constructed to be very light, with hollow-­core carbon-composite material.

Anasazi Girl was a slightly different beast. She has a solid, or monocoque, carbon hull with a carbon-fiber and Nomex composite deck and cabin top. She is a strong, proven, bulletproof boat, built specifically to sail in these conditions. Once I relaxed, I gained renewed confidence in the boat in which my family had crossed both the North and South Atlantic. My fears eased, and I surrendered to the simple act of being at sea.

Offshore sailing is an incredible thing. It’s surreal to be so completely surrounded by water for such a long period of time. The GPS and electronic navigation software tell you where you are, but when you see nothing — no person nor boat for thousands of miles — you settle into a completely different reality. I found that when the kids were asleep and everything was quiet, my mind opened deeply into the recesses of old, long-lost memories. There were people, places, things and experiences that I had not thought about in many years. I was reminded of who I was, and it filled me with very strong emotions, especially now, with my perspective as a parent.

Being at sea also reminded me of how beautiful the natural world is in its complexity and simplicity. All the subtle changes of the environment — sea state, wind, air, sun, sky — become so monumental with the excess noise and drama of the land taken away. With the connectivity of the Web and modern technology, the world sometimes feels so small. Out there, I was reminded of what a small part of the universe we really occupy, and I felt so grateful for my life in it. One dark night, James made the only mistake of the trip. Tormentina fell asleep on his lap at the navigation station. He picked her up and swiveled around to set her in the quarter berth. A rogue wave knocked us just at that moment, and his knee hit the main battery switch.

All the power went out, which stopped the autopilot. The boat rounded up and lay on her side. The Espar heater decided to rebel too, and filled the cabin with smoke. This was not the first time Anasazi Girl was on her beam at night in the Southern Ocean, going backward with 1,700 liters of water ballast on the wrong side. But it was the first time with the family aboard.

“Is everyone all right?” James asked.

Fortunately, Tormentina and the rest of us were safe in the berths before we laid over. Everything was in place; nothing flew anywhere. James had quickly flipped the switch to turn all the electronics back on.

I looked at him and said, with a wink, “Yes. We trust you.”

We couldn’t fully open the companionway hatch, but James cracked it a few inches and turned on the fans. Then he got on his foulies, boots, headlamp and harness and re-entered the world in which he feels most comfortable.

After 30 days at sea, we arrived ­safely in Fremantle, Western Australia. Looking back, I see the voyage was one of the most challenging things I’ve ever done — a huge test of physical and mental endurance. It’s like being in labor, but as a sustained effort for 30 days straight. I gained huge respect for anyone who has sailed down south — solo, shorthanded or fully crewed. It’s an intense place to be, with an immense amount of pressure for perfect performance.

I’m typically seasick the first three days of our voyages, but throughout this trip, I was unusually nauseous even when conditions were smooth. I thought that perhaps I wasn’t cut out for this type of extreme sailing. Then I found out, a month after arriving in Fremantle, that I was pregnant during the passage.

James was a pillar of strength during the journey — never complacent, always up and out in the elements and dealing with whatever variables came our way. No matter how tired he was, sail changes had to be made, water ballast adjusted, batteries charged, water made, all systems maintained and, most important, love and ­attention given to the kids.

Our children adapted to all the conditions we experienced. In our one-month passage, the kids and I were on deck literally four times — for a sum total of about an hour. When seas were smooth, they were allowed to go on deck wearing a full body harness, tethered to the boat. Down below, we did art projects and puzzles, made blanket forts, blasted music from the iPod, sang, danced and played games. They watched for dolphins, whales, albatross and other marine life. They fought and had tantrums and timeouts, just like they did on land.

Raivo was just starting to talk, and his favorite phrases throughout the trip were “treats,” “boat,” “loud” and “Wow, big kaboom!” accompanied by a clap of his hands. Tormentina got over her seasickness once we were out of the Agulhas Current. She kept busy constantly drawing, filling an entire sketchbook with her artwork. She searched every night for the first star. When she found it, she would make a secret wish, and afterward she was allowed to watch movies. After a big wave washed over us, she would climb up the companionway steps to see if any squid came aboard.

When the seas were very aggressive, everyone was berth-bound, sometimes for two to three days at a time. The kids both had a good sense of the changes in the boat while underway and were instinctively mellow when they needed to be.

The most amazing thing is that the kids never once asked, “When are we going to get there?” Nor were they ­ever scared. They felt safe because Anasazi Girl is home to them, and we were with them full time.

Voyaging is like a time capsule for our family. It is a very special period, when ­everyone is completely together and completely present. Life is simple. We sail from point A to point B. Everything we need to live is essentially in one space. We don’t think about money or work. We have no meetings, schedules or other people to interact with besides our kids. Our children receive our undivided attention.

In the Southern Ocean, the water was clean, the air fresh and the rainwater tasty. No sunrise or sunset went unnoticed. Every morsel of food we ate and every drop of water we drank was valued. Every second we were together was priceless.

This sailing life has been such a gift for us and for our children.

Somira Sao, James Burwick and their children are currently living on Navarino Island, Chile, where they are working on replacing Anasazi Girl’s rig. Follow along on their adventures at the family’s website anasaziracing.blogspot.com.

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