Dawn Riley has been an ambitious sailor and tireless advocate for women in sailing since her earliest days. She has raced in the America’s Cup and in grueling around-the-world races. Riley is skilled, determined and friendly. These attributes have carried her a long way.  

She grew up as the oldest of three children in Detroit. Her parents, Chuck and Prudence Riley, were strong promoters of her quest to be the best in her sport.  

Riley was named Rolex Yachtswoman of the Year in 1999 for winning in fleet- and match-race disciplines. Riley has won One Ton Cup and Women’s Match Race World championships. She got an early break five years after graduating from Michigan State University by joining the crew of Maiden, an all-­women crew who competed in the Whitbread Round the World Race.

The story of that harrowing race was portrayed beautifully in the 2019 documentary Maiden. Riley was one of the crew in the film. At the time, it was a first for an all-­women crew to take on such a challenging race. They won the toughest leg: the Roaring Forties in the Southern Ocean. The crew enjoyed their fame and finished the leg from Uruguay to Florida wearing swimsuits. When Maiden approached the finish line off Cowes, England, the wind was light as the sun peeked over the horizon. A lone sailboat passed, circled around, and started following Maiden. Within an hour, hundreds of spectator craft were escorting the heroes of the Whitbread to the finish line.

Finishing the Whitbread must have been a sweet moment for Riley. When she was 14 years old, she declared publicly that she was going to sail in the America’s Cup and race around the world. These were bold aspirations for a junior sailor out of the North Star Sail Club near Detroit. Eleven years later, she was doing it.

After the Whitbread race, her career took off. In 1990, Bill Koch was organizing a bid to defend the America’s Cup for the San Diego Yacht Club. Koch thought it was a good idea to include a woman on the crew. When Riley’s name was suggested, Koch gave her a tryout. In 1992, his syndicate America³ successfully defended the America’s Cup. Riley now had an America’s Cup on her resume too.   

In 1993, Riley was asked to take over as a skipper for another round-the-world race. The boat was sponsored by brewer Heineken, which was hoping for a better performance. Riley signed on, added a few crew, and at age 30, had a second around-the-world race on her resume. 

At this point in her career, Riley told her story in a book called Taking the Helm, written with Cynthia Goss. The narrative is an account of the 1993-94 Volvo Ocean Race (formerly known as the Whitbread). Riley shows readers the difficulty of competing in long-distance races. She wrote reports about the struggles via a new communication technology, CompuServe.  

“We have had a really bad break,” she wrote. “Last night we were sailing with our smallest running spinnaker and a reef in the main. I was in my bunk when I heard a huge bang and felt the boat broach violently. …We are now wallowing along in 35-foot seas and 40 knots of wind with only the storm jib up and trailing warps [off] the transom, trying to control our drift in the general direction of England.”  

Riley also wrote an elegant essay about the fury of sailing around the sailor’s feared nemesis Cape Horn, which is reputed to be the windiest part of the world. Gale-force winds whip past the Caape one out of every four days. Riley was poetic in her observation as they sailed past: “Yes, there is a science to sailing around the Horn, but in the realms of dreams and myths, it’s as if something is alive down there. Maybe there is a huge ghost of Cabo de Hornos, with seaweed hair and crazed eyes the color of the sky during a storm. Maybe he sits on a perch on the legendary rock wall. Maybe he gets bored. Maybe he looks down at the tiny sailboats passing by and says, ‘OK, you little sailboat out there, I am going to have some fun with you now.’ He points a gnarly finger, takes a deep breath, and blows. The sea turns into a raging torrent of white water. And then he laughs.”

When asked what can be done to encourage more women to race offshore, Riley says: “We need to make sure women are out there and are in good positions on the crew. When you are away from land and there are only 10 people on the boat, then there are 10 people; it doesn’t matter if they are male or female. There are absolutely no jobs women can’t do. You can do whatever you want. Scientifically, whether you are male or female, if you have the same weight and work out, you have the same strength. There are no physiological differences.   

 “I work out five days a week, ever since I was 15 years old. I lift weights some days, and do aerobics other days. I am moving every day.”   

To prepare for offshore ­sailing, she has a routine. “Before the race, I try to get plenty of sleep. I make sure that I am hydrated. It is important to be as healthy as possible and not have a cold or be sick. It is important to prepare your kit so that you have all the proper ­foul-weather gear and clothing. 

“Another thing I do is visualize the race and think about what it is going to be like, how long it is going to be, and what kind of conditions we might see,” she adds. “So if something happens, I am ready. Most women are very good at concentration. I find that women are so happy to be on board, they are going to put in an extra effort to prove themselves.”

After the 1992 America’s Cup, Riley skippered her own team to victory in the Santa Maria Cup match-race championship. Three years later, she was Team Captain for the all-women’s America’s Cup team aboard Mighty Mary. The team just missed qualifying. 

One of her assets is being a diligent note-taker. She learned many lessons that proved more than helpful when she launched her own campaign, America True, in 2000 for the America’s Cup in New Zealand. The team advanced to the semifinal round. For the 2007 America’s Cup in Valencia, Spain, she was the general manager of the Areva Challenge, based out of France.

Riley is a champion of mixed sailing, which means men and women on the same boat. “I’ve seen an all-male crew because I have been the only woman on the team, and I have been on mixed teams,” she says. “I love mixed teams. The dynamic is different, but it is a more complete team. You’ve got enough different perspectives that you have better decision-making capability.”  

She is also dedicated to helping others. After working for Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign in 2007-08, Riley seriously considered running for Congress. Then, New York financial executive Hunt Lawrence recruited Riley to run Oakcliff Sailing. Lawrence’s vision was to create a high-performance training center for sailors who have progressed beyond traditional coaching methods. Oakcliff has a fleet of boats that prepares young sailors for offshore sailing, match racing and the Olympic Games.  

“The last frontier, in my opinion, for women in sailing is in decision-making roles, not just leadership,” Riley says. “Leadership without power is not decision-making. Women in leadership with decision-
making powers is where we need to go. The next step is
for more women to own their own boats.”

On land, Riley can make a four-course gourmet meal from a virtually empty refrigerator. She is also a gardener who concentrates on vegetables, fruits and herbs. “Anything that reduces going to the grocery store makes me happy,” she says. 

She also has been there for me personally. In 2003, she and I were ­commentators for a TV preview of the America’s Cup regatta on San Francisco Bay. I had spent the previous six months battling lymphoma, and this was my first outing after months of chemotherapy. One night, I was unable to get myself over to the studio. She stopped by my hotel, saw me in excruciating pain, and had the good sense to call an ambulance. Four days later, I flew back to Maryland and started the process of a stem-cell transplant. I will be always be grateful that she came to my rescue at a low point in my life.

Riley had some bad luck herself one evening in her rented home in Oyster Bay, New York. The house was positioned alongside a sharp curve in the road. She was eating dinner and reading emails at her dining room table when a pickup truck came careening around the corner, lost control, and smashed through the front of the house. Riley suffered a concussion and other injuries. It would be months before she recovered. She had the resolve to get back to her important work—and back on the water.

Today, she is in constant motion as a sought-after speaker for yacht clubs and corporate events. She has served on many boards, including the Women’s Sports Foundation, founded by tennis great Billie Jean King to expand opportunities for girls and women in sports. Riley served as president in 2003 and 2004, the only sailor to lead the organization. Other boards where she has served include the US Sailing Association, America True Youth Program, National Sailing Hall of Fame and National Women’s Sailing Association. I was president of US Sailing when Riley joined our board of directors. She never missed a meeting, was well-prepared, asked good questions, and had suggestions that made a difference in our approach to administrating the sport of sailing.  

She was inducted into the National Sailing Hall of Fame in October 2021. At the ceremony, she spoke about how she hopes her experiences serve as an example of what young sailors can achieve.  

Riley has been an inspiring leader her whole life, setting a high standard as a competitor and manager in sailing. Many years from now, it will be clear that her persistent advocacy will have advanced the skill level of many sailors and encouraged more women to spend time on the water.

Adapted from an excerpt in Gary Jobson’s soon-to-be-released book titled Characters of the America’s Cup.

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In my early days as a magazine editor, I pitted two sailboat dealers against each other for a story. One specialized in monohulls; the other, cats. We all bellied up to the bar at a watering hole in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and, over a couple of gin and tonics, the two squared off in a spirited debate about which number of hulls is more desirable. 

I listened intently as the two sparred like heavyweight boxers, trading blows on topics such as stability, speed, efficiency, maneuverability, maintenance, comfort and cost. I scribbled notes on my pad as fast as my fingers would allow. Being a monohull-first guy my whole life, I walked away with a broader appreciation of the multihull mystique that was taking the industry by storm at the time.  

That was more than a decade ago. In the years since, the popularity of multihulls has skyrocketed, and with good reason. This past summer, I was invited to partake in my first extended cruising experience aboard an Aquila 54 power catamaran in the British Virgin Islands with friends and family. Sure, I missed the sweet serenity of sailing, with only the sound of the wind and waves lapping the sails and hullsides underway, but the comfort factor was still off the charts.      

A catamaran can feel like a penthouse apartment over the water when compared, foot for foot, with a similar-length monohull, especially for a family with kids. With the shallow draft, we were able to roam where most keelboats wouldn’t dare. On the sailing side of things, because catamarans have a lower wetted surface area on their hulls, they can often deliver a few more knots of speed, which can shave hours or days off extended passages. On the motoring side, improved fuel efficiency is the prize. 

At this year’s Sail America Industry Conference in Annapolis, Maryland, Franck Bauguil, vice president of yacht ownership and product development for the Moorings, Sunsail and Leopard Catamarans, said that he expects the growing demand for catamarans to continue over the next decade. That’s in large part because their inherent fundamental traits appeal to modern cruisers: volume, one-level living space, redundancy, natural buoyancy, minimal heeling, comfort, stateroom privacy, performance and safety—all of which also make catamarans highly desirable for the charter industry (or, as I like to call it, “the gateway drug to boat ownership”). Still, with multihull ownership, other considerations should be weighed, such as cost and maintenance, logistical challenges associated with slip space and haulouts, and different sail plans to optimize performance. 

If you’re a catamaran owner—or simply among the cat curious—our June/July double issue is a must read. We take a deep dive into the catamaran equation, from new boats and the latest design trends to maintenance tips, sail plans and more. 

In this issue, CW editor-at-large Herb McCormick brings us into the rarefied world of performance-cruising catamarans; industry expert Tim Murphy unravels the evolution of the Balance 482, which toes the line between cruising comforts and extraordinarily satisfying sailing; the always insightful technical guru David Schmidt walks us through the right sail inventory for sailing off the wind on a multihull; and veteran cruiser Tom Linskey, who recently crossed the Pacific and is currently cruising in the Marquesas aboard his Dolphin 460, lends some essential advice for maintaining a catamaran. 

Other June/July issue highlights include sine-wave piloting across the Gulf Stream, how to create a home office afloat, DIY tips on alternators and battery charging, the lifestyle appeal of chartering a catamaran, and the riveting story of voyager James Frederick, whose 32 days alone across the Pacific included 1,000 miles without a rudder. We’ll also check out a fleet of new cats, including the Nautitech 44 Open, the Lagoon 55 and the Fountaine Pajot Isla 40. 

The June/July issue is hitting mailboxes and newsstands as we speak. If you don’t have one, grab one. If you’re not currently a subscriber, I hope you’ll consider becoming one. 

On behalf of the Cruising World crew, thanks for reading. As always, don’t hesitate to let us know your thoughts. We hope you enjoy the issue. As for the monohull-versus-multihull debate, I won’t be taking sides anytime soon, but I’m always up for a gin and tonic aboard either one.

Follow us on Instagram @cruisingworldmag

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As I detailed in my recent article on replacing the lifelines on my 45-foot schooner, I learned much about Dyneema rope in the course of that project. Dyneema is considerably stronger, size-for-size, than double-braided rope, and stronger than stainless wire of the same thickness. For example, ¼-inch 12-strand single-braid Dyneema has an amazing tensile strength of between 8,000 and 12,000 pounds. By comparison, 7-by-7 3/16-inch wire has a working load of 3,700 pounds. Note: There are variations of Dyneema, and these figures vary from one maker to another. Still, the potential of substituting Dyneema for many lines on a sailboat has become a reality.

I discovered another significant benefit in using Dyneema: the ease with which an eye splice can be formed, unlike the complicated (at least for me) reverse-tuck procedure for splicing double braided line. Unlike double braid, 12-strand Dyneema is hollow, with no center core; to make an eye splice, the tail is first tapered by removing pairs of strands, then the end is buried deep inside the standing part and lock-stitched. This is an easy operation using a special 14-inch-long splicing wand from Brion Toss Yacht Riggers (briontoss.com). This fid enables the tapered rope end to be gripped by the wand and then pulled through the core, instead of pushing it in with a conventional fid and push bar. 

You need a very sharp blade to cut Dyneema. Regular household scissors will not cut even a single strand. I have found that the best way to cut this rope is with a box cutter (Stanley knife) fitted with a new blade. Here’s how to do the splice:

It’s easy to become confused about the different manufacturers’ strength figures for Dyneema because they vary greatly with the construction and material. Once my splices were finished, I needed to know the strength of my new splices. After all, there’s not much point in having rope with a breaking strain of thousands of pounds if you don’t know what the weakest point is at either end.

Miami Cordage has a ­government-inspected and -calibrated rope-testing bed, about 40 feet long, on which they test the strengths of ropes for US Navy and Coast Guard vessels. Miami Cordage CEO Jason Hoffman kindly agreed to test one of my lifeline splices to destruction. 

I made an eye splice on both ends of some spare ¼-inch-­diameter Dyneema. This rope was attached to the machine, and I watched as it stretched the line well past 2,000 pounds. Finally, at an incredible 7,596 pounds, the actual rope snapped, yet both my splices held! That’s over 3 tons, and I have an official certificate to prove it. No wonder racing sailors love their Dyneema. Now, so do I.

The test bed for all of Roger Hughes’ constant improvements is his 1977 Downeaster 45 schooner, Britannia.

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“Horizontal!” I shout to my daughter. She’s standing on the stern of the 54-foot W.I. Crealock design The Dove, anchored in Five Islands Bay off Antigua. She’s about to photograph the sunset—holding her iPhone10 vertically. “The world is horizontal!” I yell from the cockpit, my evening’s rum and tonic at hand. 

“It’s vertical in my world!” she yells back. “Instagram doesn’t accept landscape mode!” 

What do I know? I can’t teach these two kids of mine ­anything these days. They’re at that age, early 20s, and Dad, well, he’s just too old to understand.

Maybe I am, but I’ve made my living as a photojournalist who tells stories with pictures and words. Photography has been a part of my career since high school and into the US Navy, with a hitch in Vietnam as a JO3 (a journalist third-class petty officer). In my early 30s, I started a summer school for ­photographers—not because I had anything to teach, but because I had a lot to learn. I invited photographers from Life and National Geographic to Rockport, Maine, to lead one-week master classes. I learned a lot from those masters. For nearly 50 years, the Maine Photographic Workshops was, and now mainemedia.edu is, an international conservatory for the world’s image-makers, storytellers and filmmakers. 

So you’d think I might know something about picture taking.

Well, I don’t. There’s too much to know, still too much to learn. I’m still trying to figure out every new technology. But the process of “seeing photographically” hasn’t changed in a hundred years. It’s not the camera that takes the picture;
 it’s you. 

‘Photography is like anchoring. It’s less about the anchor and more about the technique.’ 

Most of us on boats have a camera or two, and for a variety of reasons: to document our voyages and the destinations when we arrive, to capture the crew in embarrassing situations, and, oh yes, to record those sunsets at sea. We make photographs to share on Facebook and Instagram, to hang on the wall at home, to accompany a written article.

If you are getting serious about ­becoming a better photographer, I might be able to help.

What makes a photograph

We all make snapshots, even me. But for an image to be a photograph, a visual statement, one that involves a whole lot more than a friend’s face or a pretty sunset, there has to be ­something else at work.

Creating, finding or arranging a photograph is a juggling act with at least a dozen balls in the air. They include: the center of attention (what the photograph is about); placement (where to put the center of attention in the frame); quality of light (what is illuminated, and what’s hidden in the shadows); graphic composition (lines, spaces, shapes and diagonals); perspective (the illusion of three dimensions), foreground, middle and background; the frame (what’s in and what’s left out); the decisive moment (gesture); motion (stop it, follow it); exposure (shadow and highlight detail); depth of field (selective focus); the horizon line (keep it level); your point of view; and sharpness (focus and a steady camera).

I’m sure I’ve missed a few, but these will do for now. The more you play with these elements, the less you’ll think about them. They become internal, automatic, and you begin to work intuitively. This is where we as artists work, where we discover and develop our own unique visual voice. 

Getting better as a photographer, or to get better at being lucky as a photographer, is simple. You have to go out and make more photographs. Besides, it’s fun to just wander the streets or beaches on a remote island with your camera and see what you find. Some people bring back driftwood, stones or shells. Photographers bring back images.

Photographs, so the story goes, are realized three times: first, when seen through the viewfinder, then again on the light table or screen as you review your day’s work to find the one or two frames that stand out, and third, when those selected images are crafted and added to your portfolio or hung on the wall. 

Just go out and see what you see. This is not serious work. This is play. Musicians use études to practice fingerings on their instruments. Photographers have a raft of études to practice as they develop their eye and camera skills. 

For a photographer, études include: doors, walls and windows (arrange rectangles inside the frame, play with relationships and space); morning and evening light (mixed with storms and rain); motion (long exposures to blur, one-thousandth of a second to stop motion); one color dominating (but with one or two others to complement it); portraits (always better in shade because faces are softer and people are not squinting); jungles and ­gardens (­always better after it has rained and the vegetation is wet); suspense (people, boats and things just coming together, not yet touching); negative space (nothing there, yet it says something about the subject); trapped spaces (triangles, diagonals and perspective lines); putting something in the foreground (to create three dimensions); playing with the horizon (what the top, middle and bottom of the frame each say about the scene); same scene, another day (different light, different shadows); and sea surfaces (reflections, distortions, riddles).

Looking at your photographs

The only way to get better is to look at, and study, your own work. If you listen, your work will tell you what you’re doing right and, more important, doing wrong. In the process, you’ll make mistakes, and it’s from these mistakes that we learn the most. If you hate making mistakes, don’t call them mistakes. Call them an attempt, a test, an exercise, practice. It’s all part of the learning process.

While you are looking at your own work, look at what other photographers are doing too. The marine photographers I meet at regattas, races and boat shows are professionals. They make their living photographing boats and the yachting scene. Take a look at how they have seen our world on the water. Try to copy them. Painting students are required to copy their masters, in the process mastering technique. We can do the same. 

It’s not the camera that takes the picture; it’s you. 

Not going to a regatta, race or boat show anytime soon? Google these photographers and explore their websites: Billy Black, Benjamin Mendlowitz, Onne van der Wal, Corey Silken, Alison Langley, and me at dhlyman.com.

Case in point

I’ve been mentoring a photographer, Justyna Kramer. She’s the mate on The Dove, which charters in the Caribbean. For the past three years, I’ve watched her learn to find her voice as a photographer. She has discovered that she sees the world better in black-and-white than in color. That realization led her to a self-imposed assignment during quarantine in the Grenadines: upload five newly seen images to Facebook and Instagram each week. Kramer revisited images shot long ago, discovering that when they were converted into black-and-white, they jumped out. Then, ashore on the islands, she made new images, converting them to black-and-white as well. She has assembled this body of work into a series of online portfolios. You can see her work at justynakramer.myportfolio.com and use it as an example to assemble your own portfolios as well. 

Building a body of work is what all artists do for ourselves, our inner artist. Themes might include landscapes, architecture, ­people, events, boats and harbors. No one pays us to do this, but we do it to get better. Someday, maybe someone will pay us.  

Go out with your camera, even your smartphone camera, and find pictures that you can bring back to look at. Do this daily. Or at least weekly. When you have a portfolio of 20-plus images, take a one-week workshop or master class. Find one that requires a portfolio to attend. That way, you’ll likely be with other serious and accomplished photographers. 

And share your images, your exploration of the visual and inner world. Doing so can be more than a career; it can even be a form of medication or therapy.

What’s in My Camera Bag

This combination of gear serves me well just about anywhere.

As a photojournalist, I’m not a gear nut, ­although I’ve owned and used dozens of cameras, from 8-by-10 and 4-by-5 to medium format, half a dozen 35mm film and, now, a digital SLR. But cameras and lenses are just tools. No matter how much gear you have, or how much cash you spend, the cameras will not make you a better photographer. In fact, all of that stuff can get in the way.

A long time ago, Bill Allard, a National Geographic photographer, told me about the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Start with one SLR camera and one lens. Learn to see, photographically, with those two tools. You’ll know when it’s time to acquire another lens or a more advanced camera. Your work, your images will tell you.

The best camera to have is the one in your hand, not the one in your camera bag or on the store shelf. Photography is like anchoring. It’s less about the anchor and more about the technique. If you are a photographer, you can make great photos with any camera, even your iPhone. Just learn its limits, and use them creatively.

My camera bag 

These days, covering the cruising life, my camera and lens requirements are modest. I like it that way. My camera backpack, fully loaded, weights just 15 pounds. Inside this water-resistant Ruggard Outrigger 65 DSLR backpack, I can cram in my iPad Pro, my now-ancient Canon D70 DSLR camera and two lenses, and a short and long zoom. There’s room for two GoPros, a Joby GorillaPod tripod (the one with the bendy legs) and a Rode microphone for recording sound. 

There also are pockets for extra SD cards, tools and wires, a HyperDrive multiport, and a LaCie portable hard drive. 

With these tools, I can hit the road or the water on any assignment and feel confident that I am prepared for any shot.

The camera

My 2016 Canon D70 DSLR still does just what I need it to do. It records video and audio, shoots RAW and JPEG still images, and has a variety of functions that I seldom use. In short, it works. 

I shoot in program mode most of the time, or manual. The camera comes with a pop-up flash to fill in faces and social settings at night. I’ve added a battery pack to extend shooting time, while adding mass to the camera—a heavier camera is more stable. Would I like a newer camera, one with more pixels, a full-frame sensor, more bells and whistles? Sure, but not at the asking price. What I have is adequate for the work I do and the way I see. 

Remember, photography is about seeing, not about the equipment. The technical qualities of your camera wouldn’t make a boring photograph more interesting. 

Normal- to wide-angle lenses

Lenses do more than get you closer or farther way. They define space and affect the perception of depth. 

The lens that lives on my camera—the one I use for 85 percent of my image-making—is an 18mm to 135mm short zoom. I use the wider settings most of the time and 135mm for portraits, because the shallower depth of field throws the background out of focus. 

Long zoom lenses are handy on a boat. They get you closer to the action. My long zoom lens is 75mm to 300mm. Telephoto lenses distort reality in the opposite way, as do wide-angle lenses. They compress space, slamming together the foreground, middle and background. This can be a useful effect in the hands of a creative photographer, but these lenses also have a shallower depth of field, meaning focus and camera handling are more critical.

iPhone camera

My iPhone 7 camera captures more images than all my other cameras. Its various functions are helpful, and it shoots still photos in square, landscape and panorama formats. 

It also shoots acceptable video in standard MP4, with slow-motion and time-lapse options. It records adequate sound. 

Its most endearing feature? It’s always available. I carry it in my pocket. 

GoPro and other action cameras

If spray is flying and the decks are awash, keep the digital SLR belowdecks and bring out the GoPro. 

GoPros are totally waterproof, and they record stills, video, time-lapse images, and slow-motion video on deck and underwater. They record acceptable ambient sound and voice. They are indestructible and cheap enough (compared with other camera gear) to be almost disposable. They can be voice-controlled, paired with your iPhone so that you see what the camera is seeing, and thus used when you’re belowdecks and out of the elements. They also come with a basket of accessories, so you can attach your GoPro to almost anything: your chest, your head, a foredeck hatch. Secure it on the end of a boat hook and stick it underwater to record whatever is warped around your prop. 

My GoPro Hero7 Silver is attached to an ActionPod Pro monopod with a strong clamp. I can secure the monopod to a stanchion, the pulpit or the edge of a table, and then bend the pod to position the camera just where I want it. 

Rain-X on the lens will help rain or spray sheet off. Another technique that scuba divers will understand: Give the front lens a lick with your tongue. 

Drones

These aerial-camera platforms are certainly handy on a boat. My DJI Mini is the basic version, limited and fragile, but fine for now. We’ll upgrade to a $1,000 model once my son gets his drone license. He’s better at the controls. 

Postproduction 

Most of us can’t wait to see whatever we photographed on any given day. Back aboard with my camera and lenses cleaned, I fire up the iPad with a HyperDrive attachment. This allows me to download the SD cards from the digital SLR and GoPro to a ­1-terabyte LeCie portable hard drive. I can review my day’s work on my iPad; inspect, crop and level horizons; and tweak contrast and ­exposure. I move selected images into a separate folder and label my work.

Once I’m back in my studio in Maine, I transfer the portable drive’s content to a working hard dive and a backup drive. I use Adobe’s Lightroom for final postproduction on images for publication. The presets on Apple’s Photo app on my iPad are adequate for most corrections. I shoot both RAW and JPEG files, but I find that JPEGs are faster to work with, take up less space, and are more than adequate for magazine and online use. I seldom use Photoshop. It’s too cumbersome.  

Keeping gear clean and safe

The worst things for camera gear on boats are salt water, spray, mist and moisture. Rain and fresh water present fewer problems.

The front element of the lens needs constant attention while shooting. Inspect it frequently, on all your cameras. Droplets, ­fingerprints or a film of mist will diminish image sharpness, create flare, and degrade your photos. 

Do not wipe the front element until it is first rinsed with fresh water. I keep a spray bottle with distilled water on deck. Rinse the front element, and then wipe it clean with pads, not tissues (which dissolve when wet). While you’re at it, spray and wipe off the entire camera, and your hands. If the salt spray has dried, then salt crystals will scratch the lens’s front element. Treat your sunglasses to the same freshwater rinse before wiping them dry.

Throw that lens cap away and screw on a clear UV or skylight filter to protect the front element. If the filter gets scratched or cracked, a $15 replacement saves you two weeks in the repair shop and a $500 bill.

Dampness corrodes the electronics inside the camera and lens. Letting a damp camera and lens sit only compounds the problems. Gear needs be kept clean while shooting and after each day’s work.

David H. Lyman is an author, photojournalist and sailor. He launched a school for photographers in Rockport, Maine, in 1973 and turned it over to Maine Media in 2007. See more of his work at dhlyman.com.

The post Picture Perfect: Cruising Photography Tips from the Pros appeared first on Cruising World.

I clearly recall, from my days as a young marine mechanic, the first time I encountered a marine engine equipped with serpentine belts. The arrangement replaced the previous three V-belts with a single, ribbonlike grooved serpentine model. It had automatic tension to boot. It represented the very essence of simplicity: a game-changer with a clear increase in reliability.  

The flat design of serpentine belts, with its increased contact area, results in greater load-carrying ability with less likelihood of slippage at lower tension levels. Where available, they’re always worth having. There are conversion kits for some engines; these are used primarily when installing high-output alternators.  

Alas, as good as serpentine belts are, they too wear out. Look for cracks in the ribbed side, especially where the belt’s smooth side passes over an idler pulley. That setup will often spread and highlight cracks on the opposite side.  

Last month, I discussed belt slippage and tension-related issues as common problems. The next-most-common issue related to belts centers on alignment.  

It is critically important for belts, both V and serpentine, to turn over pulleys that are parallel and in the same plane as each other. The greater the load, the more important this configuration becomes. Misalignment can lead to belt wear and failure, and it often occurs with aftermarket installations—in ­particular, with the installation of high-output alternators whose frame or pulley designs are different from the original equipment. While a laser can confirm pulley alignment, it is often possible to sight over the pulleys and belt to make this determination. If a gap can be observed between the edge of the belt and the pulley rim, and if the gap is larger on one side than the other, then there is likely a misalignment.  

Production of belt dust can also indicate an alignment issue. In the case of serpentine belts, exposure of the white filament on one side of the belt is also an indicator of an alignment issue, or a worn tensioner pulley. None of these telltale signs should be ignored because all can lead to belt failure.

When changing belts, check all pulleys—both driven (alternators, water pumps) and idler—for free, easy movement. Any irregularity, or “crunchiness,” is cause for concern. Idler and alternator pulleys should spin freely, while water-pump pulleys will have some resistance; they should spin with minimal effort. Surfaces over which belts turn should be free of rust, nicks and other irregularities, all of which could lead to belt damage or accelerated wear.  

For serpentine belts that utilize an automatic tensioner, belt replacement requires compression of a powerful spring within the tensioning device. This is a task that every skipper should know how to carry out—with haste, if necessary.  

Most tensioners have a square hole designed to accept a standard half-inch socket drive. Depending on the size of the tensioner, it might be possible to compress the spring with the socket-wrench handle alone. In some cases, a longer handle, a breaker bar or a section of pipe might be necessary. Because the tensioner’s spring is powerful, use extreme caution when compressing and releasing it; never place your fingers between the belt and pulley, and always wear safety glasses. The job is more easily accomplished with two people, but be prepared to go it alone if necessary. Lashing the handle of the ratchet is one trick I use to keep the tensioner compressed while I install the belt.

The route that some belts take can be circuitous. If the belt breaks, it might not be immediately obvious how it should be rove. To avoid that scenario, make a diagram or take a photo (and print it) as a visual aid, should ­replacement be necessary.  

Ideally, if you replace belts every two years or so, you should never find yourself in a position where you are making an unplanned replacement. 

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

The post DIY Serpentine Belt Replacement and Upkeep appeared first on Cruising World.

Summer 1997: I was a college kid with a summer gig at the Norwalk Yacht Club in Connecticut. One of my first jobs involved helping varnish the cap rail on the club’s front deck. A friend warned me that this was the boss’s litmus test. I kept my job, but I can still hear my boss warning our crew to mind our “runs and holidays.” 

Flash-forward 25 years, and I’ve learned that the chiseled foam brushes my boss favored weren’t exactly standard (see sidebar). Even so, I can ­only imagine that the Norwalk Yacht Club produced several generations of employees who are fairly deft at foamy-brush brightwork.

While it’s tough to pinpoint when mariners first started ­employing varnish, likely to keep spars from absorbing water (read: weight aloft), odds are good that the practice originated in the Mediterranean region and was derived from resins from now-extinct trees. Varnish and varnish alternatives aren’t new, but they can do a great job protecting wood from salt and sunlight while ­letting owners customize a yacht’s ­aesthetics. 

The trick, of course, is ­ensuring proper attention to detail before and during ­application, and performing some annual maintenance. 

All varnishes are based on proprietary formulas that ­consist of solvents, oils, resins, additives and drying agents; however, varnishes can be ­sorted into two basic camps. Traditional varnishes (“spar” or “marine” varnishes) employ natural oils, usually from trees such as tong or linseed oil, and an alkyd or phenolic base, or sometimes a blend of the two. Polyurethane varnishes employ synthetic (polymer) oils and are either water- or oil-based. Alternatively, they can employ a base that’s a blend of alkyds or phenolics and polyurethane. 

Both varnish types have their applications and virtues. 

Traditional varnishes are flexible in nature and never actually cure, but instead achieve a “suspended elastic state,” says Jason Spaulding, Epifanes’ technical sales manager. This natural elasticity allows the ­varnish to bend and stretch with the wood as it moves from loading—such as with spars—or from seasonal swelling and shrinking. While these attributes make traditional varnishes great for working woods, they also mean that the finish isn’t particularly hard or resilient to everyday dings, scrapes and scratches. Spar varnishes have a traditional amber look that many people love, however, wood purists sometimes grumble that it can disguise the wood’s natural grain. 

“If people want a ­traditional look, they should use [spar] ­varnish,” Spaulding says. “If [they] want a more ­modern look, they should use a ­polyurethane.”

Polyurethane varnishes, which tend to have a clear ­finish, typically yield a much harder and more scratch-­resistant “candy-coated” look. The trouble is that these eye-pleasing finishes have a tendency to crack when they are applied to wooden spars, spinnaker poles, and ­other pieces of brightwork that ­require some degree of give.  

Polyurethane varnishes are available as one- or two-part systems. While both ­product types can work well, one-part systems tend to be more ­user-friendly. 

“One-part systems remove the chemistry, which helps out a lot,” says Joel Arrington, ­boat-shop manager at the Northwest Maritime Center in Port Townsend, Washington. “One-part varnishes are better for the DIYer.” 

Others agree. “Repairs are much easier with a one-part varnish,” says Tom Maellaro, vice president of marketing at Modern Recreational Technologies, which owns Pettit Marine Paint. “Touch-ups are hard with two-part ­varnishes. But fixing damage to a single-­component product is very easy.” Mariners just sand and reapply.

While spar and ­polyurethane varnishes are the ­standard on many boats, some ­cruisers ­prefer varnish alternatives such as Cetol. These ­finishes are ­often easier to apply and ­maintain (read: no sanding ­between coats). Years ago, ­Cetol-based products had a reputation for yielding cloudy, opaque-­looking finishes, but today’s ­cruisers can select from different-­looking ­finishes. ­Cetol tends to yield a long-­lasting finish that can be a good match for high-use areas such as handrails.

Irrespective of the ­product, it’s important to think of ­varnish as a system, much like paint. This system begins with base coats, which are ­designed to penetrate the wood while giving subsequent layers ­something to adhere to. 

“A sealer coat is most ­important with teak,” says Maellaro, suggesting DIYers look for a base product that “deeply penetrates the surface and creates a bonding layer for the varnish.” Alternatively, some cruisers opt to use epoxy for the sealer/base coat, and then switch to varnish for the topcoats. 

Ultraviolet protection is one of the main benefits of varnish, but not all varnishes are created equally when it comes to the sun. Some have a higher solids content; this isn’t an assurance of sunlight protection. 

“It depends on their UV package,” Maellaro says, adding that a varnish could have thick viscosity with a low UV ­barrier, or it could have low viscosity and high UV protection. He advises DIYers to research UV properties and select a product that matches their local climate (that means more UV protection for a sailboat in Miami than in Seattle).

If properly applied and ­maintained, varnish will protect a yacht’s wood for years. The trick, like so many things marine, is to ensure that all of the little steps are taken, in proper order, with patience ­elevated to the highest virtue status.

“Concentrate on cleanliness,” Spaulding says of the pre-varnishing preparation process. “Always use lint-free rags—not a paper towel or a T-shirt—and denatured alcohol. Tack rags are extremely important.” 

Arrington and ­Maellaro agree. “It’s about trying to ­mitigate debris and dust—­anything that can get blown into the work,” Arrington says. “Some folks will build a shelter because it’s a more controlled working environment. Also, make sure you have everything you need before you start the project.”

DIYers can often apply ­varnish while their yacht is on the hard, depending on the yard’s policies, but ­Maellaro says: “There’s the old adage: It’s better to varnish on the ­water. There’s no dust, just more bugs.” 

Sometimes, the best ­solution is to apply varnish off-site. ­Arrington suggests that ­DIYers see if individual pieces of brightwork can be removed from the boat, varnished in a more controlled environment, and then reinstalled. 

Keeping the area super clean should start with a vigorous outing with a Shop-Vac, and then switching to an air ­compressor (or reversing the Shop-Vac) and blowing away any straggler bits. 

“Ninety percent of it is preparation; 10 percent of it is painting,” Spaulding says. “To be a good painter, you need to be a good prepper.”

If you are removing old ­varnish, Arrington suggests ­beginning by peeling off the old varnish using a ­chemical ­stripper or a heat gun to get down to bare wood. If the old varnish allowed water to ­enter, he says, bleach the wood to ­remove staining, and then ­reinvigorate the substrate ­using 120-grit sandpaper. “If the wood is too smooth, it will have a hard time accepting the base layers,” he says.

Spaulding says that this is a good time to tape off ­areas of fiberglass that you want to ­protect from the varnish, ­using painter’s tape and plastic ­sheeting. 

Next, Maellaro says, strain the varnish to remove any ­debris. “If you just use the can, you will contaminate it,” he says. 

This process includes base layers. While DIYers can use a variety of sealer-coat products, Arrington recommends spar varnish that has been thinned by 50 percent with a thinner manufactured by the same company. “It’s an absorbable coat that seals the grain,” he says, “and it becomes a building base for the next coats.” 

From here, he recommends sanding and then applying a second coat that’s thinned by 25 percent, followed by a layer of full-thickness varnish. (Spaulding recommends a third base coat that’s thinned by 15 percent.) Always go with the wood’s grain.

“Once you’re into the ­varnish, never go more aggressive than 220,” Arrington says of sandpaper grit. “You can use a long board with a soft pad that’s either 220 or 320 and work down the high spots.”

Thinning also helps to ensure that the varnish dries evenly. A danger, Maellaro says, is the top film drying before the rest of its coat, causing “solvent entrapment,” which can result in alligator-type marks or sometimes pinholes in the finish. If this happens, the solution is to sand off the compromised layer, thin the varnish, and reapply.

“Ambient heat is really the only way to go,” Spaulding says about getting varnish to dry. “If you force it, you’ll cause issues.” He recommends applying varnish on days when ambient temperatures are 50 to 85 ­degrees Fahrenheit. 

Maellaro agrees, but adds that humidity is another important consideration. “Never varnish if the weather is threatening or raining,” he says. “High humidity is also bad.”

Likewise, Arrington warns that wind has ruined more than one final coat.  

Once the right conditions present themselves, varnishing is a matter of patiently applying a thin coat (roughly 1 to 3 mm thick, with thinner coats being the ideal), waiting for it to dry, lightly sanding the surface with progressively finer sandpaper, and then applying the next coat. While sanding between coats is the norm, Maellaro says that—product depending—DIYers can sometimes skip the sandpaper if they apply coats within 24 to 36 hours of each other.

“Eight coats is the ­minimum,” Spaulding says. “But 10 to 12 coats is better.” 

Which is a lot of prepping, sanding, painting and waiting. “My number-one tip for a perfect coat is patience,” Arrington says. “This starts with setup, and it ends with attention to detail.”

That attention to detail includes selecting the last weather window. “Always apply the final coat in the morning, after the dew has evaporated” Spaulding says. “Evenings are dangerous. Temperatures drop. Dew is a big issue. If it settles, it can act like a wax that doesn’t let the solids move to the surface.” 

Once the final coat has been applied, owners can take steps to ensure that their brightwork stays sharp-looking. 

“Maintenance, maintenance, maintenance,” Spaulding says, adding that a single annual maintenance coat is likely sufficient for boats that reside under normal UV conditions, while two annual maintenance coats are the norm in Florida or the Caribbean. “Putting down eight to 10 coats and then letting it go to hell a year or so later doesn’t make sense to me,” he adds. Customers can get 15 years out of a brightwork job, provided that they are ­vigilant with maintenance. 

Finally, owners should consider supporting their local canvas shop. “Canvas does wonders with UV,” Arrington says. “It looks expensive ­upfront, but it will save you a lot of time.”

While there are a lot of considerations when selecting a varnish or varnish alternative, not to mention hours of work required to get a sparkling finish, the aesthetic results are rewarding, and the protective results can pay dividends for years. 

One final caution: Buy only marine-grade products. Cheaper solutions abound at big-box stores, but they are not formulated to endure the marine environment’s frequent salt-and-sunshine carpet bombings.

David Schmidt is CW’s electronics editor and occasionally writes on other gear topics.

Tools of the Trade

While I learned to ­varnish using a chiseled foam brush, experts ­discourage this tool. “Foam brushes introduce air bubbles ­into the finish,” Tom ­Maellaro says. “And they get ­floppy as the solvents eat the foam. If you’re not ­paying attention, a foam brush can unmold and expand…and can apply uneven amounts of finish.” He ­favors badger-hair brushes, while Jason ­Spaulding suggests Corona ­Europa brushes, which are badger-­style brushes that fetch ­between $10 and $35.

Vendor List 

• Ace: acehardware.com; from $10
• AwlGrip: awlgrip.com; from $6
• Bonstone: bonstone.com; from $85
• Bristol Finish: bristolfinish.us; from $75
• Coelan: supplyground.com; from $80
• Deft Defthane: ppgpaints.com; call for pricing
• Epifanes: epifanes.com; from $25
• HMG: hmgpaint.com; call for pricing
• Interlux: interlux.com; from $25
• Minwax: minwax.com; from $15
• Pettit: pettitpaint.com; from $30
• Vermont Natural Coatings: vermontnaturalcoatings.com; from $10

The post Spring Bright Work: Preparation is Key When Working With Varnish appeared first on Cruising World.

For many years now in my hometown of Newport, Rhode Island, on countless occasions, I have sailed past or kayaked over a patch of water just north of Goat Island, marked off rectangularly by a series of floating buoys. There are few secrets along any waterfront, especially Newport’s, and everyone in town knew exactly what was happening beneath the surface: A team of marine archaeologists were mucking around in the murk, searching for the remains of great British explorer Capt. James Cook’s famous ship, HMS Endeavour.

Now, according to Kevin Sumption, the director and CEO of the Australian National Maritime Museum—which has been instrumental in the research because Cook and Endeavour played a key and controversial role in his nation’s origin story—it’s official. “I am satisfied that [Newport] is the final resting place of one of the most contentious vessels in Australia’s maritime history,” he announced in a press release earlier this year. 

To which Kathy Abbass, executive director of the Rhode Island Marine Archaeology Project, basically replied, “Er, hold your horses, mate.” Or, as she officially said, “The report is premature.”

There’s much to unpack here, but there are salient facts beyond dispute. In 1768, in his retrofitted coal ship, Cook set off from Britain bound for the Pacific, ostensibly to survey the east coast of Oz. But Cook overstepped his mission, and in a major way: Despite having no official authority to do so, in 1770 he claimed the entire bloody coastline for the crown. Some 250 years later, there are plenty of “true blue” Aussies who still can’t stomach it. 

By 1776, Cook had returned home, and Endeavour, under the new name Lord Sandwich (I am not making this up), was pressed into service to ­transport ­mercenary Hessian soldiers to the United States to fight for the Brits in the American Revolutionary War. (Part of the mystery—and confusion—over the years stems from the fact that another renamed ship, La Liberte, was believed to be the original Endeavour.) By August 1778, Endeavour/Lord Sandwich was serving as a prison ship off Newport Harbor when, along with several other vessels, it was sunk deliberately to protect the harbor’s northern flank. And there it sat, for more than two centuries, with Cook ending up killed in Hawaii in 1779 in a subsequent expedition aboard HMS Resolute.

If you’ve ever sailed into Newport, the wreck site lies in about 35 feet of water a few hundred yards north of Goat Island. If you’ve driven in over the Newport bridge, it’s to your right by the mooring field just before the exit ramp. I’ve strapped on scuba tanks nearby on a couple of occasions after stupidly dropping stuff overboard, and I can assure you that the bottom of the harbor is one nasty place: very cold and very dark, with limited visibility and a very gross, squishy seabed. I do not envy the folks who’ve been toiling there for years. 

There are plenty of historical wrecks around this location, a fact that made the work difficult. The Boston Globe’s Brian Amaral reported on a key “aha moment” in the search: “The prevailing theory was that the ship was pointing north when it was sunk,” he wrote. “What if it [were] pointing south? That would have made sense for prevailing winds in August. And when they simply flipped [an overlaid image of the ship’s dimensions] around in Photoshop, the Endeavour and several key points on the shipwreck site matched up perfectly.”

“And there’s the bow,” marine archaeologist James Hunter told Amaral. “Just where we said it would be.” 

Hunter has no doubts whatsoever about the discovery. He says about 15 percent of the ship remains and has been identified, and there are no plans to attempt to raise any of it. As for the Rhode Island doubters, they insist that they hope it’s all true but say they have yet to see the corroborating evidence. “I’m prepared to be excited,” said Ruth Taylor of the Newport Historical Society. 

All that said, we native Newporters have known and are certain that it’s Endeavour settled right here in our ­shadowy waters. No questions at all. Nope.

Unless, of course, it isn’t.

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Marine Archaeologists Search for the Remains of Capt. Cook’s Endeavor off the coast of Newport, Rhode Island appeared first on Cruising World.

For the past several years, practically all of the design surprises that have caught my eye on new sailboats have been abaft the mast. In no particular order, these innovative features include hull chines, twin rudders, pop-up TVs, house-style refrigerators, galleys forward in the saloon, sinks and grills on the stern, sun beds between a ­monohull’s twin wheels, and lounges on the coachroof to either side of the companionway. Some of these make the boat sail ­better, while others make it a more comfortable place to enjoy life on the water.

But this past fall, it was the pointy end—or, should I say, the not-so-pointy end—of the Bavaria C38 that stood out. It made an impression from above, as I looked across the broad foredeck, and down ­below, where the builder’s in-house team and Cossutti Yacht Design somehow found a way to install a king-size berth in the owner’s stateroom, while still leaving room for a hanging locker and a head-and-shower compartment, all forward of the mast.

For a decade or more, even as beam measurement amidships has steadily increased and been carried aft to allow for ever more spacious twin staterooms, most boats still have been built with a bow that’s shaped like an arrow point. The Bavaria V-bow, as the company calls it, has a more radial shape and ­hullsides that flare out above the waterline, creating all that living space in the interior. 

In a briefing with CW’s Boat of the Year judges, a ­company representative described the 38 as a family coastal ­cruiser. I thought that design brief seemed pretty accurate as we went through the boat, and later took it out for a sail. If kids and their friends are the crew, you could pack a pile of them into the two aft cabins, and the dining table in the saloon drops down to form a third double berth. And they could all share the head and shower compartment to starboard, at the foot of the companionway. Meantime, mom and pop can escape to the big forward stateroom. 

The forward stateroom’s en suite head compartment does cut into a corner of the berth, but couples who plan to only occasionally have grandkids or friends aboard can ­forgo the forward head. They also could turn one of the aft cabins into a workspace or stowage, which is standard.

In all three configurations, the saloon stays unchanged. A settee, with a nav desk forward of it, is to port, opposite the dining table and a U-shaped, cushioned seat. The tabletop folds open to handle a crew of six or more. Abaft the ­settee is an L-shaped galley with a sink, fridge and three-burner gas stove. The boat we visited ­also had a microwave. Stowage seemed adequate for coastal-­hopping, and the counters had fiddles to keep things from sliding off when heeled.

Topsides, the cockpit ­coamings make good backrests on the benches forward of the twin wheels. The seats are a bit too short for sleeping, the judges noted, but stepping out over the coamings isn’t ­difficult when headed forward.

Having owned (and ­sanded and varnished) a boat with exterior wood handrails and trim, I appreciated the C38’s low-maintenance exterior finish. The raised bulwarks and deck are fiberglass, and handrails on the cabin top are stainless steel. The only exterior wood is on the centerline table in the cockpit. That table’s after end doubles as a nifty place to mount a plotter because it’s visible from either helm. Far forward, there’s a chain locker with good access to the windlass and anchor rode. The anchor itself is stowed on a roller that extends forward, and the bow is further ­protected from accidental dings by a stainless-steel plate. Aft, there is equally good access to the emergency steering and ­quadrant for the single rudder.

A base-model C38 has a price tag of $248,000, but a model that’s well fitted out, like the one we visited, goes for $350,000, delivered to the United States, East Coast. Among the options ­included on the C38 we sailed were three air-conditioning units, a Fusion sound system, and synthetic teak called Esthec on the cockpit seats and sole, and the swim platform. Hardware and electronics were from Seldén, Lewmar and B&G. Sails were from Elvstrøm.

Bavaria builds 500-plus sailboats a year at its factory in Germany, and the C38 is the smallest in the five-boat Cossutti-designed C line; the flagship is a 57-footer. The company builds two other lines of cruising sailboats—the Cruiser and Vision ranges—for a total of 16 models starting at 32 feet.

Bavaria’s hulls and decks are all hand-laminated, with foam coring between inner and outer layers of fiberglass. Aluminum plates are in the composite sandwich wherever hardwaare is to be ­mounted. Hulls and decks are joined with adhesive and screws.

Underway, the C38 is a relatively simple boat to sail, with in-mast furling for the main and a self-tacking jib, also set on a furler. The boat doesn’t have a traveler, so when beating upwind, tacking requires just a turn of the wheel.

A double-ended mainsheet is led back to winches ­within reach of either of the twin wheels, and sail control lines are all led across the coachroof to clutches and a pair of winches on either side of the companionway. There are also genoa tracks mounted on deck and sheet winches on either coaming, should an owner opt for an overlapping genoa.

Underway, I found that visibility from either wheel was good, thanks to the low-profile cabin. The stainless-steel stern pulpit makes a good backrest when sitting down to steer.

We had moderate conditions the day we took the boat out for a sail on the Chesapeake Bay, right after the close of the United States Sailboat Show in Annapolis, Maryland, in October. Sailing hard on the wind in 15 or so knots of breeze, we saw a steady 5.5 knots on the GPS. The track for the self-­tending jib’s car lacked stops, so we weren’t able to get the headsail in as far as we might have liked to, but that’s an easy fix. With the sheets eased a bit for a close reach, our speed jumped to 7 knots and change. ­Under power, the 40 hp Yanmar pushed us along at just over 6 knots, at a fuel-sipping 2,300 rpm cruising speed.

The skipper who ­delivered the boat to the show was along for the ride. He said that they’d encountered a variety of conditions on the ride up from St. Augustine, Florida, and the boat took them all in stride—just as a family cruiser should.

Bavaria C38 Specifications

Sea Trial

The post Sailboat Review: Bavaria C38 appeared first on Cruising World.

Studying weather forecasts is so much a part of the morning ritual on our boat that we automatically associate the smell of coffee with weather bulletins and surface-analysis charts. It doesn’t matter where we are—near a city with speedy Wi-Fi and downloads, anchored in a remote corner of the globe with text bulletins, or underway with the Pactor modem screeching and rumbling for half an hour to get a GRIB file—weather and morning coffee just go together. 

As sailors, we live much closer to the elements than most people. Keeping an eye on forecasts is imperative for the safety of the boat and the well-being of the crew. It’s also a fun and interesting pastime.

Get your bearings. When you start exploring a ­cruising area, the local weather might seem indecipherable. Get a good introduction to the ­dominant systems by ­reading a few articles about the ­regional weather. When is the rainy season? Is there a hurricane season? 

Guidebooks offer a helpful, albeit simplified, overview. For instance, guides to French Polynesia, where we’ve been cruising aboard our 1988 Sparkman & Stephens 41, Pitufa, for the past eight seasons, describe the area as having two distinct seasons: a dry and windy season between May and October, and a cyclone season from November to April with generally rainy, hot weather. This is true for Tahiti and the Society Islands, but the Marquesas are usually dry with two short rainy seasons in spring and fall, while the Gambier and Austral Islands have proper seasons with hot summers and cool winters. If you don’t study this kind of information beforehand, you’ll be in for a few surprises.

Pilot charts. Take a look at pilot charts as well. What’s the strength and direction of the predominant winds? How often do passing low-pressure systems interrupt them? Get an overview, and then choose a few reliable weather sources from the jumble of available information. Check them on a daily basis.

Look at the big picture. When we have a strong internet connection, we download wind forecasts for a large area to observe the distant systems behind the local winds. This technique helps us, for example, keep an eye on passing troughs that interrupt the trade winds, or take note of an acceleration zone on top of a high-pressure system. 

We like to compare the American Global Forecast System model with the one from the European Centre for Medium-Range Weather Forecasts. That way, we can ​see how they differ. We also like to check the models after the fact and keep track of which one was more accurate.

Surface-analysis charts allow us to visually interpret the isobars, and they turn features such as fronts, troughs and lows into comprehensible images.

Some cruisers crop too small of a frame when forecasting and download data on an immediate area without seeing the bigger picture. They’re often flabbergasted (and curse the stupid forecast!) if the wind blows from the opposite direction. By contrast, if you download a larger GRIB file, you might see a convergence zone with northwest winds on one side and southeast winds on the other. The big picture is important to understand because minor inaccuracies in the forecast can result in a major predicament that leaves you pitching and rolling off a lee shore. 

Looking at the big picture also means that you can prepare for multiple scenarios and have alternative anchorages in mind. We like to explore cruising areas thoroughly and have our own GPS tracks to follow to a safe anchorage in the event of a windshift—a tool that is especially helpful if a move must be made during a squall or in the middle of the night.

Get a feel for weather patterns. During a prolonged stay in a protected anchorage, it’s interesting to look at the forecasts every day. What’s typical for the season and area? Do forecasts tend to overestimate or underestimate weather features? How do systems move? What can you expect from windshifts from certain directions—sunny skies or squalls? If you know your weather, then you can enjoy fair-weather sailing downwind or use the windshifts that passing troughs generate to make miles against the prevailing trades. 

Wait for proper windows. Losing your patience and sailing out on a suboptimal weather window is tempting, but it often leads to frustration. Flogging sails in fickle winds, or too much wind from the wrong direction, is worse than waiting. 

Once you find your window, make sure that you have a reliable source for forecasts underway. Whether you’re using an SSB or Iridium, monitoring forecasts means you can change course if needed, or head for an alternative destination. 

Each year, we sail east from Tahiti toward the Tuamotus in September or October, and each year neighbors ask us which island we’re headed for. The answer’s always the same: “Where the wind will allow us to go.” Setting out with winds from the northerly quadrant, we make miles eastward and try to get as far as we can. If the wind shifts back to the east earlier than expected, or has less of a northerly component than hoped for, we have half a dozen atolls from which to choose. 

Keep it up. Continue to look at forecasts even at anchor, and be prepared to move. What looks like a benign calm in the anchorage might, in reality, be an approaching system loaded with squalls. Being prepared with information is better than trying to ride out nasty conditions on the wrong side of an atoll. Fetch can build quickly, and waves can reach surprising heights. We were anchored recently on the east side of Maupihaa in the Society Islands when we noticed that the GRIB files showed a major wind shift within the next two days. Those shifts often come with squally fronts, so we warned our neighbors in the anchorage and set out to explore alternative spots in the atoll that might be safer in the clocking winds. When the front arrived with 30 knots from the northwest, we were comfortably anchored behind a beautiful motu on the northwest side. Unfortunately, the boats that decided to ride out the shift on the east side spent “the worst night of their cruising lives,” according to the skipper of a 50-foot catamaran, even though they were anchored just 2 miles away from us on the other side of the tiny lagoon. 

Birgit Hackl and her partner, Christian Feldbauer, have cruised French Polynesia for eight seasons. For more information, visit their blog.

Check the Charts for Patterns

Cross-referencing pilot charts, local guides, and anchorage guides can offer a good overview and insight into the weather patterns of an area. 

See our satellite data-based global interactive wind atlas at pitufa.at/oceanwinds.

Pacific Weather

The weather in the South Pacific is dominated by two big highs—the Kermadec high and the Easter Island high—with the South Pacific Convergence Zone in between. The trade winds here are not as stable as Atlantic and Caribbean trades, and can be frequently interrupted by troughs that travel along the convergence zone. Every couple of weeks, a passing trough lets the winds clock around, which is annoying when passagemaking westward but handy when hopping eastward along the islands.

We use Meteo France’s weather bulletins and surface ­analysis, NOAA’s surface analysis and cyclone warning site, and the weekly summaries of MetBob’s Bob McDavitt. All of those sites are embedded here: pitufa.at/weather-fp.

For Fiji, see the weather forecasts on the government’s ­official site (met.gov.fj), which includes the marine forecast.

These sources provide a general overview: 

Pacific Crossing Guide (Adlard Coles Nautical); South Pacific Anchorages (Imray); Cruising World, July 2019, “Pacific Weather Routing”; and Cruising World, July 2019, “Pacific Passage Planning”.

We use an SSB radio in combination with a Pactor modem to download forecasts underway, or when in remote areas. SSB propagation is limited to certain times of the day, so some cruisers prefer a satellite phone. No matter which medium you use, saildocs.com provides a great free service to download forecasts, using small files to save data. For French Polynesia, visit pitufa.at/weather-fp.

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

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

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

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

Settling into the cruise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A relaxing stretch

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

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

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

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

A few challenges

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A rough end to the journey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Contessa 25 

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

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

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

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

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

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