Just because you’re sailing in paradise doesn’t mean you can let down your guard. Wise skippers (and crews) should be prepared for any crisis that might occur. These are boats, after all, and stuff happens.  

First, it’s important that you make full use of your charter briefing. Pay ­attention and ask questions. Your charter company’s briefer can point out the location of fire extinguishers (and how to operate them), life jackets, the propane stove, fuel shut-offs, bilge pumps (electric and manual) and the emergency tiller. Ask to be shown all the seacocks for the engine and heads. Understand everything clearly, or ask more questions.  

During the briefing, be sure that at least one crewmember (besides the skipper) understands VHF radio procedures and how to reach the rescue/aid service in your charter area. Check to see what channel the charter company monitors too. Even if you manage to fix a problem, be sure to report it to the charter company at the end of your trip. Let’s look at some possible issues.

Engine failure

Arguably the most likely scare is when the engine doesn’t start or suddenly dies. I recommend (based on several such “adventures”) that you keep the mainsail up all the way into the anchorage, thus giving yourself backup propulsion in case of the Dreaded Silence. Check to see if the engine kill switch is in the right position, if the gearshift lever is in neutral, if the battery switches are all on, and if the engine is overheating. If the problem is that last one, then the cooling-water intake is probably clogged.

Anchor dragging

This can be dangerous or embarrassing, or both. My wife says that I sleep so lightly that a mouse couldn’t cross the deck without me jumping up and looking. You should be an alert skipper during the night too. If the water against the hull stops going slap–slap and instead goes splish–splish, it might mean your boat is drifting.  

Assuming that you ­anchored properly, you should have taken bearings just after sunset, so you could use them at oh-dark-thirty. You should have noted the water depth as well. If the depth has changed or the bearings aren’t right, you’re dragging.  

Your first move should be to make sure there are no lines in the water (the tender ­painter?), and then start the engine. If you’re not close to other boats, try paying out more rode. If all fails, re-anchor. You have no choice. Awaken other crewmembers, turn off interior lights to save night vision, and move the boat very slowly (with a bow lookout to spot tenders and buoys) to another spot that you hopefully chose during daylight hours as your Plan B.

Fire

Fire is likely to be human-made, usually with a cigarette, match, propane or other type of fuel. The absolute first thing to do is shout, “Fire!” Then, grab the fire extinguishers and aim them at the base of the fire, not flames. Stay away from using water, especially on gasoline or fuel fires because water will only spread them. If, in a few moments, the fire is still uncontrolled, have a crew member send a distress call on the VHF radio.  

A barbecue fire is often on the transom. Most rail-mounted grills can be turned to dump the burning coals into the drink. Check to make sure they didn’t land anywhere on board or, even worse, in the tender.

Flooding

Stepping into the cabin should be step-step-step, not step-step-splash. If you see or feel water, hit the electric bilge pumps manually because they might not have triggered automatically.  Then find the cause of the flooding.

Short of a collision, that cause is likely to be a seacock: The hose either came loose or is leaking. Work through the boat: sinks, heads, engine intakes. If you find a pulled-off hose, then you should shut off the seacock, reattach the hose, and watch it carefully. If the seacock failed or you found a hole, stuff it with anything you can, including beach towels or pillows. The next step is to head for the nearest port and alert the rescue services about your problem. If you don’t find the leak and you’re on an ocean charter, taste the bilge water (I know, yuck!). If it isn’t salty, your freshwater tank is leaking.

Collision

Before departing, remind your crew that if a collision is imminent, whether with another boat or a piling, you absolutely forbid them to try fending off with their hands or feet. Pushing off a moving 10-ton yacht is both impossible and simply stupid.  

After the Big Crunch, check to see if you have any injured crew or if anyone is overboard. If so, forget about the boat and deal with your crew instantly. Next, evaluate the damage. Hole in the hull? Fill it with towels, bedding, whatever you can. Get the name of the other boat, hailing port, charter company, and skipper. Notify your charter company via VHF radio or cellphone as soon as you have things in hand. The company will assess the situation and either send you a chase boat or give you instructions on how to proceed.

Wrapped prop

I’ve endured a few wrapped props, most notably one that actually yanked the prop shaft out of the hull, leaving us not only engineless, but with a solid stream of incoming ocean as well. That’s a story for cocktail hour. 

I now make it a point to have someone appointed Tender Captain (often an older kid) to keep the towline out of the water during maneuvers.  

When you realize that the propeller is eating rope (clue: the towline is disappearing under the boat at an amazing rate), shift into neutral quickly. Don’t try to outthink a piece of rope; stories about shifting into reverse to unwind the prop are old sailor’s tales, and outright lies. If you’re in calm water, then it’s time for the sharp knife and a swim. If the boat is rolling or pitching, don’t even think about it. Be sure the swimmer has a safety line tended by someone on deck, and just carve away the line. Tip: Don’t cut yourself in the process, either with the knife or a prop blade.

Yes, there are a multitude of other possible emergencies, from breaking a stay (stabilize the rig with a halyard) to anchor windlass failure (hit the reset switch and keep thy fingers at a distance). But preparation and prevention are your best guarantees of a problem-free charter. Listen carefully at the briefing, and ask questions.  

And always have a Plan B.

Chris Caswell is an award-­winning journalist, and the editor and publisher of Charter Savvy, a digital magazine specializing in bareboat charter. 

The post Challenges on Charter appeared first on Cruising World.

The morning breeze was light as we ghosted past Sable Island. The mainsail and asymmetrical spinnaker were keeping us moving off the Canadian coast, and we embraced the moment, knowing it wouldn’t last. Wind was coming our way: The forecast called for near-gale-force winds by midnight. We were bound for St. John’s, Newfoundland, 400 miles across the Grand Banks. 

By late afternoon, with the apparent winds steady at 18 knots, we doused the spinnaker, unfurled the genoa, and set the whisker pole. By evening twilight, it was time to reef the main. Quetzal, our Kaufman 47 cutter, is fitted with traditional slab reefing. We were on a sweet reach with the apparent winds 110 degrees off on port tack. Without changing course—that’s right, keeping the apparent winds well abaft the beam—we tied the first reef in the main and rolled in a bit of headsail. A few hours later, with the winds steady at 25 knots, we furled the genoa completely, dropped the pole, unfurled the staysail, and tied the second reef in the main. We didn’t change our heading and didn’t flog a sail. The wind kept ­building and, just past midnight, increased to 30 knots sustained with gusts in the low 40s.

We were flying, punching out double-­digit speeds, but it was a rough ride. The Grand Banks is infamous for raising nasty seas in a hurry. It was time for the third reef in the main. The idea of coming up into the wind to reef in those conditions was madness. While still on port tack, the winds had clocked slightly to about 90 degrees off. We fell off a bit to tie in the third reef before resuming course. We also rolled in a bit of staysail, to keep the sails balanced. The boat settled down, and we charged through the night sailing fast but in control. As conditions moderated, we shed reefs in the same fashion, off the wind without flogging or drama. 

When we reached St. John’s, we learned of the tragedy of the CNB 66 Escape. Just a week earlier, while on passage from Bermuda to Nova Scotia, husband-and-wife owners Karl and Annamarie Frank died from injuries sustained while trying to reef the main head to wind in a Gulf Stream gale. It’s a profoundly heartbreaking story. Reports indicated a struggle with the headsail and boom furling systems. The ensuing chaos of a flogging headsail, the boat rounding up violently, and a wildly out of control mainsheet proved a deadly combination. (For more, see “Deep Thoughts” by Herb McCormick, Cruising World, October.)

The tragedy triggered a sober ­discussion on Quetzal. Coming upwind in those conditions to reef the main comes with a mountain of risk. For that reason, we always reef off the wind. It’s a proven technique; we’ve completed 161 offshore training passages aboard Quetzal and logged more than 150,000 miles. We’ve encountered several deep ocean storms. Reefing off the wind requires good gear and the coordination of several moving parts, but it is not a difficult process. 

However, before we discuss the details, it is critical to understand that falling off the wind, to flatten and stabilize the boat, should be the first step in nearly every offshore sailing maneuver. We are taught to come up into the wind to deal with issues, including reefing the main. To my experience, it’s almost always a bad idea. Sailboats are remarkably stable with the wind abaft the beam, and the apparent loads are dramatically reduced. Flogging your sails and running rigging is dangerous on any boat, but especially on a big boat.  

Our strategy for reefing off the wind begins by steering down (or up, if we’re on a deep reach) to 100 to 110 degrees off the apparent wind, and making sure the boat is happy on that heading. We dump the traveler to leeward to shorten the mainsheet, and we tighten the preventer to keep the boom under control. The boom preventer is always deployed when reaching, and it runs from the end of the boom forward to a fitting near the bow and back to the cockpit. If you don’t have a rigid vang, make sure the topping lift is relatively tight. With the boom secured, it’s time to reef. 

Our main halyard is led aft to the cockpit. As it’s eased, the reefing outhaul, which is also led aft, is tensioned. It does not need to be a simultaneous operation, and the more slack in the halyard, the easier it is to secure the reef outhaul. The sail might bunch a bit as it drops, and occasionally, the sheet needs to be eased to reduce tension, but the sail never flogs, and there’s no tendency for the boat to round up. We don’t lead a separate reef tack line aft, so someone goes forward and secures the tack to the rams horn. With the boat flat, it is not dangerous to make your way forward. Sometimes, a bit of tugging along the luff helps the sail drop, but usually at this wind angle, the sail drops on its own. 

Once the tack is secure, and the reef outhaul tight to the boom, the halyard is slowly hoisted. A bit of sheet control might be required as the sail goes back up. Once the halyard is tensioned, we stay off the wind and rig reefing ties, making sure not to lead them around the boom. They’re not for sail shape, just for gathering loose sail.  

With the reef deployed, we take a minute to make sure everything looks right. Reefing isn’t frantic when you’re off the wind. When we are satisfied, we trim sails and resume course.  

Naturally, there are nuances. Reefing off the wind means that loads stay under tension. You need stout gear, from halyards and blocks to winches and clutches. Also, always reef early, because doing so is the essence of good seamanship. I have a simple rule: If the thought of reefing flashes through my brain, even for an instant, I reef.  

With slab reefing systems, the first reef is the most challenging. You are dealing with more sail area, so the sooner you take it, the better. Taking the second reef is significantly easier if the first reef is in place. The same goes for the third reef. Also, the sail flakes better on the boom when it’s reefed sequentially.  

Quality mainsail cars and a slippery track are vital for effective reefing off the wind, especially if you have a ­full-battened mainsail. Full battens create side load on the cars, and I am not sure why bluewater cruisers insist on full-batten mainsails. Quetzal has a “two plus two” main, with the top two battens full (where you need them the most) and the bottom two partial, allowing us to reef off the wind with ease. 

Selden, Harken, Ronstan and others make ball-bearing cars for full-battened mains facilitating off-the-wind reefing. Replacing the main halyard with smaller-­diameter, less-stretchy Dyneema, and replacing the sheaves at the masthead and in the boom, will reduce friction. Tides Marine offers a one-piece, low-friction, ultra-high molecular weight (UHMW) track with custom slides and batten receptacles that can be added to almost any mast. 

Friction is your enemy reefing off the wind, which is why I don’t like single-line slab reefing systems. There are too many turns, adding friction at every bend. Lazy jacks are also problematic for reefing off the wind. Quetzal is fitted with retractable lazy jacks that are quick to deploy for dropping the sail, and easy to retract when sailing. If your boat is fitted with a lazy bag and fixed lazy jacks, talk to your sailmaker about finding a way to retract them for offshore sailing. 

In-mast furling systems are ideal for off-the-wind reefing. You need to maintain balance between the outhaul, furling line and mainsheet as you reduce sail. Back in my delivery skipper days, I made several Atlantic crossings with in-mast furlers, and successfully reefed off the wind using the same principles used for slab reefing. 

Remember: In every off-the-wind reefing situation, start with establishing boom control. Off-the-wind reefing with in-boom furling is more challenging. The tragic tale of Escape is a graphic example of trying to cope with a boom furler on a big boat in heavy weather. However, it can be done. I recently sailed a Tayana 48 across the Atlantic and a Hylas 49 from Hawaii to Seattle. Both were fitted with boom furlers, and we consistently reefed the main off the wind. Boom angle and the ­coordination between the furling line, which is almost always controlled by an electric winch, the halyard and the ­preventer, is critical. You need to be patient, and you can be if you are not on the wind flogging sails and plunging into waves. 

Manually turning the furling winch is hard work, but it gives you more feel as you reef, and sensing resistance helps prevent the sail from running forward at the gooseneck. Also, sheeting the headsail tight, despite being well off the wind, backwinds the main, which helps it reef more smoothly. Reefing early and ­incrementally is paramount with in-boom furling. 

  Fitting your mainsail for off-the-wind reefing, and practicing the technique in moderate conditions, will make your next offshore voyage safer and less stressful.  

John Kretschmer has been sailing professionally for 40 years, logging 400,000 miles and completing his 30th Atlantic crossing this past summer. He is the author of the international bestseller Sailing a Serious Ocean. John Kretschmer Sailing offers training passages, workshops, ­webinars and Captain’s Hour—a monthly meeting about all aspects of offshore sailing.

The post Reefing Off the Wind appeared first on Cruising World.

Remember when not a single grocery store in America sold pomegranate juice? When tofu was hard to find? When quinoa was almost unheard of?

Well, let me introduce you to sea asparagus. 

My family and I were in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, on Del Viento, our Fuji 40, headed for Alaska. It was the beginning of what would be an eight-year Pacific cruise. A few nights before we left, cruising friends gave us a briefing. It included pictures, stories and need-to-know information from their multiple trips north. 

Then they told us about this thing called sea asparagus. They said we’d find it just at the high-tide line. They said to pick only the tender ends, and to pick around the edges of beds to avoid stomping on the plants. They said we could eat it raw or saute it. We could even blanch it, cut it into pieces, and freeze it. They said it was salty, delicious and nutritious. 

My wife, Windy, and I tucked the info in the back of our minds as we bid Victoria a warm farewell. Then, a week later, anchored off Galiano Island in a little cove near Montague Harbour, we sat quietly in the cockpit and heard a clear, ­authoritative voice booming from ashore. A local naturalist was ­lecturing a group of schoolchildren, likely ferried over from Vancouver. We tuned in, figuring maybe we’d learn something.

“And here,” the guide said, “just above the high-tide line, is sea asparagus. Pick off a bit and try it.” 

Ten minutes later, Windy, our two daughters and I were ashore, poking around the area where the group had been. “I think this is it,” Windy said, nibbling on a tender green shoot. “Funny, I always thought this plant was called pickleweed.” 

Sea asparagus has long, green spears that closely resemble garden asparagus. Both are slightly bitter yet savory—but the taste is different. Sea asparagus is briny and a bit crunchy, delicious on its own or paired with something that would normally need salt. It’s perfect with just about any seafood. 

We harvested a bunch and rowed back to Del Viento to make our dinner: a sea asparagus-inspired Asian stir-fry. It was very good. As it turned out, sea asparagus is a perfect stir-fry ingredient.

Stir-fries are one of our favorite onboard meals. You can experiment, use what’s on hand, and discover new flavor combos. You can go all-veggie, use tofu, or add slices of beef, chicken or shrimp. 

Sea asparagus is high in protein, rich in polyunsaturates, and high in vitamins A and B and folic acid. It’s hyperphotosynthetic (meaning it sucks carbon dioxide out of the air really fast compared with other plants). It’s being used in Baja, California, to make a lower-sodium salt substitute. And it can be used to produce biodiesel. This stuff definitely qualifies as “green.” 

In England, they call sea asparagus samphire and eat it with butter or olive oil. In other parts of the world, they call it umari keerai and grow it for livestock feed. The Sri Lankans feed it to donkeys. Other names abound by region, including beach asparagus, glasswort, sea beans and crow’s foot greens. And Windy was right: Pickleweed is a San Francisco name for this stuff. Botanists call it Salicornia, its official name.

It’s probably only a matter of time before clever entrepreneurs add sea asparagus to lists of superfoods you should eat every day. Then, in the grocery store, it’ll be packaged in neat little bundles wrapped in cellophane (and priced exorbitantly). 

For now, look for it seasonally in sheltered coastal salt marshes and calm tidal flats. It’s common along the east and west coasts of North America, coastal Gulf of Mexico, and elsewhere around the world. If you’re lucky, you might find it in coastal farmers markets. 

We’ll continue gathering it wherever we find it, and ­munching away for free, wherever our bow points us next.

Savory Sailor’s Stir-Fry

• Splash of olive oil or peanut oil
• 1-2 Tbsp. sesame oil
• 1 cup carrot, thinly sliced
• 1 lb. shrimp, cleaned and deveined; or 14-16 oz. extra-firm tofu, well- drained and cut into bite-size pieces
• 2-3 cloves garlic, finely chopped 
• 2 tsp. fresh ginger, finely chopped 
• 2-3 cups sea asparagus or garden asparagus
• hoisin, mushroom or oyster sauce, to taste
• black pepper, to taste
• serves 4

Wash and cut sea asparagus spears into 3-inch pieces. If using garden asparagus, remove the tough bottom end of stalks. If you can’t find thin-stalk asparagus, cut thick spears in half lengthwise.

Heat the oil on medium-high in a large skillet or wok. Add the carrot, and toss for 1 minute to coat and heat. If using garden asparagus, add it with the carrot. 

Add shrimp and stir-fry for another 3 minutes. If using tofu, stir-fry for 4 minutes.

Add garlic and ginger, and fry for another minute, tossing well. Do not to burn or overcook the garlic. If using sea asparagus, add it now, and continue stir-frying until it’s mixed in and heated through. 

With less than a minute left to cook, stir in the sauce of your choice. Add black pepper, to taste.

Alterations: If you want a bit of sour with the sweet, add a dash of rice wine vinegar. For garden asparagus, add salt, to taste, or put a bottle of soy sauce on the table. Do not add salt if using sea asparagus. It’s very salty. 

Serve in bowls over rice.

Prep time: 15 minutes
Difficulty: Easy
Can be made: Underway or at anchor

The post Wild Harvest: Salty Sea Asparagus appeared first on Cruising World.

Quicklook: State-of-the-Art Boating Safety Equipment

• Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacons (EPIRBs)
• Personal Locator Beacons (PLBs)
• Automatic Identification System Man Overboard Devices (AIS MOBs)
• Bluetooth MOBs
• Two-Way Communicators

Evolving Marine Safety Technologies

I still remember waving goodbye to my mom, as my dad, three of his buddies and I pulled away from the dock in Bar Harbor, Maine. We were bound for the Gulf of Maine and, eventually, our home port on Long Island Sound. The year was 1987; I was 10, and I had begged to go offshore. Consequently, I had made my share of promises so that I might find myself—a mere boy—on a bona fide delivery. Among them were a promise not to venture forward of the cockpit and to wear an (awful) orange Type II life jacket with a homemade chest harness and safety tether.

While my dad’s old C&C 37 got us through in fine form, I quickly learned that I hate being seasick even more than I despise Type II life jackets. 

Fast-forward 35 years to my most recent offshore adventure: a delivery from Ketchikan, Alaska, to Seattle via the outside of Vancouver Island, aboard a lickety-split Riptide 44. Many things had changed. For starters, there was no seasickness, nor was there any time spent languishing at 5 knots. There also was no awful orange life jacket. Instead, I wore my brand-new PFD, which contained an AIS MOB beacon set up to trigger automatically if the PFD inflated. I also carried a PLB.

While there’s no comparing the boat speeds or water temperatures involved in these two adventures, there’s also no comparing the safety gear. Sure, hypothermia would arrive much faster in British Columbian waters than in the Gulf of Maine in August, however, my AIS MOB beacon would guide my own vessel back to my real-time position, while my GPS-enabled 406 MHz PLB would alert the correct rescuing authority.

Satellite-Based Innovation

When it comes to safety at sea, modern mariners have two important pieces of satellite-based defense available: EPIRBs and PLBs. Both are underpinned by Cospas-Sarsat, which was founded decades ago by Canada, France, the United States and the former Soviet Union to provide a free emergency-signal relay service for mariners of all flags.

Today, Cospas-Sarsat involves these founders plus 43 other nations (and two agencies) that share the goal of providing, maintaining and innovating a global distress-signal monitoring system that directs the correct rescuing authority to an unfurling ­emergency as quickly as possible. To date, Cospas-Sarsat has saved more than 50,000 lives. 

On the infrastructure side, Cospas-Sarsat uses transponders fixed onto search-and-­rescue satellites (SARSAT) that operate on three constellation bands: geostationary (GEOSAR), low-earth orbit (LEOSAR) and medium-earth orbit (MEOSAR). As of this writing, there are nine active GEOSAR satellites and five LEOSAR satellites; once the network is complete, there will be at least 75 MEOSAR satellites aloft. 

These satellites are supported by a global network of ground-based assets, including Local Users Terminals (LUTs), Mission Control Centers (MCCs) and local rescue coordination centers. 

Satellite transponders spend the majority of their time monitoring for 406 MHz emergency signals, which originate from a vessel-registered EPIRB or an individually registered PLB. Once a satellite receives a distress signal, it either forwards the signal’s exact frequency and time it was received to a nearby LUT, or it stores and forwards the message to the next available LUT. Then, the LUT passes the message to an MCC in the country where the beacon is registered. The MCC, in turn, hands it off to the correct rescue-coordination center, which executes the rescue. In US waters, this last responsibility falls to the men and women in the US Coast Guard. 

Modern EPIRBs and most PLBs are GPS/GNSS-enabled, meaning they encode and transmit their GPS or GNSS location information along with their unique 406 MHz distress signal. This is critical because accurate position information almost always reduces the amount of time it takes for Cospas-Sarsat to determine an active beacon’s position. 

Triangulation

LEOSAR ground segments can determine a beacon’s location using Doppler processing, however, this requires at least three beacon bursts to determine the beacon’s correct latitude and longitude. MEOSAR satellites can perform almost-instant “trilateration” of an active beacon using what NOAA describes as 3D triangulation. 

GEOSAR satellites, on the other hand, because of their geostationary nature, pass collected 406 MHz signals to LEOSARs and LEOLUTs for geolocation work. 

In addition to their ability to execute trilateration—sometimes with only one beacon burst—the still-evolving MEOSAR satellite network offers other important advantages compared with the older GEOSAR and LEOSAR satellites. These advantages include sheer numbers (read: far shorter wait times than LEOSARs, which complete each orbit every 100 or so minutes) and the fact that multiple MEOSAR satellites are always looking at the same swatch of earth and ocean. This includes the high latitudes. 

According to an example cited on NOAA’s webpage, on May 4, 2016, an EPIRB activated some 700 nautical miles west of the Galapagos Islands. The LEOSAR and GEOSAR constellations required 59 minutes to locate the beacon, and an additional hour and 18 minutes to confirm the signal; MEOSAR located the signal immediately, and confirmed it in 20 minutes. MEOSAR was about seven times faster, shortening the time by almost two hours. And in any emergency situation, time matters.

Keep reading to learn how and why technologies like these are quickly becoming essential tools in any modern boat safety kit.

EPIRBs

As mentioned, EPIRBs are registered to a vessel, not to individual sailors. They come with manually or hydrostatically released mounting brackets, and the EPIRBs themselves can be manually or hydrostatically activated. EPIRBs are physically larger than PLBs. Their batteries are required to enable signal transmission for at least 48 hours (some offer longer burn times), and they’re equipped with 360-degree strobe lights. 

All EPIRBs sold in the United States on or after January 1, 2019, are required to be GPS/GNSS-enabled. One important and recent regulatory change came on July 1, 2022, when the International Maritime Organization began mandating that large commercial ships (read: SOLAS-level vessels) fit EPIRBs that are both GPS- and AIS-enabled.

While SARSATs listen for 406 MHz signals, AIS signals are transmitted via VHF radio and are received by every AIS-equipped vessel that is within VHF range. This makes AIS the preferred signal for so-called final-mile search-and-rescue work, and means that modern EPIRBs transmit four signals: 406 MHz, 121.5 MHz (an older-generation homing signal for final-mile operations), AIS and GPS/GNSS. As of this writing, the only EPIRBs that satisfy this requirement are ACR Electronics’s GlobalFix V5 EPIRB, Ocean Signal’s EPIRB3, McMurdo’s Smartfind G8 AIS and Kannad’s SafePro AIS (ACR and Ocean Signal are owned by the same parent company, while McMurdo and Kannad share similar lineage). Other manufacturers are expected to bring next-generation EPIRBs to market soon. 

If you cruise with an older, non-AIS- and GPS/GNSS-enabled EPIRB, or with one that’s incompatible with the new MEOSAR satellites, this winter could be a great time to ask Santa for a boat safety kit upgrade. 

PLBs

Personal locator beacons are designed to contact Cospas-Sarsat and are among the most important beacons that every sailor should carry. PLBs are typically pocket-size, are inherently buoyant or employ a buoyant case, and are manually activated. As mentioned, PLBs are registered to an individual, not to a vessel. Users must register their beacon after purchase; in the United States, this is done through NOAA’s website. Users can update their beacon’s profile as necessary. 

This latter point is key. Before leaving for my recent delivery from Ketchikan to Seattle, I updated my NOAA beacon profile to describe our proposed sailing dates, expected routing, the vessel’s name, the (correctly spelled) names of each crewmember, the name of the vessel’s owner (he wasn’t aboard), some emergency contacts, and a description of the yacht (44 feet, white topsides, royal-blue undercarriage). All of this information would save critical time in an emergency.

Once sailing, I carried my PLB in a dedicated pouch attached to my PFD’s harness, and I secured a lanyard from the PLB to the PFD’s harness so that the beacon couldn’t float away if I found myself swimming (my AIS MOB was also backed up with a lanyard).

As mentioned, most modern PLBs—including mine—incorporate GPS/GNSS information with their distress signals, which can save a lot of time. Another important advancement involves relaying confirmation to the PLB that Cospas-Sarsat has received its distress signal. Tragically, there have been documented examples of mariners making fatal decisions because they believed their signals went unheard. As a result, some newer PLBs have Return Link Service (RLS), which means that once Cospas-Sarsat has received a distress signal, it initiates a reciprocal signal for confirmation. 

Anyone in the market for a PLB should spend a little bit more (ballpark $100 extra) and invest in a MEOSAR-compatible PLB that includes RLS capabilities. 

While cruisers can expect to pay a few hundred dollars for a PLB, there are no subscription costs or revolving fees. PLB batteries are good for roughly five years of standby service and at least 24 hours of operation (manufacturers advise mariners to replace their batteries after use). Five years is also a good time frame for evaluating newer boat safety kit technologies and possibly upgrading beacons as new capabilities come online. 

AIS MOBs

Having sailed and raced extensively in the Pacific Northwest’s cold waters, I’m well aware that one’s own vessel—or a nearby vessel—is the fastest way out of a MOB situation. As their moniker implies, AIS MOBs are individually carried but unregistered beacons that, when activated, transmit emergency signals over AIS. These signals trigger AIS alarms on all nearby vessels; these alarms include AIS MOB icons that appear on networked chart plotters and give real-time information about a MOB’s location.

AIS MOBs include an AIS transmitter, integrated GPS (or GNSS), usually a Digital Selective Calling (DSC) transmitter, sometimes an integrated strobe light, a battery and an antenna. Once activated, AIS MOBs transmit position information that’s accurate to within a few meters for at least 24 hours. 

While most AIS MOBs are manually activated, some—including Ocean Signal’s MOB1 and ACR’s AISLink MOB (owned by the same ­parent ­company)—can be rigged inside a personal ­flotation device so that when the PFD inflates, it pulls the pin on the AIS MOB. This way, the AIS MOB starts broadcasting within seconds. This ­feature is especially important if the MOB is injured or goes into shock.

Bluetooth Devices

In addition to PLBs and AIS MOBs, companies including ACR also make Bluetooth-based MOB alarms. These consist of an onboard base station that typically pairs with a wireless device running a dedicated app, plus a series of crew-carried pendants or tags. Should a tag break its geofence, an alarm is tripped on the app, which captures the tag’s current GPS location. Users can navigate back to this last-known MOB position; however, it’s important to understand that set-and-drift means an MOB can travel some distance from where they fell overboard.

Also, unlike AIS MOBs, whose emergency signals and real-time positions are displayed by all nearby AIS-equipped traffic, Bluetooth screams can be heard only by the tag’s paired base station. So, while Bluetooth-based MOB devices are affordable, and sometimes even include an engine kill switch, they don’t afford the same protection as an AIS MOB or PLB. 

Two-Way Communicators

Recent years have seen the advent of satellite trackers that offer two-way satellite communications and the ability to contact a privately operated emergency-­response center such as the (Garmin-owned) International Emergency Response Coordination Center (IERCC). That center, in turn, contacts the correct rescuing authority.

These two-way communicators are GPS-enabled, which means they can share your exact location information. They also have two-way communications (typically using a third-party wireless device, but sometimes on the communicator itself) that can be crucial in an emergency. Product names include Garmin’s inReach, Spot X and ACR’s Bivy Stick. The devices can sometimes be used for navigation and to get basic weather information, but they do require a subscription plan (although typically not for issuing an emergency signal). 

Gold Standard Technologies for Your Boat Safety Kit

Given the available technologies, the best electronic boat safety kit tools for ensuring safety at sea are a contemporary and properly registered EPIRB, a properly registered and updated PLB, and an AIS MOB. This setup is the safest way to sail. As for cost, remember: No one ever wished they owned a cheaper parachute before pulling the rip cord.

David Schmidt is CW’s electronics editor.

Stop the Press!

ACR Electronics and Ocean Signal (same parent company) announced the first combination 406 MHz and AIS-enabled boat safety kit beacons: the ResQLink AIS PLB and the PLB3 (respectively). These devices are registered to an individual, and can be considered the gold standard for all-in-one beacons. If you’re looking to upgrade, these game-changers could be just the ticket.

Vendor Information

ACR Electronics; from $310
Garmin; from $350
Kannad; call for pricing
Netwave; call for pricing
McMurdo; from $290
Ocean Signal; from $310

The post Electronic Life Insurance: Essential Boat Safety Kit Technologies appeared first on Cruising World.

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The idea was perfectly realistic: I’ll get a little pocket cruiser, we’ll take the kids sailing, they’ll be angels, and life will be perfect. 

I imagined sunset cruises, my wife and I canoodling in the cockpit, both of us giggling and drinking spritzers while the boat sailed itself and the kids never spoke. And if they did, they’d speak in nautical (read: British) accents. Look what I’ve spotted in the sextant! I’m just chuffed to bits you’ve taken us sailing, Mum and Dad.

We’ve had a sailboat for a year now, and I still haven’t heard that. My wife and I haven’t had a single sail that felt like a date. And there isn’t a kid aboard who speaks at a volume lower than 80 decibels. 

Yeah, I know, a guy on a tiny yacht shouldn’t be whining. In a few short years, the kids will be grown, no one will be yelling, and nothing on the boat will be sticky. Until then, though, what’s a 21st-century parent on a 25-foot sailboat to do? 

Perhaps not surprisingly, options do abound. What follows are tips gathered around the world from parents who are cruising, daysailing or simply making way on sailboats with kids.

Fabio Fischer, Scorpio 26 Farrapo, Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil

We sail in southern Brazil and the southern Atlantic ocean. On board, we have a 4-year-old son who first started sailing at age 3. To help him enjoy the experience, we make an effort to make sailing social. We often bring friends and other children aboard. And it works: Our son seems happy when he can teach other kids about sailing. We also call him captain.

Nele and Milan Djuric, Oyster 55 Snooty Fox, Flensburg, Germany

As a family of four en route to the Mediterranean Sea, we think it’s important to make it apparent that sailing and living aboard is something that makes us (the parents) happy. We want the kids to see that we’re in a good mood as soon as we’re on the boat. It’s also important for our children to have a chance to play. So we bring along a few of their favorite toys. For example, we have a blanket filled with Lego bricks that we can easily open (and put away quickly) in the salon, cockpit or aft deck.

Maxime Dawson, Lagoon 440 Casablanca, Western Australia

Kids need activity and attention. On board Casablanca, we bring board games and schoolwork. We even give the kids cooking tasks to keep them busy. It’s not easy. Inevitably, the kids get bored. But sailing teaches them to slow down; it helps them understand that boredom is a part of life. Sailing is also a great learning experience. As we travel, we stop regularly to visit beaches and new places. Geocaching is a fun activity during these stops. The kids love it. They think that living on a boat is so much more fun than their former life because we’re always going somewhere new.

Kristianne Koch Riddle, Kelly Peterson 46 Indra, Long Beach, California 

We’ve raised our kids sailing since birth. Even though we haven’t taken off to cruise the world and still live in a house, we’ve made sailing our lifestyle. We’ve always encouraged both kids to explore the many ways they can be a part of sailing and on-the-water life. Over the years, we’ve read sailing stories, learned together about the creatures and natural world we share our lives with, and talked about the historical relevance of all the places we sail to. Today, at ages 13 and 16, the kids sail, surf, snorkel and swim.

Johannes Erdmann, Delphia 33 Maverick, Germany 

My wife and I have been living full time aboard boats for many years. We’ve done several ocean crossings. But, after moving ashore and becoming parents, this is our first season with kids aboard, and we’ve been learning a lot. While the kids seem to love life on the water (which makes us happy), they also need some off time every day. So we go ashore and explore playgrounds and beaches. In difficult situations, and during ­maneuvers, we have also occasionally been “bad parents” who rely on the hypnotizing effect of Paw Patrol. Our oldest son, age 2, is such a big fan of the series that he will not leave the iPad while we are docking the boat.

Jessica and Jeroen, Harmony 47 Sans Souci, Menorca, Spain

We have some simple advice that works for us: Always be one step ahead of the kids. The moment they get bored is the moment they get mischievous. So, keep them entertained. We let the kids help us with small jobs or chores. Our boys are 4 and 3, so they can’t do too much, but they are keen to help with whatever new things we throw at them: drawing, reading, board games, arts and crafts. Our last resort is putting on a movie for the kids, which, funny enough, also helps with seasickness.

Ben Doerr, Pearson Countess 44 True, Bainbridge Island, Washington

We are a liveaboard family with a ­sailboat charter business. When we’re not chartering, we gunkhole and explore local waters. My advice is this: When it comes to engaging the kids with the actual art and tasks of sailing, don’t teach them. Don’t set a time and force it on them. If you enjoy it, they’ll see it, and they’ll ask questions when they’re ready to learn specifics. Always offer them the opportunity to engage, but let them come at their own pace.

Seth and Elizabeth Hynes, Outremer 51 Archer, San Francisco

We’ve found that it’s important to get kids excited for each adventure. Before departure, we let them pick out toys. We have new stuffed animals on board when they arrive. And we talk endlessly about all the new and cool things they’re going to do on the boat. For long passages, we bring along audio stories (like the Hardy Boys books) to keep those who are prone to seasickness entertained.

Juliana Kolling, Hunter 375, Santa Maria, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil 

We don’t have a TV or electronics on the boat to entertain the kids. Instead, the adults take turns playing with them. For a few hours each day, we go ashore to play on the beach, swim, paddle or ride bikes. Inside the boat, we keep the kids busy and have them help us make food and wash clothes. They also like to draw, read books and play with our dog. It’s not easy, but we’ve all become quite used to the simplicity.

Tina Vranken, Lagoon 46 Nohma, Ostend, Belgium

For us, sailing is about spending quality time together as a family. When the kids are bored or unhappy, we talk, rest, eat snacks and play word games. We also find it helpful to have some strict rules. For example, the kids understand that they have to be quiet during stressful situations. This also keeps us from losing our tempers, which would cause even more stress. In the end, it’s important to respect one another’s feelings, especially when someone is feeling sad, unhappy or homesick. Having a talk, offering a hug, and a lot of love mostly do the trick. Still, there are moments that kids are bored or the parents are annoyed. Just remember that this is normal, and it will pass.

Emily Blake Fischer, Cape Dory 25 Delilah, Marina Del Rey, California

With two kids, ages 3 and 7, on a sailboat, there are often situations that create upset: waves, wind, no wind, heeling, heat, seasickness. As a parent, my goal is to regulate myself first and the kids second. When tantrums happen, I do my best to breathe, maintain my composure, and stay calm. I know I can’t control a toddler’s emotions, but I can control my own. When I’m internally calm, I can respond to the kids with empathy, remind them that they are safe, tell them that they can handle whatever is happening, and slowly teach them to be aware of their emotions. Then again, there’s always a glass of wine.

David Blake Fischer lives in Pasadena, California. Catch his latest new sailing ­adventures (and mishaps) in his hilarious web column “The Noob Files” at ­cruisingworld​.com/thenoobfiles, and follow him on Instagram @sailingdelilah

The post Have Kids Went Sailing appeared first on Cruising World.

The cold front had passed overnight, and even though it was the middle of July, the fresh northwesterly off the coast of Camden, Maine, had the crisp, clear aura of an early-fall morning. In other words, it was a perfect day to go for a sail. Happily, given that I’d found myself aboard just about the ideal yacht to do so: a slick new Lyman-Morse LM46, a semicustom homegrown beauty constructed at the longtime Maine builder’s facility in nearby Thomaston. 

Hopgrasser, the first of two LM46s to emerge from the shed, was company president Drew Lyman’s personal ride, so named by his young daughter, who’d found it linguistically challenging to put the “grass” in front of the “hop.” 

The unique name is in keeping with a special, quite inimitable sailboat. Designed by New Zealander Kevin Dibley, a naval architect renowned for his flat-out race boats and graceful performance cruisers, the LM46’s objective is fourfold: light but solid build; handsome yet functional lines and accommodations; prowess in light, inshore breeze; and the power and strength for offshore sailing, including events such as the Newport Bermuda Race (which Hull No. 2, Arcadia, knocked off this past summer). 

We’ll start with the build, the first of many things that separate the LM46 from the majority of contemporary cruisers; after all, these days you don’t see many wooden boats at your typical boat show. Lyman-Morse earned its reputation and butters its bread by employing cold-molded, infused-epoxy construction with Douglas fir and Western red cedar. An internal carbon frame stiffens the structure, and ties in the shrouds and titanium chain plates (the rudder and stock are also carbon). The composite deck is laminated with a foam core, again in the dual interests of less weight and more strength. My question about what wood was used to fashion the lovely cabin top was met with a laugh: Turns out it’s all composite (keep it light!), to which a vinyl adhesive with a wood pattern is affixed. Tricky.

In profile, this is one of those rare yachts that looks extremely quick and maneuverable just sitting alongside the dock. The understated sheerline dips ever so slightly from bow to stern, accentuating the low-slung, minimalist coachroof. A dedicated carbon sprit forward is home to both the ground tackle and the tack fitting for off-wind runners and reachers, and gives the profile a businesslike effect. Unlike so many modern boats, there’s no hard chine; in fact, the hull tapers inward in its after sections, a design that does the opposite of a chine and narrows the beam, the thinking being there’s less drag when sailing off the breeze. There’s also less freeboard than we’re used to seeing in most new production boats. To my eye, it’s all very striking. 

The boat is powered with a straightforward 12-volt system with a Mastervolt Combi charger/inverter, a 60-amp alternator, a solar panel atop the cockpit dodger, and a set of lithium-ion batteries. The B&G Vulcan 7 instrumentation package is standard. A Yanmar 80 hp diesel with saildrive, coupled with a Max-Prop feathering propeller, supplies the propulsion under power. 

As a semicustom boat, the LM46 has quite a bit of leeway in the belowdecks layout and accommodations, but the rather traditional setup on Hopgrasser suited me just fine: galley and nav station at the foot of the companionway, opposing settees/berths in the main saloon, a head and shower forward, and an owner’s stateroom forward. (And a real sea berth to starboard, for which I’m a total sucker.) A single head on a 45-footer is also unusual these days, but a second head is an option. 

I wondered aloud about the two quarter berths aft, both wide open and not stashed behind doors, which I thought was in keeping with the airy quarters but something you’re more likely to see on a racer than a cruiser. “If you want privacy,” Drew Lyman said with a laugh, “get yourself a hundred-footer.” 

I guess for some folks, that might be an option. But they’d miss out on a fantastic sailing experience on a package dedicated to just that. 

This I discovered rather quickly as we motored out of Camden and hoisted sail, beginning with a powerful square-topped, full-battened Doyle mainsail. Lyman-Morse promotes simple sailing, with the ability to be off the dock with sails hoisted in less than five minutes. With that norther coursing off the mainland, the seaway in the lee was flat and fast: pretty perfect for trialing a boat that accentuates performance. 

Surprisingly, there’s no backstay on the LM46, but rather a pair of check stays that require regular attention. The twin wheels, with Jefa steering, are situated just abaft the cockpit-wide traveler, and a double-ended German-style mainsheet arrangement trims the main, which has three deep reefs, which is my preference for long-distance sailing. It’s all smart and efficient, befitting a true racer/cruiser sensibility. 

Hopgrasser draws 6 feet, the shoal option that replaces the standard 7-foot, 7-inch composite fin with attached lead ballast bulb (the Bahamas is definitely in its future; alternatively, there’s also a 10-foot version for owners of a more competitive nature). 

Sailing the boat is loads of fun, and certainly athletic. Lyman said he’s still learning the boat but has discovered that the sweet spot when sailing upwind is a 20- to 22-inch heel angle, which you dial in by constantly playing and tweaking the traveler and vang, as you would on a dinghy or certain one-design classes. The Doyle headsail is sheeted in not on tracks, but instead on movable leads with multiple trimming options, which on the LM46 is certainly an enjoyable part of the exercise. 

On our test sail, the puffy breeze was all over the place, dipping to around 10 knots in the lulls and kicking in at over 20 knots in the gusts. The one consistent factor in all this was the sheer joy in driving this ultra-sensitive, highly responsive sailing machine. In the lighter airs, Hopgrasser registered about 6.5 knots in upwind mode; that ratcheted up to nearly 10 knots just cracked off slightly when it filled into the upper teens. As far as top speeds are concerned, Lyman said that the second LM46, Arcadia, saw 19.9 on its speedo during the dash to Bermuda. No question—it’s a slippery hull indeed. 

The LM46 is not inexpensive, but it epitomizes what my wise old sailing mate Alvah Simon referred to as “heirloom quality,” something so fine and lasting that it might be passed along in one’s family for years and generations to come. Those are high aspirations, certainly. But in the case of Hopgrasser and her sisterships, they’re attainable ones as well. 

Lyman-Morse LM46 Hopgrasser Specifications

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Sailboat Review: Lyman-Morse LM46 Semicustom Performance Cruiser appeared first on Cruising World.

Sailing performance was definitely a factor for Erik Asgeirsson when he began his search for a new sailboat. Currently the fleet captain at the American Yacht Club in Rye, New York, he’s a racing sailor and has been part of a crew who campaigned his uncle’s J/35 around the buoys for many seasons. But after years of owning a Pearson 10M, and with four daughters between the ages of 8 and 14—not to mention a fondness for the rocky coast of Maine—he also wanted a family-friendly cruising boat, which will be shared with a co-owner and his family at the club. 

By luck, Al Johnstone and the team at J/Boats had just such a dual-purpose vessel in mind when they sketched out their newest model, the J/45. They envisioned a performance-­oriented, offshore-capable sailboat that would be equally at home both on the Newport Bermuda Race starting line and on an extended cruise to anywhere.

Having launched several smaller (and a few more racing-oriented) boats in the past decade, J/Boats president Jeff Johnstone saw the J/45 as an intentional return to bigger, multipurpose boats. Speaking just ahead of the start of this year’s Newport Bermuda Race, Johnstone noted that out of the nearly 200 boats entered, more than 50 were ­J/Boats.

But back to the new 45-footer. Asgeirsson and his partner went over the plans, liked what they saw, and ultimately took possession of Hull No. 2 this past spring at the J Composites yard in Les Sables-d’Olonne, France. (J Composites is the longtime builder of J/Boats in Europe and the co-developer of the J/45 and several other models.)

Asgeirsson was aboard Acadia for a 400-mile shakedown cruise to the United Kingdom, where the boat was loaded onto a ship and delivered to Narragansett Bay in early June. 

To say he was satisfied with the boat would be an understatement. “It’s been a great project,” he told me when I arrived for a sea trial at Safe Harbor New England Boatworks in Portsmouth, Rhode Island. 

On the dock, I found a lively scene as sailmakers and techs swarmed over the boat, tweaking this and adjusting that in preparation for Acadia’s impending delivery home to Rye.

With a dark-blue hull, slightly reversed bow, open transom, teak decks and white cabin top, Acadia makes a stunning first impression. I couldn’t help but pause to take in the carbon-fiber spar and in-boom roller furler, the no-nonsense nearly straight sheer of the deck, and the carbon-fiber bowsprit that sits atop a stainless-steel anchor roller. There was a lot there to please the eye.

Asgeirsson and his partner have added several options to the standard J/45 to enhance the dual-purpose nature of the boat, bringing the cost of Acadia to right around $950,000, delivered to the US. These include Harken Performa winches, one of which is electric to handle the main halyard (electric all around is also an option); a dual function hydraulic panel for the backstay and boom vang; a carbon Furler Boom from Denmark; a full quiver of top-of-the-line North Sails; and composite standing rigging from Future Fibres, another company under the North umbrella. Other add-ons include air conditioning, generator, teak in the cockpit and on the side decks (Flexiteek is standard), a suite of B&G electronics, a retractable bow thruster, and a removable inner forestay that adds numerous options when setting headsails.

On deck, I thought gear was well laid out. It’s easily accessible for a shorthanded skipper, but at the same time, there’s plenty of room in the cockpit, forward of the twin wheels and traveler, for friends and family to relax or for a racing crew to go to work. The side decks ­adjacent to the helms are at just the right height to provide the skipper with a comfortable place to sit and steer. Visibility forward is excellent. Underway, I liked the location of the drop-leaf cockpit table, which provides a rock-solid handhold when moving about, and the beveled footrest below it for bracing when heeled.

The mainsail is controlled by a double-ended German-style mainsheet, with tails reachable from either wheel. Primary winches are also nearby. Fairleads for the jib sheets are adjustable from the cockpit. A cruising sailor might set them and forget them; racers might tweak their location and further adjust sheeting angles using the friction-ring
inhaulers, also led back aft.

The J/45’s side decks are wide, with raised toe rails that should ensure good footing when things get wet and ­slippery. Forward, there’s a deep sail locker that also provides access to the chain locker in the forepeak, sealed off by a watertight door.

Stepping below, I found the cruising virtues of the J/45 to be immediately ­apparent. Rather than offering the bare-bones interior of a racing machine, J/Boats turned things over to French designer Isabelle Racoupeau, who has worked with a number of European luxury yachtbuilders. 

Acadia’s interior trim and furniture are white oak (walnut is standard), set off with plain white panels and cushions. Furniture corners are rounded to prevent boat bites, and counters have proper fiddles so that things stay put. The look is simple but elegant. 

The saloon has a dining table with U-shaped seating outboard to port and a settee opposite. The galley is just aft, to port, at the foot of the companionway; a full nav station is to starboard. Even on the cloudy day that I visited, light poured in through overhead hatches, as well as through ports in the cabin top and hull.

The J/45 can be configured in a couple of ways. The owners of Acadia opted for the three-stateroom, two-head layout (two staterooms and two heads are also available), to better accommodate family and friends. Pipe berths were included above the double berths in the after staterooms so that the kids could bring more friends (those pipe berths are a handy place to stash gear too). The owner’s en suite stateroom is forward, with stowage for owners who intend to spend a fair bit of time aboard.

The 45’s hull and deck are cored with Corecell and infused using vinylester resin. An interior grid is bonded to the hull and carries mast, rig, and engine loads. Hull No. 2 carries the standard 7-foot-6-inch lead keel (deep and shoal keel options are available).

Fittingly, Acadia’s most stunning impression was made when we left the dock and set sail. In 13 knots of breeze and sailing closehauled, the 105 percent genoa and main quickly got us to the mid-7-knot range, and the ride was smooth. The boat responded immediately to any move of the deep, single rudder, and truly, the boat trucked along as though on rails. 

My all-too-brief trick on the wheel came early on, as we beat down the bay. I got to work through a few tacks, giving me a good sense for how easy this boat would be to handle, even without a gaggle of talented sailors aboard to tweak the control lines. Being on a tight schedule, all too soon, someone else was in the driver’s seat as we bore away and set an asymmetrical kite for the ride back up the bay—short but sweet, as they say.

So, racer? Cruiser? In which camp does the J/45 belong? Well, I’ll have to give the ­owner the last word here. “The J team’s done a fantastic job designing this dual-­purpose boat,” Asgeirsson told me at the outset. And you know, he was right.

J/45 Specifications

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Sailboat Review: Race-ready and Cruising-compatible J/45 appeared first on Cruising World.

No one likes to be told their plan won’t work. I’ll admit that mine was far-fetched: I couldn’t find a good boat here on the US West Coast in 2020, so I decided to buy one in Europe, sail it across the Atlantic and Caribbean, and then ship it to the Pacific Northwest. Only 5,000 miles at sea. On a boat I hadn’t seen. During the height of the pandemic lockdowns. 

A close friend said, simply, “That’s not going to happen.”

I found the boat online, so the internet is at least partially to blame. Yes, I neglected to filter the search results for “West Coast boats only.” The reasonably priced, barely used 2012 Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 509 caught my eye, lying lonely in a Spanish marina in Gibraltar Bay.

I can also blame my wanderlust on the pandemic isolation. I yearned for a long ocean voyage—any adventure over the horizon. And, I’d done this before: My wife, Kyoko, and I had bought Keala, a Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 44i, in France, sailed it across the Atlantic and Caribbean, and shipped it from Panama up to Vancouver. It was nearly all downwind. It would be easy to do it again. Of course, that was three years ago, when the world was open to visitors….

Perhaps we’d been a bit hasty to list Keala for sale in Seattle during the pandemic. It was snapped right up in the booming seller’s market. We wanted a family boat that was a bit larger, with a bit more space, and with gentle inclines for my father, now 96 years old. He’d taken our family cruising all over the world; it was now my turn to take my dad sailing. And a boat does make a great place to isolate, while cruising in calm and pristine areas like the San Juan Islands. 

But for that, we needed a new boat. I contacted the sellers, learned how the boat had been used (not much), decided it was our boat, and made an offer.

Then, things got complicated: Spain flat-out refused entry to my crew: myself, my nephew Rowan Ruddle, 20, and longtime friend and ocean veteran Jeff Max, 62. We tried to change tack and get into the nearby English port of Gibraltar, but it had had a COVID spike and closed too. 

My father, the most intrepid of ­adventurers, even began to voice his doubts. Sure we’d be tested, and we’d be isolated on the boat for much of the time, but there was still risk. Maybe this really wasn’t going to happen. I called Jeff, who is a hard-charging exec at of a number of tech and aerospace firms. “No way,” he said. “We are doing this!” 

So we came up with a slightly outrageous plan: We would have the boat delivered to Portugal, and then enter Portugal as a professional delivery crew, on essential business. Deliveries are actually a side business of mine, when I am not working as a photographer, so it wasn’t too far from the truth. Using every contact we had, we secured a letter of engagement and even managed to get official letters stating our essential purpose. Fully armed with documents and having been tested for COVID, we all caught different flights and met in Denver during a massive February snowstorm. 

Outside the glass-walled airport, ­everything was white. While checking in for our trans-Atlantic flight to Faro, Portugal, via Frankfurt, Germany, I watched people ahead of us in line being turned away because of expired test results or minor paperwork inconsistencies. There was much hand-wringing, crying and shouting. One man pointed at the blizzard outside, yelling, and threw his hands up. 

I was tense, but when our turn came, we were miraculously ushered aboard. Of course, we still had no idea if we would be allowed into Europe. When we landed in Frankfurt, we learned that we would need to clear immigration then and there, and were directed to an immigration officer for the Schengen Area, a free-travel zone that includes Portugal. This was a moment I’d really been dreading, but the German immigration officer opened my folder, leafed through the thick sheaf of supporting documents, and said one word: “Pah-fect!” 

We still had to get into Portugal, and we hadn’t even seen the boat, but things were looking good. We boarded our next flight feeling hopeful.

In Portugal, the border officer actually knew who we were. “You are the crew of the yacht,” he said. Having called and emailed numerous times in the prior weeks, I shouldn’t have been surprised. 

Then, just like that, months of planning and worry were over. I imagined the hardest part of the whole trip to be over. 

A quick taxi ride to Vilamoura revealed the new boat. Yes, the hullsides were blackened from the rubber docksides in the Gibraltar marina. Yes, the boat was a mess. But closer inspection revealed that the sails were in great condition, and there really had been little use. Maybe with some polish and a bit of work, this boat would come out fine. 

The gear inventory was a bonanza, since the previous owner had planned a circumnavigation: an offshore life raft, a spinnaker, an impressive array of solar panels, a new dinghy with davits, two new outboard motors, spares for everything, even survival suits. We hired a surveyor, hauled the boat, and had the rig checked by the local rigger, Pete Keeping. The hull passed inspection, but the rig didn’t. I went up the mast myself and found corrosion on the swage fittings. At only nine years old, the rig was condemned. Keeping recommended replacing all standing rigging. The boat had spent years in Madeira, where the hardstand area is under cover of an airport runway. I thought being under cover would be good for the boat, but I was wrong. The lack of rainwater meant the sea salt coming in from the North Atlantic storms would accumulate. Jet fuel, it turns out, is also highly corrosive. 

Replacing the rig turned out to be a long process due to the lack of available parts during the pandemic, but after a month of making a nuisance of myself in the yard, Keeping finally got our rig back up. He came out with us to tune the rig several times, meticulous to the last detail. He was pleased to give us a section of his old mast to repurpose as a mount for our satellite antenna. 

Having bought boats in Europe in the past, I came prepared: Along with a few important spares and parts, I had brought the name and hailing port, “Haleiwa, Hawaii,” pre-printed on a vinyl sticker for us by BoatUS. Christening was a simple matter of removing the old name and applying the new one. 

I christened the boat Kāholo, which means “to move nimbly and quickly” in Hawaiian, and is the name of an achingly graceful hula move. (I’d originally suggested the name Hula to my wife, who dances hula, and she thought it was “too grass skirt and coconut bra.”)

We replaced the fixed prop with a new Gori folding prop, and then bought massive amounts of cheap, delicious Portuguese food, beer and local wine. We stowed everything and made ready for a major ocean crossing. 

Our plan was to bypass the Canary Islands and sail directly for Cabo Verde, which lies just on the southern edge of the trade-wind route across the Atlantic. From there, we’d depart on our trans-Atlantic crossing to St. Vincent and the Grenadines in the Caribbean, and then direct to Panama. Fewer stops, I reasoned, meant less bureaucracy, clearing in, quarantines and COVID tests. 

Normally, on a new boat, I’d cruise the coast as much as possible to test all the systems, but with the Portuguese and Spanish coasts on lockdown, that was out of the question. The ocean crossing to the Cabo Verde islands would have to be our shakedown sail. 

It was a momentous occasion to finally cast off the lines and run free. But just as we made our offing from Vilamoura, the Portuguese coast guard stopped us in a military RIB, demanded that we shut down our engine, and insisted on seeing a permit to sail. Luckily, I’d thought of that, and had just received clearance via email on my cellphone. The officer wished us a fun sail and handed back the phone. We were on our way.

We were on the lookout for orcas, which have become a real threat to sailboats in the area, attacking and disabling their rudders on a regular basis. But aside from worrying about them, there aren’t really many precautions to take, other than leaving the coast behind as quickly as possible. So we concentrated on sailing fast. 

The boat seemed ready for the voyage. The 50-foot Philippe Briand-designed hull was quite comfortable at 8 to 9 knots as we reached down south through the volcanic peaks of the Canary Islands without stopping, then farther south to the Cabo Verde islands. We dealt with the inevitable issues such as halyard chafe, and losing and then somehow retrieving our spinnaker in the water. The bigger issue was losing most of our electronics, including the autopilot, as we approached Cabo Verde. These being absolutely crucial to our onward voyage across the Atlantic, we had to abandon our dreams of leisurely cruising the islands. The refrain from the crew was, “That’s not going to happen.” We used iPads and backup chart plotters to navigate directly for the marina at Mindelo, the main port. 

Our first landfall was an emotional moment for me, considering how much work we’d put into getting there. The sight of the jagged peaks of São Nicolau to starboard promised new adventures. Under full sail in northeast trades of only 15 knots entering the channel between São Nicolau and São Vicente, we were hoping for a little acceleration to push us on the home stretch—but not the 40 knots we got. I live in Hawaii, where the channels can be fearsome, but I was caught off-guard by this. 

We entered the channel with too much sail. The sea became short and steep, and the boat started surfing. A wave grabbed our stern, and we broached into the wind. We reefed the jib, then the main, to bring her under control. Then we reefed again. Finally down to just a third of our main and half the jib, we caught a steep wave and surfed into the channel, clocking more than 17 knots. 

The boat performed flawlessly and, at 17 knots, was easy to steer. Gusts coming down from the hills picked up water from the surface in williwaws of white spray. When we got to the marina, we found it was almost as windy. Approaching the dock from downwind, just getting dock lines across before being blown away from the dock was a challenge. We later learned the sailors’ nickname for Mindelo: “Windelo.”

Mindelo is nearly devoid of trees. It’s a harsh place where making a living is far from given, and beggars roam the streets. However, it is home to local marina developer Kai Brossman’s company, BoatCV, and a confident Raymarine tech named Gilson Maocha, who showed up with a business card that reads, “If it’s made by man, we can fix it.” Years ago, Brossman hired Maocha as a local kid who showed a particular proficiency with electronics. Brossman sent him to Raymarine’s training facility in England, where he soaked up the knowledge, having already fixed many sailboats’ electronics with limited resources or parts. On an island with crushing poverty and few jobs, Maocha is so busy that he needs a team of locals to back him up.

We spent most of our time at the marina, working on the boat and pestering Maocha to put us at the top of his long client list, but we were able to make a weekend ferry trip across the howling channel to São Nicolau and its world-class scenery. We were deeply impressed by centuries-old terracing, where the locals have carved out a living on nearly vertical hillsides. There is little rain here, only a few hundred miles from the African desert. Despite a vibrant culture, warm and friendly people, and absolute musical genius, I felt an inescapable parched sadness sink into me. It wasn’t until we reached the Caribbean and drank in the lush green of the tropical rainforests that I realized how deeply the desolation of Cabo Verde had affected me.

True to their word, Maocha and crew did repair the boat, replacing some shorted-out cables and a faulty GPS unit. They were so capable that I had them install a radar and fix some other issues with the boat as well. All that remained was to load fresh vegetables and fruits, and we were ready to head out. 

The Atlantic crossing proved long and relatively slow. Although always behind us, the trade winds remained fairly light, and so easterly as to be a dead run for much of the trip. Slatting sails became a slow torture. The resulting chafe and wear on the rig and sails were serious concerns. We always tried to keep the sails full with an angle to the wind, but this meant sailing much greater distances to make progress directly downwind. We set a large, asymmetrical cruising spinnaker during the day but took it down during the night. A midnight wind shift would mean a spinnaker wrapped around our forestay. With only three crew, it wasn’t worth the risk or loss of sleep.

During a long downwind crossing, everyone battles chafe, and we were no different. Our spinnaker halyard chafed through and sent the sail down into the water. And since it was an internal halyard, led inside the mast, there was no way to relead it. We decided to run it externally, which meant going up the mast at sea and running it through a block at the top of the mast. This is a dangerous thing to do because of the exaggerated motion of the boat at the top of the mast 60 feet in the air. The mast seems to do its utmost to fling you off, or worse, crash you back into the mast hard and then fling you off. Thankfully, we had settled conditions, and I was able to go aloft. I could see the concern in the eyes of my crew. I wondered how much of that concern was for me and how much was due to self-preservation.

Unfortunately, when I reached the mast head, I found that our Facnor furling ­forestay had separated as well, leaving our jib unattached near the head, impossible to furl. The set screws holding the aluminum extrusions together had vibrated loose and disappeared into the void. I had to scavenge screws from the lower sections, and drill and tap the lower sections for screws that I had on board. This meant clinging to the forestay rather than the much more substantial and easier to grasp mast. I’ll admit to equal parts fear and thrill at the challenge of clinging to the forestay in offshore sailing conditions while screwing small set screws. It’s not something many sailors enjoy.

Not far into our crossing of the Atlantic, we encountered clumps of sargassum, which became thicker the farther west we traveled. Sargassum has become a major problem in the tropical Atlantic, caused by runoff and global warming. Fishing became nearly impossible because the lures constantly fouled. Our saildrive, which has a more vertical leg than a shaft drive, became heavily fouled, to the point that the prop and water intake constantly clogged. We would notice a strong vibration from the unbalanced prop, at which point we’d have to take the engine out of gear, stop the boat, and reverse at high rpm until it cleared. Motoring was miserable, and sleep was impossible. 

Then, as we approached the Caribbean, the engine began to fail. The problem was sediment, which got worse as the fuel level dropped. No amount of changing our fuel filters worked. We had the dreaded diesel bug, and the tanks on the boat had been properly stirred up for the first time during the crossing. I had added biocide to our fuel before we left Portugal, which killed the offending microbes but left a sludge at the bottom of the tank. The engine refused to run at much more than idle speed. Changing the fuel filters had only a temporary effect. Thankfully, we had solar power to charge our essential gear.

We had chosen St. Vincent as our landfall because, during the pandemic, it was still welcoming offshore sailors with a reasonable onboard-quarantine requirement in a pleasant anchorage. Unfortunately, we learned via satellite communications that the island’s volcano had erupted while we were en route. Thousands of residents fled using cruise ships. The ash reached as far as Barbados, more than 100 miles upwind. With significant areas of the island evacuated, and crops and livelihoods under threat, and considering that we would be needing to reprovision, we decided that landfall there was “not going to happen.”

For us, this turned out to be a blessing in disguise. We found out that we needed a mechanic when the engine died. We asked the authorities on the French island of Martinique for permission to land for the compelling purpose of reprovisioning and repair. Although France and its territories were locked down, our request was granted on the condition that we leave as soon as we had our supplies.

We limped into Martinique, running just barely above idle speed. Martinique is a Caribbean gem and a major yachting center, with all sorts of professionals on hand for things such as cleaning out fuel tanks. It also has markets full of the best French food and wine, at reasonable prices. Once we’d checked in, the locals were glad to see some visitors. They showed us around the waterfalls, volcano, and jungles of their lush and diverse island. 

But the voyage wasn’t over. One more crossing awaited, this time the length of the Caribbean from Martinique to Panama. This east-to-west 1,300-mile jump has some challenging conditions, especially off the Colombian coast.

Our transit was free of the big seas and strong winds that plague the area, but we ran into the inevitable thunderstorms and torrential rain in the transition zone where the trades pile into the hot jungle air of Panama. Landing a huge barracuda off the coast of Panama felt as though someone was looking out for us and that this might actually happen.

As we neared Panama, Fabian at the Bocas Marina in Panama asked us to send our documents over WhatsApp. From there, they went to the authorities, who basically had us checked in before we even set the anchor. I thought, Yeah, these cellphones are catching on.

Panama’s Caribbean coast soaks up the rain and sun in an exceedingly lush riot of life. There are spectacular beaches, uninhabited islands, mountains, mangroves, jungles, and an inconceivable variety of wildlife, much of it seen nowhere else in the world except this land bridge between the continents. I was struck by the contrast from cool, dry southern Portugal and the barren deserts of the Cabo Verde islands. We had actually traversed an ocean.

In fact, we had completed 5,000 miles of ocean voyaging in 32 days at sea. It was a long shakedown cruise. We had faced issues with electronics, rigging, fuel and steering gear. We’d had slow days and light winds from directly astern. But we had navigated our way around everything as it came, and we had arrived safely. 

“Not going to happen?” 

It did happen.

Tor Johnson grew up sailing the world with his family of five and a father bitten by wanderlust. A crewmember gave him a camera when he was 10 years old, and he has been chronicling the sailing life ever since. Tor and his wife, Kyoko, run a photography business in Hawaii.

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