A proposed Trans-Isthmus Corridor project across Mexico would connect the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific Ocean by rail and highway, which could serve as an alternative to the Panama Canal. When completed, cruisers could potentially haul out and truck their boat the relatively short distance from one side of the isthmus to the other.

President Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador is urging approval to build transportation along the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Nearly 190 miles across, the isthmus is the narrowest landmass in Mexico. Cargo companies and ­private-­vessel owners view the proposed project as an overland alternative to the Panama Canal, which many cruisers know can be intimidating, expensive, lengthy and sometimes dangerous. Mexico sees the Panama Canal as a ­monopoly, and this project as an opportunity to help customers with a new route to save time, distance and, potentially, money. By avoiding the canal route, the distance saved could be up to 1,000 nautical miles in either direction, although any cost savings is undisclosed at this time.

RELATED: Sailing to Mexico with the Baja Ha-Ha

The project would include a modern railway and highway to connect the Port of Salina Cruz in Oaxaca’s state on the Pacific with the Port of Coatzacoalcos in the state of Veracruz on the Gulf. Mexico envisions this project as a source of new jobs and increased competitiveness for its economy; it includes wind energy, business parks, telecommunications and services for the region. However, it is not without its critics, which include human-rights groups and environmental organizations. President Lopez Obrador cites a focus on helping the Indigenous people and the economy while protecting the environment—a tall order for a project of this size and ­complexity. If approved, the world will be watching to see that construction treads lightly because this region has one of the highest concentrations of biological species on Earth.

Historically, the isthmus was first used to haul ships by rail in 1907 when the American Hawaiian Steamship Company pulled its cargo vessels across on the Tehuantepec National Railway, carrying passengers and sugar from Hawaii to New York. This use ended due to politics between the US and Mexico, the Panama Canal opening in 1914, and World War I.

If this project is right for Mexico’s people and economy, let us hope that it will set a standard for major projects globally by also protecting Indigenous people and the environment.

The post A Panama Canal Alternative appeared first on Cruising World.

I first got a whiff of the composting-toilet trend a couple of years ago when my Instagram feed exploded with stories of cruisers replacing their regular marine toilets with modern composting versions. It didn’t even occur to me that one day we would join the composting-toilet movement too. Then, after 10 years of trouble-free use, we started getting blockages in the head.

This new development, along with a pervasive “toilet funk” in the cupboards—not so much stale salt water but an odor more like a dirty public bathroom—led us to believe that after a decade, the hard sanitation hose that connected the toilet discharge to the overboard seacock had deteriorated. But we also needed to address another fault in the system: the lack of a reasonable-­size holding tank.

When we bought Kate, our 1973 Newport 41, in 2008, the seller had recently installed a holding tank to comply with US Coast Guard regulations. The undersize 5-gallon holding tank may have been compliant, but it didn’t have the capacity to keep up with everyday use. Since none of the authorities in the 13 countries we have sailed to ever inquired about our holding tank, this hadn’t been an issue.

However, our next stops were Borneo and Malaysia, where marina stays would be possible and regulations are reportedly followed. A functioning holding tank would be necessary. As we drew straws to decide who got the job of jumping overboard to snake the discharge through-hull, and hopefully free the blockage, we decided it was finally time to find a solution to our toilet troubles.

A Composting Toilet?

So what, exactly, is a composting toilet? Simply put, it’s a type of sanitation system that does not use water to dispose of human waste. This “dry” system promotes decomposition through controlled aerobic conditions, or composting. Unlike a port-a-potty or chemical toilet, composting toilets separate liquid and solid waste, which speeds up ­decomposition and reduces odors. To control moisture content and further aid in odor elimination, urine-­diversion dry composting toilets (UDDC) line the solids tank with a naturally sourced medium such as coconut coir or peat moss. As well, most units vent to the outside via a small extraction fan and ductwork.

The two most popular brands of UDDC toilets on the market today are Nature’s Head and Air Head. Both are constructed from ABS plastic and are ­similarly priced ($925 and $1,030, respectively, online) but vary slightly in overall design. We decided on the Air Head for two main reasons. First, the toilet seat is both the same size and shape as our previous marine toilet. We hoped that this would give the user a feel that we were accustomed to. Second, the design of the Air Head makes it possible to remove the liquid tank without opening the solid tank. This thoughtful design feature alone makes it preferable to the competition. Add the smaller footprint and a lack of sharp corners, and the Air Head seemed like the perfect fit for our boat.

The Installation

Installing our Air Head composting toilet was extremely easy. Due to its compact size, we were able to place the unit where our original toilet had been mounted, without modifying any cabinetry. Our only stumbling block was that our traditional ceramic toilet was mounted on a raised pedestal to bring it up to a standard user height, 14 inches from floor to seat. To ­accommodate the built-in solids tank, the Air Head measures 19 ­inches from floor to seat. This “comfort height” is installed in wheelchair-accessible stalls in public bathrooms. When we placed the Air Head on top of our raised pedestal, it measured 25 inches from floor to seat. This elevation made it feel more like you are perching on the edge of the toilet rather than sitting squarely atop it. We investigated removing the pedestal but quickly discovered that it concealed the curve of the hull. Removing it would give us a few inches but not a level surface. We continued with Plan A and waited to see if the toilet height would be a pain in the butt. Literally.

The Air Head toilet is held in place with four simple stainless-steel brackets. Screwed down to the floor, the brackets capture bolts on the sides of both the solid and liquid tanks, which tighten down with simple wingnuts to secure the toilet in place. The only other thing to do is run the ventilation hose and wire in a small fan.

Included with the Air Head is a short length of flexible hose and a ventilation cam, which houses the fan. To avoid cutting more holes in the boat, we chose to repurpose the solar vent in the cabin top, which had failed the season before. It was still necessary to run wires to the 12-volt fan, but with the exterior housing of the solar vent in place, the exhaust fan was weather-protected.

Our installation isn’t ­winning any design awards, but it took less than an hour and didn’t require any structural modifications—a rare bragging point when discussing boat projects. Besides, when it comes to toilets, ­function is more important than aesthetics. After ­installation, there is only one thing you need to do to prep the Air Head for use: Add the coconut coir to the solids tank.

Prepping for Use

Coconut coir is a natural, renewable product made from coconut husks. Sold at garden centers mainly as a growing medium, it is readily ­available worldwide. Coconut coir comes in dry, compressed blocks that are reconstituted with water, making them easy to store. A single 10-by-4-by-2-inch block will fluff up to about 8 liters of mulch. The Air Head comes with one coconut coir brick, but we have found that using one and a half bricks creates a better starting volume. Add too little coconut coir, and there won’t be enough to cover the waste when you “stir” it after use; add too much, and you are taking up valuable space in the tank.

RELATED: Sailing Totem: A Frank Discussion of Marine Heads

When working with a natural product, it’s important to remember that no two bricks will be the same, so it is difficult to state the exact amount of water needed. However, the instructions say that the coconut should be hydrated into a “moist sawdust-like consistency” that resembles “damp crumbly earth” but should not look “muddy.” It is also important to consider that the coconut coir will absorb moisture from the solid waste when the toilet is in use. So, as we found out the hard way, erring on the side of dry is preferable.

Using the Toilet

The Air Head toilet bowl looks strangely small and shallow, and we wondered if it would work as claimed. Not surprisingly, the designers put a lot of thought into the shape and function of the toilet, and I am happy to report that we’ve had no troubles at all after six months of daily use.

Other than remembering to flip the handle to open the trap door to the solids tank before use, and to stir the solids after use using the crank on the side of the tank, the Air Head functions the same as a standard toilet. There is no splash back when you pee, and the urine is neatly diverted into the liquids tank. Similarly, the size of the opening to the solids tank worked fine. No mess, no fuss.

After use, I usually wipe down the basin with a bit of toilet paper and use a little spritz of diluted vinegar every couple of days just to keep things tidy. Between uses, keep the gasketed lid closed. Easy. The only trouble we encountered was a noticeable odor for the first week or so of use. This was not the “pleasant earthy” smell as often described in reviews of composting toilets, but rather a definite manure stink wafting from the vent. Happily, adding a handful of dry coconut coir to the solids tank remedied the issue. Less moisture equals less odor.

Emptying the Toilet

A composting toilet is a closed system that requires the solids and liquids tanks to be emptied regularly. The liquids tank has a small, opaque sight glass at the top, which indicates when it is full. Removing the liquids tank is as simple as backing off two wingnuts and slipping out the tank. A screw-on cap is supplied to ensure a dry run to the dump location. The amount of people on board and frequency of use will dictate how often the tank needs to be emptied.

As expected, urine that sits in a tank for a few days will be a bit smelly, so a good rinse after emptying is necessary. Do not use bleach to clean the liquids tank because chlorine and the ammonia in urine combine to create a very toxic chloramine gas. A simple soap-and-water wash will suffice. After several weeks of use, the tank can accumulate crystalline deposits. Adding a handful of rice or dried beans to the wash cycle is enough to knock off any scale.

I must admit that I wasn’t sure what to expect the first time I prepared to empty the solids tank. The manual describes it as the “highlight of the tour,” and although I think that’s a bit of hyperbole, it was not completely unpleasant. We did get the estimated 60 uses into the tank before it needed to be emptied, but even when full, it did not smell when opened and was more loamy compost than toilet tank.

The seat is removed by easing off four wingnuts, turning the top slightly, and separating the bowl from the solids tank. A flat lid, which locks in the same way, is included to seal the tank for transport. The whole tank is removed from the mounting brackets and taken to a dump site. Because all the solids are organic, they can be dumped into a sewage system or disposed of like a soiled diaper. There is no need to rinse the solids tank. In fact, it is good to have a little organic matter clinging to the sides because this will kick-start the next composting process. As well, Air Head includes a small packet of enzymes that can be added to the solids tank to boost decomposition if things seem slow.

Final Thoughts

We installed the Air Head toilet in February 2020 while we were on the hard in the Philippines. Weeks later, before we had a chance to relaunch, the COVID-19 ­pandemic shut down the world. At press time, I have been stranded in the boatyard, alone and on board, for several months and counting. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate having a private, functioning, odor-free, comfortable toilet that works while the boat is out of the water.

The Air Head is considered a Type III Marine Sanitation Device, which means that we are now compliant with the international IMO MARPOL 73/78 regulations. Between the ease of installation, maintenance-free use, and peace of mind knowing that we can use the head anytime and anywhere, our composting toilet is one of the best upgrades we’ve ever done on board.

Heather Francis is from Nova Scotia, Canada, and has lived and worked on boats throughout the world. Since 2008, she has been sailing aboard Kate, a Newport 41, with her Aussie partner, Steve. They are currently in the Philippines. Follow them at yachtkate.com.

The post Composting Heads for Cruising Sailboats appeared first on Cruising World.

There are two situations that accelerate vessel maintenance: one, using your sailboat too much, and two, using it too seldom. For the past six decades of living aboard, I’ve erred on the too-active side of this equation. During the past 20 years of our cruising lives, my wife, Carolyn, and I have averaged between 5,000 and 8,000 ocean miles annually. That’s a lot of wear and tear on our sails, chafe on our running rigging, and hours on our Perkins diesel. Now, totally unexpectedly, we find ourselves staying put, tethered to a mooring at the Changi Sailing Club in Singapore due to the new normal of COVID-19 international-travel restrictions.

The result is, simply put, electrical issues. That’s right—I used to wear a rigging knife, but now I’m thinking of getting a holster for my ohm meter. I’m surrounded by bad electrical connections.

Part of the problem is that Ganesh, our 43-foot French-built ketch, grows ever more complicated electrically, with burglar and bilge alarms, automatic anchor lights, and 5-volt USB charging outlets springing up from the bilge like weeds. Yes, I attempt to keep our vessel simple. Despite this, we now carry 12 computer hard drives and three DSLR cameras, each of which is stowed in a humidity-controlled environment. Worse, we have more Apple products than a floating orchard. But our laptops, tablets and mobile communication equipment, along with our cameras and digital-storage devices, allow us to be digital waterborne sailing nomads, as Carolyn likes to say. Not only are we able, but we’re required, to keep in touch in order to earn our living daily in the far corners of our planet.

Another contributing factor electrical-wise is our abhorrence of marinas. We just don’t like the ­trailer-­park lifestyle, even afloat. Plus, the ­meanest trailer park in America doesn’t pack its ­residents ­toe-rail-to-toe-rail as tightly as a posh ­marina in Monte Carlo. Thus, we’re always on our own hook or hanging on a mooring ball, which has the additional benefit of being able to pivot into the wind, eliminating the need for electrical air ­conditioning. (Thank God for wind scoops!)

Needless to say, we have to share our natural resources. Currently, in Singapore, we are joined in our Changi anchorage—actually, it’s just a bulge in a constricted commercial waterway—by moored yachts, passing fishing boats, cargo ships, ferries, entire fleets of government craft, cruise ships, and international warships from numerous nations. My point? We regularly get wakes—big ‘uns. Often they slop on deck, and more than once we’ve had salt spray bound aboard through our fore, midship or aft deck hatches. We regularly roll from rail to rail. This is the price we pay for living almost for free in the most expensive, most sophisticated city nation on our planet.

Here, there’s a long fetch to both the west and northeast, and a strong tidal current is a factor as well. And while the winds are generally light, the nor’easterlies during winter are brisk and the summer squalls severe. And we’re often tide-bound and sitting sideways to the seas in a heavy haze of tropical salt spray.

Actually, as challenging as this sounds, we love this place. It’s like living in a three-ring aquatic circus. Something exciting is happening every second, day and night, just outside our portholes. However, as much as we’re enjoying our salt-laden environment, our electronic doodads aren’t. The aforementioned haze of tiny specks of sea salt eventually settle on every surface of Ganesh. Worse, salt is hydroscopic, and the warmer the temperature, the greater the effect. Not only do these drifting salt molecules ­attract water to all our wires and electrical connections, but they also bathe and boil them in a mild acid solution as well.

The unfortunate result is, as my wife Carolyn jokes, “Christmas year-round.” Our cabin lights blink on and off—and then don’t function at all.

Luckily, I’m a regular Sherlock Holmes of bad electrical connections. I can sniff them out either by testing for voltage or checking for continuity. The trick is to remember that electrons don’t just have to arrive at our 12-volt devices, but they also have to return to the other post of the battery to complete the circuit. To put it another way, it’s not just the two wires that deliver power to, say, our depth sounder that must be in solid contact with our main battery bank; it is the entire circuit that must be making contact. Think battery terminal, monitor shunt, main battery switch, terminal block, panel switch, fuse or circuit breakers on the positive side, plus any surprises on the negative ground side as well. (Note: This is a best-case simple example; many branching and re-branching circuits on Ganesh are far more confusing!)

Of course, a circuit, like an anchor chain, is only as good as its weakest link. Let’s consider our nine mismatched solar cells. Obviously, they’re outside. That means they’re not only misted with salt continually, but they’re occasionally struck by exploding seas as well. And they come from the factory with short wires but are mounted a long way from our batteries. This means that they have to be connected to each other and the vessel’s electrical system in such a manner that they (hopefully) function for long spans of time.

And whose job is this? Well, at our ­income level, it’s mine, and over the years, I’ve used a variety of ways to keep power flowing: marine-grade crimp connectors, soldering and, occasionally, twisting and taping. The latter is crude but cheap, and works—for a brief while. But the problem isn’t connecting the wires; it is keeping them connected or, to put it another way, to prevent the intrusion of those dreaded salt crystals that lead to corrosion.

Crimping on a quality connector is a good first step, for instance, but sealing it is the real challenge. Don’t forget: When two pairs of wires are joined, not only is a firm connection necessary, but each crimp needs to be moisture-proof, and negatives and positives must, of course, be kept separated.

Think about this real-life challenge: When I bought her, all of Ganesh’s mast wires had been cut to remove the main and mizzen spars. I could have spent the time and money to fix this correctly, but I sailed around the world instead. Am I sorry I did this? Not really. I have only a few dollars and a limited amount of time. I don’t want to squander too much working on a boat that I could be sailing.

But back to my wiring example. Mast wires are located in a very active and very damp part of the boat. The masts vibrate, the deck flexes, the sun beats down, the rain pours. Yikes! So here’s the bottom line: Crimping on a connector and saying “good enough” doesn’t cut it if you want the electrical connection to still be conducting when you return to safe harbor.

Personally, I live in a practical world with only a handful of pennies, so ­throwing money at the problem isn’t practical. My solution is to use a redundancy of techniques. So, back to the mast wires again. If I’m using a crimp connector, I use liquid tape to seal each wire into the connector once crimped. Then I add a heat-shrink tube over the top of that, and another, longer heat-shrink tube to cover the first. Thus, I have three physical barriers against moisture absorption. Enough? Probably. But on certain critical wires, I don’t stop there. I coat the heat-shrinks with silicone seal, wrap the whole gooey mess with plastic wrap, and then tape it.

Crazy? Yeah. But effective. I’ve had exterior connections such as this last more than a circumnavigation.

Why not solder? I often do. However, soldering on deck in a breeze isn’t easy. Temperature is critical. If a connection is not hot enough, the contact isn’t good; too much heat, and the insulation melts. Of course, I attempt to use quality marine components such as tinned, double-­insulated marine-grade 12-gauge stranded wire. But I’d be lying if I told you that I’m as careful wiring a cabin fan as I am our GPS, bilge pump or starter motor.

While in cruising mode, I find it ­relatively easy to keep everything humming electrically. I just slowly fix, fix, fix until it is all good, then immediately deal with anything that ceases to function. However, if I’m not in cruising mode, things gradually deteriorate without me realizing it.

The way I deal with this is by having a weekly, monthly and quarterly maintenance routine, in addition to our normal haulout-work checklist. Every week as I wind my eight-day ship’s clock, I also run the engine and bilge pump, and physically look into the bilge. Before I crank the engine, I check all its fluids, and feel under the transmission and pan for any early signs of leakage.

The moment the engine starts, I check to see if it is pumping raw water, and then I stare at its flow for a while. Does it appear to be pumping the same amount as last time? Is the exhaust gas invisible? If not, white smoke has a different meaning than black. I allow the engine to get up to temperature, then shift it into forward and reverse under mild temporary load to lube the transmission and keep the rear seal moist.

Next, I exercise my electronics by ­turning them all on and, for example, ­keying the mic of our SSB, etc. This not only keeps the copper surfaces of the switches clean, but the heat from each device dries out the electronics as well.

On a monthly basis, I spin the ­anchor windlass and steering wheel, and ­momentarily engage the autopilot. Ditto our burglar alarm (which is useless in ­zero-crime Singapore). On a quarterly basis, I check the lower-unit lubrication on our tender’s outboard and basically spin or move everything on the boat, specifically all 12 winches and Monitor self-steering gear. I move and rotate the sheave of every block on board, paying particular attention to aluminum masthead and boom sheaves that can freeze up in the blink of an eye. I also confirm that my bilge float switches are working and check my life rafts for water intrusion.

There’s a great irony here: After a lifetime offshore, not sailing my boat is the only thing I’m uncomfortable with. But we cruising sailors must embrace change. In a sense, that’s what our lifestyle is all about. An avid sailor by the name of Charles Darwin agrees. To paraphrase his writing: “Adaptation is more important than intelligence.” On a warming ­planet, while anchored directly below the ­equatorial sun, this is a life lesson I cannot afford to forget.

Cap’n Fatty Goodlander’s most recent project is to figure out how to remove the bilge pump from the sump under his engine, which he installed when the diesel was out.

The post Digging into Sailboat Wiring appeared first on Cruising World.

Sun rays beamed down into the deep blue ­water, illuminating the faded rope that ended in a small weight, hanging just barely in sight in the clear Fijian sea. I held onto the buoy the rope was tied to, floating at the surface and staring at the weight 20 ­meters below me. I was familiar with this depth as a concept; I’d scuba-dived around it and Cayuse could ­anchor in it, but I’d never thought about sending my body down there unaided, willfully.

I’d been sailing with my parents on Cayuse, an Outremer 51, for a year at this point; we were circumnavigating with the World ARC. After graduating college I had joined them, and while sailing itself took up most of our time, I needed a new hobby to give myself a sense of purpose. Matt, my boyfriend and our other ­crewmember, and I had signed up for an SSI Freediving course at Mantaray Bay; I wanted a challenge, and Matt saw it as fun and a useful skill for cruising.

A siren wailed from shore after we dropped ­anchor in deep water off the Mantaray Island Resort, an eclectic hostel and hotel next to a narrow cut between two islands in the Yasawas. It was the manta ray alarm, which went off daily when manta rays were spotted swimming through the channel. The strong currents whipping through made it an ideal feeding ground for the gentle giants, and the namesake of the resort. We dinghied ashore as guests frantically gathered rented ­snorkel gear and rushed to fiberglass runabouts manned by locals to take them out to glimpse the graceful rays.

RELATED: Freediving in Tonga

We walked over to the dive shack and were greeted by a tall, suntanned Australian man in a tank top and mirrored sunnies. A little weathered around the edges, he had long hair that was blond-streaked and shoulder-length; he could have been 35 or 50.

“Bula! Are you guys the yachties here for freediving?” he asked, staggering a little.

“Yeah, we’re here for a few days, so we thought we’d try it out,” I said.

“Well good on ya! My name’s Ryan, and I’ll be your instructor. Here are a couple of workbooks, and let’s get started!” he said, tossing us two worn Scuba Schools International textbooks.

We soon learned that he was the co-owner of the resort, which he had built from the ground up in 2002 with his then-girlfriend.

Ryan instructed us to lie down on the sand so we could practice “breathing up.” Breathing up is a one- to two-minute period of breathing before a dive that focuses on relaxing the body and mind in order to spend a period of time without breath underwater. I breathed in and out for several minutes with my eyes closed; lying under the palm trees on a beach in Fiji, I immediately felt pretty Zen. Then Ryan told us to breathe in deeply and hold it, starting a timer once we stopped breathing. I gasped for breath after a measly 45 seconds, while Matt held his for one minute, 15 seconds. He told us how if we focused on breathing every day, we’d increase our lung capacity and ability to hold our breath for longer; Ryan was up to five minutes.

Over the next two days, we did more breathing exercises and swimming challenges, and studied the science of freediving. We learned about the mammalian dive reflex, which happens when the human body submerges underwater; the body responds by slowing down the heart rate, redirecting blood to vital organs to preserve oxygen, and releasing red blood cells from the spleen. Humans were built to swim underwater.

All of our studying and exercises were leading up to the final dive, in which we had to freedive down to 20 meters. Ryan reiterated that the key to successful freediving was being utterly calm, making slow movements with elongated fins, and not rushing. Overexerting yourself underwater could lead to losing oxygen and having to surface sooner, or even blacking out. It was hard to imagine not freaking out while swimming slowly into the deep, away from fresh air and sunlight.

Floating next to the buoy, I timed ­myself for a two-minute breathe up, breathing normally until taking three final deep breaths before I duck-dived down.

I kicked my legs slowly, trying to ­maintain a leisurely pace following the rope down, seemingly into oblivion. I couldn’t see the bottom. My thoughts drifted to how I could check the anchor at new depths, rescue lost items overboard, or swim next to sea creatures without spooking them with oxygen bubbles.

Within seconds, I reached the weight and looked down at the seafloor, now within sight. What if I kept going? I looked all around me, blissfully surrounded by pure blue. Time slowed down as I undulated with the ocean, neither sinking nor floating. I felt the first urge to breathe and turned around, taking deliberate strokes toward brighter water, Matt and Ryan floating above me. I slipped through the water to the surface, elated, gasping for breath and squinting in the bright equatorial sun. I felt my need for a new purpose slipping away, down into the deep blue depths.

The post Cruising and Freediving appeared first on Cruising World.

In the sport of sailing in 2021, foiling is all the rage and has completely revolutionized our game. Catamarans have been foiling in the America’s Cup for nearly a decade and have since spawned an entirely new breed of foiling monohull. Partially as a result of these unprecedented investments in foiling technology, the trickle-down has been rapid, widespread and eminently consequential. From the explosion of the foiling Moth dinghy and foiling beach cats and monohulls to the adaptation of hydrofoils on everything from surfboards and SUPs to Vendée Globe solo offshore rockets, kiteboards, and one-design racers—and even some cruising yachts—foiling has touched every aspect of yacht design. However, long before foiling went mainstream, there was one famous French foiling trimaran blazing its own bold path well above the ocean’s surface: l’Hydroptère.

The History

When the 60-foot l’Hydroptère was originally conceived in the 1970s, she more closely resembled a far-fetched futuristic concept of what a racing sailboat might one day look like than an actual boat. Compared with the heavy-displacement keelboats of the day, l’Hydroptère appeared to be something off the TV show The Jetsons. Conceived by the godfather of French offshore racing, Eric Tabarly, the initial concept of l’Hydroptère was simple. With wings riding under the water, the boat could achieve lift and then rise above its surface, thus greatly reducing the boat’s hydrodynamic drag while exponentially increasing its speed potential. Simply put, the idea was to marry sailing and flight; appropriately, l’Hydroptère’s name is a combination of the Greek word hydros, for water, and the French term, ptère, for wing.

To pioneer the concept of a flying boat isn’t easy, and the many failures—and hard-earned victories—of l’Hydroptère are a testament to this fact. Working in conjunction with the now-dominant design firm VPLP and some of France’s top boatbuilders, project manager Alain Thébault, Tabarly and their collaborators worked through several evolutions of the basic l’Hydroptère concept before building the boat that would eventually crush world sailing speed records, inspire legions of sailors, and become the subject of sailing folklore.

After beginning with a simple wooden version of the concept in 1976 using a Tornado catamaran hull as the main central hull, by the mid-1980s, the team moved on to small, remote-controlled prototypes, followed by a one-man, one-third-scale flying boat by the early 1990s. In 1994, the dream literally took flight when a full-scale prototype was hovering well above the water off the coast of France. But in 1995, while sailing at close to 30 knots of boatspeed, l’Hydroptère suffered the structural failure of a port crossbeam and quickly crashed down to the water’s surface. Fortunately, the boat was salvaged and brought back to port.

Half a dozen years later, in 2001, the fourth and final iteration of l’Hydroptère was launched. Almost immediately after hitting the water, its increased speed potential was evident. In 2005, l’Hydroptère sailed across the English Channel at a sustained average speed of nearly 40 knots, eclipsing Louis Blériot’s first record for flying across the English Channel in an airplane in 1909. Two years later, in April 2007, l’Hydroptère sailed into the record books as the fastest sailboat over both 500 meters and 1 nautical mile, earning its first (but not last) World Sailing Speed Record.

In December 2008, Thébault and his men peaked at more than 56 knots, ­briefly, before breaching l’Hydroptère’s foils and then immediately pitchpoling into a capsize. Undaunted, the team came back in 2009 stronger than ever and set another World Sailing Speed Record, this time covering 500 meters at an average speed of more than 51.3 knots of boatspeed with a peak of nearly 59 knots; it was an incredible achievement, and marked the first time a boat officially crossed the near-mythical 50-knot barrier for a sustained period of time. Coincidentally, this 50-knot barrier represents the current speed limit for the America’s Cup and Sail GP catamarans. Any faster, and foil ventilation and cavitation begins to rear its ugly head.

Highs and Lows

Entering a new decade in 2010, Thébault and his men secured another injection of funding for an entirely new adventure. With one World Sailing Speed Record firmly in hand, tri now aimed toward an infinitely larger racetrack: the Pacific Ocean. In May 2012, the boat arrived in the port of Long Beach, California, on a container ship to undergo further optimization before embarking on an ambitious record attempt to sail some 2,215 miles to Honolulu, Hawaii. With consistent trade winds and the long, groomed swells of the Pacific, the Transpac Race course was identified as the best potential venue to prove the concept of flying across an ocean—a goal that l’Hydroptère’s visionary, Tabarly, who had since passed away, had been pursuing since before the early 1980s when he sailed one of the world’s first ocean foilers, Paul Ricard, across the Atlantic and into the record books.

With a crew that included Vendée Globe legends Yves Parlier and Jean le Cam, as well as round-the-world multihull ace Jacques Vincent, l’Hydroptère was well-primed to fly to Hawaii in record time. Unfortunately, the 2012 record attempt was scrapped, and l’Hydroptère was instead moved to the San Francisco Bay area. On the hunt for sponsorship dollars there and in nearby Silicon Valley, l’Hydroptère began preparing for another assault on the Transpac course record the following year in 2013. The record, held by Frenchman Olivier de Kersauson and his crew on board the maxi-trimaran Geronimo, was set at just 4 days, 19 hours, 31 minutes, 37 seconds—certainly a very quick time to cover over 2,000 nautical miles, but it was well within the scope of a big, modern foiling trimaran.

However, the 2013 record attempt was also aborted. Perpetually strapped for cash and seemingly swimming against the tide in many respects, l’Hydroptère wouldn’t set sail for Hawaii until 2015. That year, with meager funds and their high-profile, rock-star sailors back in France, l’Hydroptère crossed the starting line with a crew of lesser-known, less-­experienced sailors. Both the team and the weather window proved suboptimal. Attempting to run downwind in light air, this hydrofoiling reaching monster was relegated to drifting toward the islands at a relative snail’s pace, firmly stuck to the surface of the water. No foiling equals no fun. And certainly no speed record.

After an unsuccessful and embarrassingly slow Transpacific record attempt that took nearly 11 days—well over twice their goal—l’Hydroptère was left unceremoniously tied alongside a dock in Honolulu’s Kewalo Basin. The French program, already severely underfunded, eventually abandoned the tri in Hawaii. After a prolonged spell at Kewalo Basin, she was eventually moved to a state mooring ball in Keehi Lagoon. For most boats, this is akin to receiving a slowly implemented death sentence featuring no shortage of cruel and unusual punishment along the way.

Of all the seedy harbors in the state, perhaps no place is worse than the Keehi Lagoon mooring field. Located right ­beneath the flight path to the ­international airport, Keehi is loud, dusty, smelly and incessantly windy. Notorious for its derelict boats, floating meth labs and gross mismanagement, it’s a place where once-great boats go to die. Way in the back, just astern of the two submerged rigs of a sunken ketch, lay one of the fastest sailboats the world had ever seen, on its own downward spiral toward an ignominious death. To a passionate racing and cruising sailor like me, this was about as sad as it gets

No doubt about it, l’Hydroptère had hit rock bottom. Which meant there was only one way to go: up.

The Dream Renewed

For l’Hydroptère to be rescued and resurrected at this juncture, a savior was required. Luckily for the ­down-and-out vessel, not one but two such souls ­miraculously appeared.

“I had first seen l’Hydroptère several years earlier in Southern California while preparing for a Transpac race, and she certainly piqued my curiosity,” says Chris Welsh of Point Richmond, California. In June 2019, the abandoned l’Hydroptère went up for public auction, and Welsh was on an airplane to Honolulu to look her over more closely and place a bid on the boat. Owner of the Spencer 65 Ragtime—a veteran of more Transpacs than any other boat in history, and not coincidentally purchased from a police auction—Welsh had some history with massive multihulls as well. He owned Steve Fossett’s old maxi-catamaran Playstation, which had been converted to a powerboat named Cheyenne. Welsh clearly wasn’t afraid to take on an ambitious project with a famous and historic old boat. A prominent West Coast yachtsman who also owns Point Richmond’s commercial Sugar Dock ­marina, Welsh had both the resources and the vision to bring a boat like ­l’Hydroptère back to life.

But he wasn’t the only one.

“It was always in my heart to follow this boat,” Frenchman Gabriel Terrasse says. “I had discovered l’Hydroptère at the Paris Boat Show in 1998, and then I went on the internet to learn more and I could not find anything, so I built a website about the boat. A few months later, the l’Hydroptère team had me build their official web page.” Fast-forward nearly two decades, and Gabriel’s interest in the boat had not dwindled. “In 2016, when the boat was first abandoned and for sale in Honolulu, I thought to buy her, but I was not quick enough. I knew l’Hydroptère had more inside her, more to accomplish, so when I heard that the boat was up for auction in 2019, I flew to Honolulu to buy her.”

The two competing bidders met the night before the auction. “That is when I first met Gabriel,” Welsh says. “We were both there to buy l’Hydroptère. After talking, we shook hands and decided to team up.” This would prove to be the beginning of a very special, if unlikely, friendship. Welsh says, “With my yard in the Bay Area, it would just be so much easier and cheaper to refit the boat there, so we figured out what she needed to make the trip, hired a delivery captain, and then spent most of the summer getting the boat ready to sail back to San Francisco.”

A professional racing sailor on the West Coast, Hawaii and Asia, Mike Price was the delivery skipper tasked with getting l’Hydroptère back across the Pacific. “At its worst, l’Hydroptère was in very poor shape,” he recalls. “The coffee grinders had been stripped, the clutches and winches were removed, and the steering system, which was hydraulic, was ripped apart on one side but left intact on the other. Someone had bashed in the entry hatch and stolen the chart plotter, GPS and electronics. They left in place most of the hydraulics for the flight-control systems, but the sails and everything else were gone.”

A lesser sailor might’ve walked away, but even in her dilapidated condition, for Price, the sheer brilliance of l’Hydroptère shone through. “Structurally, the boat was very well-intact,” he says. “The hull was built a long time ago, and it was uncharacteristically overbuilt out of carbon. There were no breaks or cracks in the laminate or between structures. Being made completely out of carbon and titanium, everything seemed very solid. The mast and the standing rigging looked fine.”

Even so, before embarking on the trip to California, l’Hydroptère underwent a Honolulu refit that included a new diesel engine, some cobbled-together delivery sails, fresh deck hardware and winches, new backstays, and a lot of new lashings for the sail controls and rigging.

Then, Price says, “we brought a ton of diesel fuel, lashed it down everywhere we could find room, and left on the most benign weather window that presented itself. We had very flat seas and light air for the first 800 miles. We motored for six days at 5 to 6 knots, and it was nice for most of the passage. But it’s a very wet boat! At some point, every piece of electronics crapped out and had to be rewired at sea. The most wind that we ever saw was 25 knots, and we sailed the boat super conservatively with the foils all the way decambered to keep l’Hydroptère firmly in nonfoiling mode. We cruised under jib only when it was windy and made the passage in good shape. But it was something like science fiction, man. What a cool boat!”

Shortly after the boat returned to California, the COVID-19 pandemic brought much of the world to a halt, though this would prove to be a blessing in disguise for the newly reassembled l’Hydroptère team. “It was strangely good fortune that we ended up with five people all stuck together for 90 days,” Welsh says. “We got a lot done because we didn’t have a lot of distractions, so we just made the most of it. We cleaned up the boat and got everything out of it. It needed to be disassembled in a way that you could inventory the condition of things and restore them before putting it back together. In doing so, we were pleasantly surprised that the boat had survived the sun in Hawaii better than we expected.” Unfortunately, due to visa restrictions, Terrasse had to return to France, where he’s pursued new technical partners.

“L’Hydroptère is a big, tough boat,” Welsh says of the vessel he’s still learning about. “She is not some delicate wallflower that takes 25 guys to run. She was solidly constructed out of carbon and titanium, and is built for real sailing. She’s strong enough to try other foils, and there are some clear pathways to making her lighter. And l’Hydroptère is an interesting platform to move forward with, and there is still potential for some record breaking, particularly with point-to-point passages.”

Likewise, Terrasse insists that there is a lot more left in l’Hydroptère’s tank and that there remains a world of possibility. “We want to make her fly again,” he says. “To improve her. I’m working on the R&D to make her faster, with new technology. L’Hydroptère was built with 20-year-old technology. With rigid sails (a wing), with new foils for higher speeds, with more weight reduction…. There is a long list of possibilities. We have a big wish list. It is a nice and crazy project!”

Sailors are, by nature, dreamers. It’s one of the qualities that makes this sport so beautiful and keeps us all coming back. As well, the boats themselves, and the adventures that those vessels have inspired, have an uncanny ability to bring people together. From the forward-thinking sailors and engineers who first dreamed up this magnificent flying boat nearly 50 years ago to the unlikely cast of characters who are today bringing it back to life in Northern California and in France, ­l’Hydroptère has inspired legions of sailing fans for decades and continues to do so to this day. In a world in need of some good news right now, the unlikely renaissance of the world’s first famous flying boat—and the new bridges that have been built as a result—continue to remind us that anything is possible. What will ­l’Hydroptère’s next chapter bring? We don’t know. But we can’t wait to find out.

Offshore cruiser and racer Ronnie Simpson is a CW contributing editor.

The post The Return of l’Hydroptere appeared first on Cruising World.

I’m not sure which I prefer more: organizing and stowing food supplies after a major provisioning run, or trying to make a fabulous dinner from meager supplies the night before a ­restock. Either way, the only thing better than eating dinner on the boat, surrounded by stunning water views, is cooking a tasty meal on board. Summer dinners are always better on our Hunter 31, Katie 3, when we’re cruising Canadian waters from Burlington Bay to Rockport, Ontario. One evening when provisions were low, the dinner dance began. I searched every storage locker as well as the bowels of the icebox to see what Katie 3 would surrender for one last pre-provisioning meal. I placed the seemingly incompatible ingredients on the counter and contemplated the best course of action. In the end, grilled vegetables and pasta seemed the most palatable possibility. Who knew this quick and easy dish would become one of our regular favorites?

Colorful Peppery Pasta

• Olive oil
• 8 ounces dried penne pasta
• 1 medium red pepper
• 1 2-inch jalapeño pepper or 1 small, mild green banana pepper
• 1 small red onion
• 4 cloves garlic
• 1 14-ounce can artichoke hearts, drained
• Handful fresh baby spinach
• Salt and pepper, to taste
• A few dashes hot sauce (optional)
• Parmesan cheese, grated (optional)

Serves 2.

Fill a large pot with water for pasta, and heat. Meanwhile, slice the red pepper into 1/4-inch strips. Slice jalapeño or banana pepper and onion into rings. Peel and smash garlic, and cut cloves into 4 pieces. Lightly oil a grill pan or large, nonstick sauté pan, and turn heat to medium-high. When pan is hot, place the red pepper strips, jalapeño/banana peppers, and onions on first. Allow to cook and char slightly, for about 3 minutes. Add the garlic, and sauté. Put pasta in boiling water to cook. Move peppers, onion and garlic to the side of the pan, and place artichokes in the center. Cook, turning 2 or 3 times, until lightly browned.

Drain pasta. Immediately add the uncooked spinach, stir to wilt, and then salt and pepper to taste. Swirl with olive oil, to taste, and toss. Add hot sauce, if using. Add pasta to grill/sauté pan, and toss with grilled vegetables to combine. You can serve this right from the pan. Plate and then top with grated cheese, if you have any left.

Cook’s Note

If your galley gives up a leftover cooked protein, you can add sliced beef, pork or chicken to the mix. Just add to pan for long enough to reheat the meat.

The post Galley Recipe: Colorful, Peppery Pasta appeared first on Cruising World.

Mick Jagger was not singing about boat tests and wind speeds when he ­belted out the title lyrics to the classic Rolling Stones tune “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Far too often during many years of conducting sea trials on new boats—when you’re locked into a tight, non negotiable schedule for getting on the water—I’ve shown up just in time for a languid spell of very light air or, even worse, zippo breeze whatsoever. Definitely not what you want.

But there are also those lucky ­afternoons when you get what’s required for a sweet sail. Which pretty much describes the conditions this past spring when I rolled into a marina near Fort Lauderdale, Florida, for a test run aboard the new Leopard 42 catamaran, and was greeted by windswept palm trees and a stiff 20- to 25-knot easterly whipping up whitecaps on the deep blue Atlantic.

What’s the line, “When you try sometimes…you get what you need”? Exactly. And in this instance, then some.

Generally speaking, cruising cats are different than their spindly racing siblings: more tankage, more machinery, more furniture, more stuff. Which means they don’t maximize sailing performance in lighter conditions (nor are they ­attempting to…that’s why they’re cruising boats). But give a well-designed, well-built cat with liveaboard ­capabilities some legitimate air ­pressure to play with, and the results can be eye-popping. (Or not, ­frankly. Lots of wind can be too much for some lesser vessels.) Which was most certainly the case with the latest Leopard under sail in the double-­digit gusts. Where she thrived.

Naval architect Alex Simonis—based near the wild, windy waters off Cape Town, South Africa—is the longtime designer of Leopard cats, and a man who relishes drafting solid boats that sail and perform exceedingly well (for proof, have another look at this month’s ­cover shot of a Leopard 42 hauling the mail in the shadow of iconic ­Table Mountain). His willing partners in this crime of nautical passion are the artisans at Robertson & Caine, the boatyard that in 2022 will build approximately 120 to 130 sailing cats ranging in size from 42 to 50 feet. It’s true that the company could probably expand production based on the current and ongoing demand for Leopards, but that would run counter to the builder’s very ethos: Quality is the aim here, not quantity.

As we motored out of the inlets and into the open sea for the trials, I’ll admit that I was so relishing the sail that it never occurred to me to jot down the relevant statistics—speed, high and low RPM, etc.—for the twin 45 hp Yanmar diesels. My bad. Let’s just say we got out there smoothly and quickly.

Leopard was conducting a mini boat show at its docks in Dania Beach that upcoming weekend, so there was an all-star crew of sailmakers and company reps aboard, including Franck Bauguil, an executive at travel conglomerate Travelopia, whose brands include the ­privately owned Leopards, and chartering giants Sunsail and the Moorings, and whose duties include product ­development—a fancy title that actually means he spends a lot of time hanging with Simonis while sailing around and dreaming up cool boats. As we powered into the chop, I mentioned something about a reef, and Bauguil gave me a sidelong look of disappointment, like a resigned parent inspecting a horrible report card. Full hoist it was. As the full-battened, deeply roached, square-topped mainsail was raised, I had a brief thought about singer/songwriter Cat Power, for it was abundantly clear what was powering this darn cat.

It’s interesting to note the difference between the Leopard’s sail plan and, say, the current approach from one of the big French production-cat builders like Lagoon. In recent years, Lagoon, as a brand, has made a conscious decision to slide the entire rig aft, depending more on an ­expansive foretriangle for drive and grunt, and taming the entire arrangement with a self-tacking headsail. With the ­Leopards, including the 42, the rig remains comparably forward, and it’s the mainsail, with a ­relatively longer boom than a Lagoon, that supplies the muscle (we’re talking ­basically a low-aspect main and rig on a ­Leopard versus a high-aspect one on the ­Lagoon), aided and abetted by an overlapping 110 percent headsail that’s tacked like a traditional sailboat. I honestly can’t say if there’s a right or wrong answer here, but it’s fascinating to recognize and compare the differing philosophies.

Back in the real world, I’d ­ascended the four steps to the starboard helm station, which is where you’ll find the wheel on every Leopard; in such matters, these guys are unabashed creatures of habit. The surrounding view was expansive but, more pertinently, within arm’s length I had everything—and I mean everything—required to sail and command the boat: a trio of electric winches (two of which are standard), mainsheet and jib sheets and rope clutches, a nifty traveler setup, dual engine controls, chart plotter and related sailing instruments, and so on. For the most part, across the board, catamaran designers these days lay out decks with the notion and objective that it takes only one sharp sailor to run the whole bloody show, and the Leopard 42 certainly perfects that concept.

After motoring off the coast for sea room, we hardened up to a close reach, and matters became extremely ­interesting, not to mention noisy and blowy. Which was great. The cat trucked along at a ­solid 8.5 knots, but what struck me the most was how solid and steadfast she felt as she cleaved through the chop; the sensation of the twin hulls of a fine cat in exquisite balance really does feel like a freight train on its rails.

But the real fun happens when you crack off and free up the wind angle, and the Leopard leaped at the course change and eased sheets, flirting with 10 knots on a screaming reach. We did have a bit of a fire drill when a blast of wind caught the corner of the furled code zero—which then, of course, started to ­totally ­unfurl—and I got my day’s ­cardio helping drop and corral the beast on the trampolines. ­Extremely good times.

Back at the dock, all ­systems once again calm and ­shipshape, I had a chance to wander the decks and ­interior. The look and feel of the features and ­accoutrements are ­totally ­modern, as in ultra-­contemporary (more than once in my notebook the word “angular” appears). The profile is enhanced by tinted, continuous side windows in the hull, and the coach roof segues into the hard Bimini that’s carried aft and canopies the cockpit. Up top—on the penthouse, so to speak—there’s an inviting lounge space. There’s a marvelous afterdeck and swim ­platform, features for which I have an extremely soft spot. The cockpit has a fine-dining area to port, opposite the helm.

The galley is forward in the roomy central cabin, with the dining table aft to port. The 42 doesn’t have the forward cockpit employed on ­larger models, but there is a watertight front doovate owner’s cabin to starboard (with desk, ­vanity, flat-screen TV, huge head, etc.) and a pair of staterooms to port, but you can spec out the interior in multiple ways: tr that leads to a pair of sun lounges, the tramps, and an optional fixed bowsprit if you’re going with the performance package that includes the code zero. Our test boat had the pretty awesome private owner’s cabin to starboard (with desk, ­vanity, flat-screen TV, huge head, etc.) and a pair of staterooms to port, but you can spec out the interior in multiple ways: three or four cabins, three or four heads, six or eight berths, three or four showers. The four-cabin, four-head configuration is likely what you’ll find if you charter one; about half the production run is bound for the bareboat fleets.

The Leopard 42 replaces the Leopard 40 in the brand’s ­quiver, and is certainly a more substantial ride in every ­notable way. The only problem, really, is that as the world emerges from these pandemic times, they’re going fast. The 42 might be quick, but if you want one, you need to be even quicker.

Specifications Leopard 42

Sea Trial

Herb McCormick is CW’s ­executive editor.

The post Leopard 42 Boat Review appeared first on Cruising World.

Lithium-ion batteries are a hot topic in the sailing community these days, and many sailors wonder if they’re a practical option. They actually come in a variety of chemistries, each with its own set of advantages and potential pitfalls; lithium-iron-­phosphate, or LFP, options are getting the most traction in the cruising-under-sail and powerboat ranks. While there are other lithium-ion batteries that offer greater efficiency and energy density, the LFP variety represents the greatest balance of safety and performance.

When compared with AGM (absorbent glass mat) lead-acid batteries, the primary advantages of lithium-ion are efficiency-based, especially the ability to be charged very rapidly, several times faster than AGM chemistry. They can also be deeply discharged, down to 10 or 20 percent state of charge (compared with AGM’s 50 percent state of charge), without shortening their life span. And they can be left in a partial state of charge for an extended period of time without suffering the ill effects of sulfation. In fact, it’s best to avoid leaving them fully charged, a condition most LFP battery management systems (BMS) intentionally avoid. In addition to being able to endure deeper discharges, LFP batteries can be cycled many more times than lead-­acid batteries. Finally, lithium-ion batteries are significantly lighter than their lead-acid brethren.

As a result of the increased energy density, converting from lead-acid to lithium-ion yields either greater amp-hour capacity in the same footprint with less weight, or the same energy capacity for a smaller footprint and even less weight.

Thus far, then, lithium-ion seems like a win-win option, so why wouldn’t any boat owner or builder make the switch to this seemingly miraculous electrical technology? As is often the case, there is a price to pay for improved performance, and lithium-ion is no exception, both literally and figuratively.

Perhaps the most noteworthy difference between lithium-ion and lead-acid technology is cost; lithium-ion batteries, depending on the size and type, cost several times more than lead-acid. However, with the ­extended cycle/life span and faster charge times (this assumes more charge current can be brought to bear)—which equates to shorter engine or generator run time—the difference in cost over the life of the battery bank is diminished, potentially even to the point of parity.

Then, of course, there’s the safety factor. Who hasn’t seen the videos of exploding ­cellphones or smoldering electric cars? While it’s true that these examples involved lithium-ion batteries, none employed the LFP chemistry. Once again, LFP is among the safest of the lithium-ion chemistries; when comparing the Material Safety Data Sheets for LFP and AGM batteries, the distinction is clear, and it might come as a surprise to many that the warnings associated with the latter are direr.

The final distinction involves complexity. While advanced, high-output lead-acid charging systems can be complex, lithium-ion batteries rise to a higher level of complexity, for one primary reason: safety. While overcharging a lead-acid battery can, in rare cases, lead to overheating and fire, overcharging a lithium-ion battery can also have the same effect (there are many online videos that illustrate this issue well).

Lithium-ion batteries are also susceptible to issues when charged at especially high or low temperatures, which could make tropical or winter use problematic. It is, therefore, essential that lithium-ion batteries be “managed” by the aforementioned BMS. These management systems, which can be either ­external or integral, ensure that a lithium-ion battery cannot be overcharged or overdischarged (the latter can also damage the battery, or lead to ­overheating). Most BMS are designed to be ­fail-safe, meaning that they will prevent harm to the ­batteries, as well as avoid ­battery ­overheating and fire.

Perhaps the most important caveat of all concerning lithium-ion batteries is the value of opting for an integrated system, designed specifically for marine applications, and supplied by a reputable manufacturer. The internet is rife with examples of inexpensive, “homebrew” lithium-ion systems, used both ashore and afloat. While the users of these systems are free to do whatever they wish, the risk associated with these is substantially greater than vetted, properly engineered, BMS-controlled systems.

Finally, the American Boat and Yacht Council recently released a technical information report called “TE-13, Lithium-Ion Batteries,” which is a guide for manufacturers and installers of lithium-ion battery systems. If you are considering installing such a system, or purchasing a vessel that has one, make certain it—and the installation—complies with this guideline.

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

The post Choosing Lithium-Ion Batteries for Sailboats appeared first on Cruising World.

Gather round for the story of Thunderbird, a 49-foot cruising trimaran for a growing family with, yes, a half-dozen adventurous and athletic kids —a huge step up from the Open 40 monohull they used to call home…and a truly magic ride to the surf spots and rock walls where they all thrive.

After two days of air travel from Port of Spain, Trinidad, a layover in Paramaribo, Suriname, then to Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport, our motion finally came to a halt. The airport shuttle stopped in the arts district of Amsterdam Noord on a quiet street that ran between the former NDSM shipyard and a waterfront canal. My husband, James Burwick, our five kids, and our driver off-loaded bags out of the van onto a sidewalk next to docks adjacent to the Rhebergen Multihull Yachts yard. Sweet-smelling summer wildflowers taller than my three youngest ­children stretched along the verge; the sun was shining, ­butterflies fluttered, and bees were buzzing.

On the ground next to us, our entire lives were packed into four duffel bags, one tool bag and a camera bag. The kids each carried a backpack with their personal belongings. We told them they could bring from our former boat, an Open 40 called Anasazi Girl, to our new yacht—a completely different one in almost every way—­anything they could fit into bags and carry on their backs.

We looked through the chain-link fence. All of us were wild with excitement as we stared at the big white trimaran floating on the canal with blue Victron Energy logos on the amas and the name Sound of Silence on the hull. There before us was our new home and sailboat.

It was late June 2019 when we’d found her: a Peter Bosgraaf-designed Gaviota 49 cruising tri. The seven of us had been living aboard Anasazi Girl like sardines at Crews Inn Marina, in Trinidad’s port of Chaguaramas. Over a year had passed since we had made any significant sailing passages.

On so many fronts, things were about to change dramatically.

Where to begin?

So many amazing life experiences had ­unfolded in the five years since breaking Anasazi Girl’s mast in the Southern Ocean in 2014. After more than two years of hard work in the high latitudes of South America, we’d successfully earned the funds needed to pay for the replacement rig and cost of the epic transport from Watsonville, California, to Puerto Williams, Chile. During our dismasted period, we became residents of Chile, formed a Chilean LLC for our marine services, yacht brokerage and photo business, and I gave birth to my fourth child, Tarzan.

Miraculously, Buzz Ballenger’s alloy rig and two pallets of equipment and sails had arrived safely and undamaged. With the help of the Armada de Chile—the Chilean navy—we successfully stepped the replacement rig on the existing carbon mast stump in November 2016.

After sea trials in the Beagle Channel and completing our voyage prep list, we were ready to depart. In March 2017, we sailed with our family along the entire Atlantic coast of South America from the Beagle Channel to the Caribbean Sea. Our four kids—Tormentina, Raivo, Pearl and Tarzan—were ages 8, 6, 4 and 11 months, respectively, when we departed.

While en route from Rio to the Caribbean, we crossed our old track from 2011 off the coast of Recife, completing our ­circumnavigation with our two oldest kids. A milestone.

From July 2017, when we arrived in Grenada, to March 2018, we did a refit and delivery, as well as a brokerage project that allowed our family to keep sailing on a bigger boat: a Kiwi-owned, Chuck Paine-designed Bougainvillea 62. We took the Bougainvillea halfway down the coast of South America, from the Caribbean Sea to Rio de la Plata, off the south coast of Uruguay. The vessel was sold underway to a buyer we showed the boat to in Salvador, Brazil. Our bags were rolling down the dock two days after arriving in Punta del Este, Uruguay, and we were soon en route by buses and planes back to Chile.

Our kids are exceptional athletes, so after the delivery, we invested in private rock-climbing and surfing lessons with pro instructors. The kids climbed in the mountain towns of El Chalten, Argentina, and Puerto Natales, Chile, and learned how to surf the waves surrounding the famous Chilean break at Punta de Lobos. We dealt with residency papers, Chilean taxes, drivers’ license renewals, our LLC, and reporting Tarzan’s birth to the US Consulate so he could get a US passport in addition to his Chilean one.

By the end of May 2018, business was in order, we were back in the Caribbean for hurricane season, and I was pregnant with our fifth child. We stayed aboard Anasazi Girl, now tied up at Camper & Nicholson’s Port Louis Marina in St. George’s, Grenada. The marina’s high-speed, on-the-dock cable internet made working in our virtual offices efficient. We carefully lived on the income from the Bougainvillea and my photo sales, keeping constant watch on any tropical systems that might force us to move south to Trinidad.

Port Louis Marina facilities were clean and secure, with an ATM, bakery, restaurants, shops and various marine businesses on the property. Six on the boat was tight, but after caring for someone else’s vessel and renting funky short-term housing in South America, it was nice to be back in our own space. We appreciated the low-maintenance and functional simplicity of Anasazi Girl. Lack of indoor space was balanced with a full-time, active outdoor life.

The kids wanted to surf bigger waves and climb higher-grade stone routes. They got strong, lean and fit, swimming laps in the pool, in inland freshwater holes, and snorkeling and freediving at Grand Anse Beach. The island was an excellent backdrop for creating outdoor and active kids’ imagery aimed at the photo department of a longtime supporting client, Patagonia Inc.

Because we had one more on the way, James was constantly working and scouring the internet for a bigger boat. Our circumnavigation was over. Thanks to the kindness of the owners of the Bougainvillea, we had been fortunate to prolong the gift of sailing with the family a bit longer, but now our sailing days seemed finished. Anasazi Girl was on the market, and though there were always interested parties, nothing serious materialized. With no sailing voyages planned and our funds slowly disappearing, it was not long before we began mentally rotting in port.

In October 2018, James flew to the Netherlands and France to help a client from Brooklyn inspect several boats, one of which he purchased. The funds from the sale provided us with just enough of a budget to fly to Chile and back for the birth of our daughter Jade that December. Like Tarzan, she held dual US/Chilean nationality. Afterward, James got a job managing the refit of a Chris White-designed Atlantic Cat 55 in Chaguaramas, and we returned to Trinidad.

The project was estimated to take two months. We were totally unsure how we could pull it off aboard Anasazi Girl with seven people—after all, the boat had originally been designed for solo and shorthanded adventures—but decided we would make it work.

On arrival to Trinidad in February 2019, we relaunched the boat and got a monthly berth at Crews Inn Marina. Trinidad’s crime statistics seemed worse than two years previously. Despite many invitations from local friends to do activities outside the marina, we stayed mainly in the marina bubble. The facility provided us with on-site security, a pool, a fitness center, a couple of restaurants and a grocery store.

That year, there was also a drastic increase of Venezuelan immigrants seeking refuge in Trinidad. With sadness, we read about the desperation and exploitation they experienced on both sides of the border. We met many Venezuelans waiting outside the port’s immigration and customs clearance offices. With delicacy, we asked what was happening. Some were more open than others about sharing their experiences. We watched as they stocked up on basic life necessities such as rice, flour, toothpaste, diapers, toilet paper, salt and sugar before heading back to Venezuela with supplies.

All these encounters made us feel grateful. Despite whatever hardships we personally experienced in our lives, the reality was we were so fortunate and privileged. Lack of personal space was nothing. We had work, freedom and the ability to feed our kids.

By the end of June 2019, the first phase of the Atlantic 55 refit was coming to a close. And we were all ready for a change. The seven of us living in a such a small space was bordering on ridiculous. I am sure the other marina guests thought we were nuts. We loved our Finot-Conq Open 40. She had allowed us to make a truly memorable circumnavigation with our older kids, especially the legs in the incredible high latitudes. But the reality now with so many people aboard was that we no longer had the capacity to carry enough food and water to make any long passages.

We were done with being nonsailing liveaboards tied to ­marinas. We wanted to get our family off the dock, on the hook, and sailing again in a completely different cruising mode.

Because we were seeking minimalism, creature comforts were not so important, but we did want the ability to carry a few things, such as a dinghy, surf boards, a small sailboat, or a couple of kayaks. Adequate water, fuel, food and off-grid capacity were necessities. Pubescent teen years were just around the corner for our oldest kids; more space and privacy would soon be critical.

We mentally struggled. With the refit funds we’d earned, we could instead invest in an undeveloped parcel of land or make a down payment on a fixer-upper commercial property in Chile. It would be a practical thing to give to our kids for the future. We thought hard about it but just could not do it. It did not feel like this would be choosing to live la vida loca.

James was 65, and it felt like our window for sailing together would soon close. For him, there was no “later.” If we did not go now, then maybe we would never voyage as a family again. If we went now, then there was hope that he could pass on whatever knowledge of seamanship he had to the kids while he was still mentally and physically sharp.

We stopped looking at real estate and dived into an intensive search for a new boat. James found a trimaran in Madagascar and a proa in Australia. The proa was not a vessel we could imagine circumnavigating aboard, but we did see a plausible project of sailing between Australia and Indonesia, a workable scenario where our kids could be full-time surfers.

With the trimaran in Madagascar, we saw the potential for having a really wild cultural experience. I was turned off by the idea of bringing my kids to a place where child-prostitution ­tourism was prevalent, but the Malagasy history, culture, landscape and unique fauna were all positives. With that vessel, we could do a South Atlantic loop between South Africa, St. Helena and Brazil.

Either way, the reality was that the current condition and seaworthiness of the boats were unknown until we committed to going and looking. Both felt like somewhat of a gamble—in time more than money—and a step down from the incredible sailing machine that we already had. But we had to do something. Time was ticking; the moment had come to make a change for our family.

James’ friendship with sailors and marine-industry pros around the world has always been a great sounding board for problem-solving, ideas and advice. One friend in particular, a Dutch solo multihull sailor named Henk de Velde, told him that he honestly didn’t like either of the boats on our wish list. He knew we did not want a full refit project, that we just wanted to go sailing.

He asked James to wait on moving forward. He thought there might be a boat in the Netherlands that would work for our family. He was sure it was a strong, seaworthy, go-anywhere vessel. He believed we could make a circumnavigation on it, and there would be enough space that we could stretch into it at least for a few years. It was not on the market yet, but he had a hunch that it might be soon.

We waited to hear from him, and true to his word, Henk soon sent us information about a 49-foot trimaran called Sound of Silence (aka SOS). Immediately after seeing photos and reading the specs, we felt like it just might be the perfect boat. She was a 1996 design but had great lines and appeared to be a super-sexy-looking sailing machine. Dutch-built, she was made of fiberglass, epoxy and strong plank. Beams were constructed of carbon, glass and aluminum, and she had a carbon mast with Navtec rigging. The tri was just shy of 50 feet long and very wide, over 36 feet, but she had a Farrier folding ama system that shrank the beam to a little less than 20 feet, allowing for ease of haulout, storage and maneuvering in tight spaces.

All living space was in the center hull, and there were three cabins that could fit a total of six crew—still a bit tight for a family of seven but palatial compared with an Open 40. All the systems had top-of-the-line gear, and for certain it felt like we could potentially make a smooth transition from one incredibly cool boat to another.

We were unsure that we could financially pull it off, both in the initial purchase price and the ongoing maintenance. But we had an undeniably good feeling about her. We decided to follow our instincts and pursue it, figuring we had nothing to lose by trying. We asked Henk to go to Amsterdam to inspect the tri for us. Upon returning, he reported that it was in excellent ­condition and just needed a little TLC. He sent us updated photos and was certain it was sound enough that we could get on board and start sailing right away.

Trusting him, we made an offer on SOS sight unseen, with the funds from the refit project as a down payment and a loan from the owner of the Atlantic Cat for the remainder (secured with Anasazi Girl as collateral). We were incredibly nervous to live beyond our means but believed somehow we could pull it off until Anasazi Girl sold.

Unbelievably, our offer was accepted. It would be binding, contingent on James’ personal inspection of the boat.

The first week of July 2019, James flew to Amsterdam for two nights to see the boat. He hauled her out, called me, and told me that all the sailing gear looked excellent, functional, and in good condition. The systems on the boat were much more complicated and required a lot more maintenance than Anasazi Girl, but he felt confident we could manage the work or simply not use the systems that were not critical for sailing. After all, we had been “camping” aboard Anasazi Girl for the previous eight years. The well-maintained vessel had only two owners for the past 20-plus years and had been sitting in a freshwater canal most of its life when not at sea. The four separate compartments of the amas were for storage but could potentially become in-port berths for the older kids.

With my approval, he signed the final purchase and sale contract papers, then flew back to Trinidad.

We dropped the price of Anasazi Girl to cover the balance of the loan we had taken, and spent a week preparing for haulout, decommissioning and long-term storage. We packed our bags, then booked flights to Amsterdam via Suriname. Our lives were about to seriously change.

Now here we were, teleported from the Caribbean tropics to the Northern European summer. I’d spent the previous couple of weeks looking with excitement at photos from Henk, the broker, and even an old Google Earth satellite image of the vessel on the dock. Our plane landed two days before my 42nd birthday, and this was an amazing present.

My stomach was filled with joyful anticipation as we walked through the gate. The kids ran down the docks, jumping in pure bliss on the trampolines.

She was impressive. Despite being an older design, Bosgraaf’s lines made her a classic and timeless beauty. Having no experience with a trimaran, I had no idea how we were going to sail the boat, nor even any idea of how we would move the massively wide beast out of the canal. SOS looked as though she had been parallel-parked like a compact car on a one-way city street into her berth at Rhebergen’s.

All of this we would figure out with time. The reality was we had been given a true gift. We were so grateful to Henk who found the boat for us, our friend Colin Dykstra (the owner of the Atlantic 55 who loaned us funds), Bosgraaf for his brilliant design, and to Reinout Vader (founder of Victron Energy and the owner of Sound of Silence) for giving our family the gift of sailing.

Vader allowed us to move aboard before the transfer of funds was complete and offered to go out for a daysail when we were ready. A few days later, funds were dispersed, papers signed and in order, and we were officially the new owners. We renamed the boat Thunderbird. Our first night aboard, my oldest son, Raivo, was so used to sleeping on a hard surface that he got out a camping pad, laid it down and slept on the floor! Not only did we have mega cushions, but we had space, both inside and out.

The creature comforts were a bit overwhelming: a microwave, two-burner induction cooker, freezer and fridge. Hydraulic systems folded and unfolded the amas; lowered and lifted the boom, centerboard and rudder; and controlled the bow-thruster, windless and several winches. Three sources of power generation charged the boat’s lithium batteries: an alternator on the 51 hp Yanmar, a WhisperGen DC generator (serving also as a hot-­water and space heater), and eight Solbian 50-watt solar panels. Wiring was 24-volt, and Thunderbird had a Victron Multiplus inverter for controlling charging and converting to 220-volt AC.

We were now in serious pump land, with a big Spectra ­watermaker, indoor and outdoor shower, 110 gallons of water, 158 gallons of diesel, and more than 50-gallon holding tanks. The navigation system included two modern B&G Zeus 3 chart plotters with AIS and radar; an older B&G processor; and Hydra 2 autopilots, speedos, compass and depth sounders. In our sail quiver was a 968-square-foot main and 538-square-foot jib from North Sails, and a spinnaker and gennaker from Incidences.

We spent the next month in Amsterdam waiting for reflagging, servicing and learning about all the systems of the boat. Henk gifted us his Rocna 72-pound anchor, which never failed him on his voyages with his trimaran, Juniper. New lettering and graphics were made for Thunderbird. We made our pre-voyage checklists and dived full time into our new project.

We did little tourism, only a token trip to the Rijksmuseum to see all the classics. We ate amazing Dutch bread, baked goods and cheeses, tried bitterballens (a deep-fried Dutch snack) and local beer. Our kids helped us with the workload, balanced with recreational time rowing around in a small dinghy in the canal, climbing fences in the boatyard, running wild on the docks, picking wildflowers, swimming in the canal, foraging for summer berries, and exploring the surrounding neighborhood.

We were most definitely in Amsterdam. Across the canal from us was a cannabis cafe. Along the wharf was Rhebergen’s yard and the NDSM shipyard, which was now converted into a space for a hundred artists of all disciplines. Twice a month, the biggest flea market in all of Amsterdam (IJ-Hallen) was set up in the open-air outdoor spaces surrounding NDSM. Spray-paint art was encouraged, and we watched artists creating epic murals on the old shipyard buildings, the walls of which were sometimes completely transformed daily.

Though there was a marina in Amsterdam Noord and canal boats everywhere, our location was not within walking distance of all the yacht services and chandleries we needed. For this, we rented a vehicle and went to the port of IJmuiden at the end of the North Sea canal to get needed parts and new netting for our trampolines.

James met with Bosgraaf at his floating design office—a canal houseboat—in downtown Amsterdam. A couple of weeks later, Bosgraaf drove through the canals in a small powerboat he had designed to visit us aboard Thunderbird. He spent an afternoon answering questions and talking about the history of the boat.

Henk visited us weekly at Rhebergen’s and became a surrogate grandfather to my children, always bearing chocolate and local treats. We spent time with Laura Dekker—the Dutch sailor who was the youngest to sail alone around the world, at age 16—who we knew from New Zealand back in our Auckland days; we met her family, and she taught the kids how to sail a Pico.

Vader took us through the locks and bridge canals to the inland lake of Markermeer for a daysail. We learned the history of how he started Victron Energy, and watched in amazement at how he sailed the tri. “No using hydraulics,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. Tall, fit and lanky at 75, he was still grinding winches with joy and making sail changes.

The US Coast Guard Documentation Center at last emailed us our paperwork, and we were ready to depart after five weeks. We set sail from Amsterdam in August 2019, making our way through the English Channel to the port of Caen, France. In September, we crossed the Bay of Biscay to the port of La Coruña, Spain, and got approved for a Schengen visa extension. In October, it was on to the Canary Island of Lanzarote, where the boat was hauled out in preparation for crossing the Atlantic. Two days after Christmas, we were again on the move, bound for Cape Verde, arriving in São Vicente just after the 2020 new year.

Departing from there the last week of January, we crossed the Atlantic in 10 days, arriving in the port of Cabedelo, Brazil, where we learned we were expecting our sixth child. We sailed south to Salvador de Bahia, Caravelas, and then Vitoria, when the COVID-19 pandemic broke out. We stayed there for almost two months in self-quarantine, doing repairs and maintenance on Thunderbird, awaiting the arrival of a used sail to replace the 20-plus-year-old delaminated main, watching as the early stages of the pandemic unfolded. We then decided to continue south, seeking isolated areas to cruise safely with our family.

While awaiting the birth of our next child, we explored the region between Ilhabela and Ilha Grande. Our son, Atlas, was born in late August of last year.

Our aim in raising our kids has always been to give them time with us, to choose their teachers and offer rich life experiences, to expose them to inspiring people, give them a practical understanding of the world, and support their passions.

Sailing is an excellent platform for all these things—and much, much more.

Saving for college educations, lucrative financial investments or a pile of material things is not part of our life goals. All of which would be wonderful to have, but we are just not savvy investors. For us to achieve even some of these things would require both of us working full time plus overtime, a sacrifice of time with each other.

Working really hard and then “gambling” all of it into impossible sailing dreams for the opportunity to experience the world is something we can do, and do together. It feeds our souls. We work and sail and do everything together. What we have is time to invest in our kids now, before they choose their own life paths. We don’t know everything, but we can teach them what we know and seek out teachers to show them the rest. The hope is they will have the confidence to follow their own outrageous dreams, and understand how to navigate the steps needed to achieve them.

Here in this voyaging life, we operate in our mode of feast or famine. We departed the Netherlands in a state of financial famine, but we felt positive and hopeful. Somehow things have always worked out, much of it having to do with our amazing friendships, leaving a clean wake in every port, and a lot of serendipitous moments.

With Thunderbird, we feast on the sea, the world’s oceans fully open to us. We are officially a family of “rafters” with the ability to cross oceans, now able to live at anchor and get into shallow-­draft spaces. What an unreal feeling to once again give our family the gift of sailing, taking with us all the rich things that ­accompany the life of a voyager.

Following the birth of Atlas last year, photographer/writer Somira Sao and her family are continuing to explore the coast of Brazil. She writes: “As a family of eight, we participated in the 70th Santos to Rio Race and the 2020 Ubatuba Troféu das Ilhas Race. For us, there are no shortcuts when it comes to learning about sailing. We are doing the miles, moving to a different anchorage every single day.”

A Freedom Machine Called Thunderbird

Peter Bosgraaf designed the custom-built cruising trimaran for a Dutch businessman named Willem Woestenburg, who fanatically sailed a Farrier 31 trimaran with his son, Rob. When Woestenburg hit the jackpot in the stock market, he decided to build a bigger tri with the same folding principle. Bosgraaf had just designed two smaller trimarans, so Woestenburg commissioned him to design his 49-foot tri.

A Dutch woodworker/boatbuilder named Fred Winter built the boat at Woestenburg’s metals and hydraulic factory. Woestenburg’s factory team fabricated all of the hydraulics and metalwork for the boat. Winter, along with Rob Woestenburg, worked on all the construction and interior. The folding system works just like the small Farrier systems, but due to the weight, hydraulic cylinders were added to control folding from behind the wheel.

The boat was built out of strong plank, which was widely being promoted by a boatbuilder in the Netherlands at the time. Strong plank uses PVC foam-cored strips with fiberglass sheathing around those strips. Due to the stiffness of the battens, it takes the minimal amount of building frames to set up the hull. Once the hull is sheathed with the strips, only one or two layers of fiberglass cloth is sufficient to obtain a stiff hull.

After the boat was launched in 1998 and named Gaviota, Woestenburg did not get to sail much, but his son, Rob, logged some miles on the boat. Financial problems forced him to sell the boat to Reinout Vader a year after it was launched.

Vader is a Dutch physicist who developed a pure sine wave inverter. He is the founder of Victron Energy and developer of the WhisperGen Stirling generator. He renamed the tri Sound of Silence, or SOS. Over the course of 20 years, he sailed to the Caribbean, through the Mediterranean, and in the North Sea.

Thunderbird sails fast but is a cruising tri, so she’s a little on the heavy side. She needs approximately 12 knots of apparent wind to really get going. She sails upwind super well. We try to maintain 10 to 13 knots on average, but in the Bay of Biscay and going around Brazil’s Cabo Frio, we saw boatspeeds of up to 17 to 20 knots. James is working now with Bosgraaf to offer for sale a modernized, stripped-out racing version of the boat as a new construction.

The post Family Cruising on a Trimaran appeared first on Cruising World.

Excess catamaran 15. Excess world and explore perfectly designed catamarans inspired by racing for cruising pleasure.

Right up front, let me say three things about the new Excess 15, which I got to sail with my Boat of the Year colleagues this past fall in ocean waters off Fort Lauderdale, Florida: It’s a big, roomy cruising cat that’s super easy to handle and really fun to sail. OK, make it four things: We all liked the boat. A lot.

Excess Catamarans is a new brand, just two years old, launched by French builder Group Beneteau, and designed to reach a segment of the multihull market where it saw an opening: namely monohull sailors who appreciate the actual sailing aspect of cruising but who are open to the creature comforts a multihull has to offer.

Hey, that’s me!

I do the majority of my sailing on a single hull. I appreciate the thrill when the rail occasionally dips into the water. I like the feedback that I get from the wheel, the water rushing past, a little spray in my face from time to time. But then again, some of my favorite adventures have taken place on two hulls. Lounging on the tramp in a pretty anchorage, power reaching from island to island, plenty of room to take family and friends along, private cabins and multiple spaces to gather—what’s not to like about those aspects of a cruising cat?

I found that the Excess 15 borrowed liberally from both worlds. It is spacious, can be loaded up with options, and everybody aboard is going to want to take a turn at the wheel. Trust me on this; the 15 is downright sporty to drive, especially with the code zero unrolled.

The boat’s standard configuration is a square-top main and self-tending jib, but Excess also offers what it calls its Pulse package, with a 3-foot-taller mast, bowsprit and code zero set on a continuous-line furler. We got to sail this power-­packed solent-rig version, and it’s the one I’d consider if I were writing a check.

Upwind, the self-tending jib makes the boat simple to singlehand. In 10 to 12 knots of wind, the speedo hovered in the high 7-knot range, and tacking required only a turn of the wheel and adjustment of the Harken electric traveler. When we bore off onto a reach, we lost a knot or so of speed, but conditions were perfect to furl the jib and deploy the big reacher. Immediately, the speedo jumped to 10 and change, and off we went.

I found that the locations of the twin wheels—aft and outboard on either transom—were also a value add. I’ve sailed aboard cats with the helm on a flybridge or raised seat adjacent to the aft bulkhead, and I’ve felt disconnected from the water, and sometimes the rest of the crew if they’ve wandered off to some other corner of the boat. On the Excess, the interaction with others on board seemed more monohull-like, with everyone in the cockpit and within earshot.

RELATED: Beneteau Oceanis Yacht 54 Boat Review

Said cockpit features an ­inviting dining table to port surrounded by an L-shaped couch, a large lounge opposite, and a padded bench seat across the transom between fold-down helm seats. Overhead, the center of the Bimini slides open to let the sunlight pour in, and provides an excellent view of the mainsail while underway. On the boat we sailed, cockpit gatherings were further encouraged by adding a sink, fridge and ice maker to the amenities.

In the saloon, glass windows all around and a large slider door aft offer a 360-degree look at the world, while also providing relatively good visibility forward from the helms. An L-shaped galley with sink, stove, oven and microwave is located in the aft port corner of the main cabin; opposite is a drawer-style fridge and freezer, with more counter space above them. A second large table and another L-shaped couch are forward.

The boat we sailed had a traditional three-cabin layout, with the owner’s quarters occupying the starboard hull; two en suite guest cabins filled the port hull, along with another freezer amidships. The boat can also be configured with four en suite berths, or with six cabins and six heads (two additional crew berths are available in the forepeaks), which should prove popular with the charter crowd.

The base price for the 15 is $737,000, but the boat we sailed, delivered to the US and loaded with options—including a bow thruster and FLIR cameras—is right around $950,000, reflecting the benefits and costs of living and sailing to excess.

Mark Pillsbury is CW’s editor.

The post Excess 15 Boat Review appeared first on Cruising World.