“Aww, c’mon man, don’t let us be that boat!”

I shouted at myself as I cranked the wheel and goosed the throttles, sending the Lagoon 42 Sjevernjaca into a wide, lumbering 360-degree turn. We had to get out of the path of a powered-up race boat that was bearing down on us. 

Standing next to me at the raised helm station was my old sailing mate Dave Robinson. “Oh, that one’s going to be trouble too,” he said three-quarters of the way around the circle, pointing at a sailboat that tacked close to shore and was now headed our way.

I spun the wheel hard again and searched for an open path through the oncoming traffic. The seas were lumpy off the rocky entrance of Antigua’s English Harbour.

It was Day Two of Antigua Sailing Week, which we’d come to watch, not participate in—though now, apparently, we were in the thick of it. Dream Yacht Charters was a sponsor of the event, and when they suggested that I take in a bit of the action and then sail off to see the rest of the island, well, how could I say no? 

We had started two days earlier at the charter base just up the coast in Jolly Harbour. On the last Saturday in April, after provisioning at Epicurean Fine Foods & Pharmacy and then waiting for a leaking faucet to be replaced, we got a late start. Our destination was Falmouth Harbour, home to race headquarters and the first stop on a counterclockwise, weeklong circumnavigation of the island. At the chart briefing that morning, besides a rundown of must-see bays and coves (and a review of the island’s many reefs to avoid), we were told two things: Be on a mooring or anchored an hour ­before sunset, and keep clear of the 85-boat Sailing Week fleet.

With the first advisory top of mind, we motored out the channel in midafternoon, hung a left in open water, and made a beeline for Goats Head Channel, staying inside the reef on the island’s southwestern side. To my surprise—given that this year’s Sailing Week was the first at Antigua after a two-year pandemic hiatus—Falmouth Harbour was not all that crowded. We had no problem picking up one of the Antigua Yacht Club’s guest moorings, relatively close to its dinghy dock. It turns out the bulk of the racers preferred to crowd into adjacent English Harbour, home to Nelson’s Dockyard and a number of marine facilities.

Ashore, we learned that the opening-­night party, to which we’d been invited, had been canceled because of pending weather. The bar was open, though, and the drinks were flowing. Decked out in team colors, sailors clinked bottles and glasses as regattas past were toasted. Outside, several race boats were tied along the docks, their crews offloading gear in preparation for Sunday’s opening race. And on a nearby waterfront stage, the Original Steel Orchestra entertained one and all with a lively assortment of Caribbean tunes.

For dinner, we took a security guard’s advice and walked a short way to the Life on the Corner Bar & Grill, which served up a spicy chicken curry that demanded to be washed down with cold Caribes, followed by a sweet rum punch. The street outside was busy and loud. Back on the boat, we sat forward on the tramp and enjoyed a ringside seat.

Sailing Week, according to its president, Alison Sly-Adams, marks the end of the Caribbean’s regatta season. It started in 1968 as a reason for yachts and crews to stay just a bit longer before heading north, out of hurricane danger or back to Europe. This year’s event was the 53rd regatta, offering racing action to a wide array of sailors. Boats ranged from thoroughbreds such as the Volvo 65 Ambersail 2 and the Volvo 70 Ocean Breeze to mom-and-pop cruisers to a fleet of 29 chartered bareboats. There were 15 classes in all, assigned to two starting areas just to the east and west of the entrance to Falmouth Harbour. 

We joined the eastbound parade of boats Sunday morning to watch a few of the big-boat starts. The action began at 10, with classes taking off at ­five-minute intervals. By the second tack, the front-runners in each heat were lost in the Caribbean haze, so eventually we headed over to the B Fleet’s windward mark and puttered around, watching the spinnaker-­optional cruising and bareboat classes at work. With a broach here, an hourglass chute there and a few collisions with the inflatable buoy, it was all entertaining enough.

The trade winds were forecast to be sporty throughout the week, and they were. After a long morning of bouncing about in the resulting swell, our crew embraced the idea of returning to the mooring to take in a little more of what Falmouth had to offer. We had an invitation to a rum party being put on by Locman, the Italian watchmaker, and then grabbed a $12 cab to Shirley Heights a couple of hours before sunset for the infamous Sunday night jump-up party.

Even on a quite-hazy evening, the view of English and Falmouth harbors from atop Shirley Heights was breathtaking. The place was packed by the time we arrived, and a long line pointed the way to the barbecue pits, where cooks prepared chicken and ribs over wood and charcoal fires. Nearby, craftsmen laid out tables filled with wares. I watched a basket weaver make youngsters happy by fashioning fanciful hats for them out of palm fronds. The bar was busy too, serving libations to a mellow crowd of sailors content to sway to the Caribbean rhythms of the Halcyon Steel Orchestra. 

We watched twilight turn to dark and then headed back down to town, and from there to the boat for a hot dog feast cooked on a charcoal-fueled grill of our own. With the jump-up and Sailing Week visits crossed off the to-do list, we were ready to go exploring.

On the chart, it looked to be about 12 nautical miles to Nonsuch Bay, the first protected must-see anchorage on Antigua’s east coast that was not off-limits to Dream charterers. With just that seemingly short distance to go, we were in no hurry to get started. At the mooring, the breeze felt lighter than it had the day before, but as soon as we were outside and turned east to clear the tip of the island and proceed north, the trades were full-on, gusty and squarely in the no-sail zone of a big cruising cat. Three things became immediately apparent. First, we were in for a long, slow motorboat ride, pounding into ocean swells that made it hard to get boatspeed up to even 5 knots. Second, the A Fleet race committee had designed the day’s distance course to take several classes along the very same coast we needed to traverse. And third, we should have left a whole lot earlier in order to be out of their way.

For the better part of two hours, we played dodge ’em with incoming race boats. In all, it was a wet three-plus-hour slog up what was a textbook lee shore, with water pouring over the cabin top each time a bow buried itself in a wave or a squall rolled through. But still, it was a thrill to see the wildness of the sea, feel the power of the breeze, and take in the lush green hills and rocky outcrops that marked this part of Antigua. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, though perhaps not in the midst of a regatta.

Soon enough, we spotted a white structure on a headland that the cruising guide said looked like a lighthouse. Just past it lay the pass into Nonsuch Bay—a slice of deep water through outcroppings of rock and coral jutting out between the mainland and Green Island. As we turned and ran west, surfing down the ­wind-driven swells, the early-afternoon sun was high overhead, making it easy to spot the shallow spots. Closer to shore, the waves laid down, and once inside, though a gusty wind still blew, the water was calm. Relief!

Nonsuch Bay is a truly lovely place—my favorite spot of the week, I think. Inside, to the east and south, the hills are tall, with a few homes and resorts tumbling down to the water. Just past the entrance, there’s Middle Reef to skirt, with good water to either side. To the right, there were a couple of boats anchored off the northeast end of Green Island, and farther along, a handful more tucked in behind the reef.

We broke left and motored deep into the bay to what, on the chart, appeared to be a well-protected spot surrounded by mangroves in Ayres Creek. We dropped anchor in about 12 feet of water just off a resort dock, and then watched a cloud of mud billow up as we backed down and plowed the hook along the bottom.

Plan B? Head back to Green Island and anchor in sand. Besides way better holding, we found great entertainment, thanks to 40knots—a local watersports school that offers kite-, wing- and paddleboard lessons off the beach and from a sailboat anchored by the reef. We witnessed a variety of skills. There were soaring leaps and landings, as well as the occasional chase-boat rescue of a newbie blown astray. As for our crew, we grabbed masks and snorkels to sit on the beach at Green Island. Underwater, there wasn’t much to see, save for one enormous hermit crab. It was a good swim, though, on a hot afternoon.

Sunset that night was the best. The sun dipped below the hills to the south, and the water inside the reef was calm, the breeze steady. If cruising, this bay would be a place you might stay for days or weeks. Unfortunately, we were on rented time and had places to go.

Tuesday got off to another wet and bumpy start. We followed our track back out the pass, planning to motor upwind until we were clear of Green Island and could set sail for Horse Shoe Reef Channel and the entrance to Parham Sound at the north end of the island.

As we retraced our steps, the waves built as quickly as they’d subsided the day before. One roller caught me off guard, and rather than bearing off to take it on the forward quarter, Sjevernjaca plowed square in, burying both bows with a shudder. Stepping below, one of our crew discovered water in the hallway outside his forward cabin; inside it was more like an aquarium. A hull hatch had been left open. As if to prove a point about the power of hydrodynamics, the sea had sent remarkable amounts of water pouring in, soaking everything in its path.

At last in deeper water, the seas mellowed. We hauled up the main, cracked off, and rolled out the self-tending jib. Sailing, at last! It was a good 5-mile reach that began with breeze on the beam and ended up with us nearly on a run. 

The coast along this part of the island is low-lying, making it tricky to pick out landmarks. We searched for Prickly Pear—a sandy islet just offshore that serves as a range mark through Horse Shoe Reef Channel. Once we spotted it and made our turn, even with the aid of the chart plotter, the shallows to either side of the channel were hard to spot until we were nearly on top of them, but we made it through and followed the charted route south through reefs to the sandy beach at undeveloped Maiden Island. It turned out to be a good spot to swim and kick back. With the VC Bird International Airport across the way and boat traffic passing by, there was plenty to watch. Toward sunset, two cruising sailboats pulled in, but otherwise we had the place to ourselves.

In the morning, we set sail and picked our way back along the shore, passing inside Prickly Pear, bound for Boon Channel. The route kept us well off the reefs to the north. In daylight, with a chart plotter, this was an easy passage, but looking at the Imray Iolaire chart on board, I once again had a great appreciation for Don Street plying and charting these waters with a compass and lead line as he mapped and wrote his cruising guides aboard the engineless yawl Iolaire.

Our journey that day—and for the rest of the trip, for that matter—delivered a nice, but brief, sail. The distance from Maiden to Dickenson Bay is just 7.5 miles, and we flew along with the still-gusty trade winds behind us. Dickenson is home to Sandals and a couple of other all-inclusive resorts that dominate the long, crescent beach, but we found an open stretch at the south end and anchored there late morning in about 9 feet of water, near a thatched-roof raft known as the Kon Tiki Bar. 

After lunch and a swim, three of us were eager to go ashore and stretch our legs. With no good place to land or leave a dinghy, one of our crew dropped us at the beach, where we followed a rutted dirt road to a paved one. Resorts lined one side of the street; on the other, we strolled past a large pond and an abandoned miniature golf course, complete with a faded cruising catamaran that doubled as a hazard. A local pointed us in the direction of a small convenience store, saving us a long walk or cab ride to a market to replenish our dwindling stock of beer and chips. 

Later that afternoon, we visited the tiki bar—our first watering hole since Falmouth that wasn’t all-inclusive and that was open to non-guests. It was a lively place, and “Johnny from Denmark” ruled the bar. He was quick to serve us a cold Caribe when we stepped aboard from the inflatable.

Johnny had a tale to tell. He’d come to the island for a two-week visit 22 years earlier and, well, fell in love with the place. He managed a restaurant on the beach for several years but lost it when the owner died and it changed hands. Four years ago, he made good on a dream to build and open the Kon Tiki Bar along with his better half. The pandemic was a setback, and, added to that, he and his partner split up, he said. Now he gets the raft for a week, then takes his liquor home, and she brings her own booze for the next. “That’s just the way it goes,” he said with a shrug. “I’m working one week, then I have a week’s vacation.”

An assistant sat off to the side of the bar and manned a runabout to ferry visitors back and forth to shore if they didn’t want to make the short swim. As the day went on, the number of visitors grew and the music got louder. By the time we left, it was packed with a raucous crowd awaiting sunset.

Thursday was our last full day aboard Sjevernjaca, and as the crow flies, we didn’t have far to go to skirt the entrance to St. John’s Harbour and arrive at our next destination, Deep Bay. The breeze was still honking from the northeast and we were in no hurry, so we hoisted sail and struck out on a long reach out to sea and back, getting in a couple of hours of good sailing before dropping the hook.

Deep Bay was yet another lovely destination. As we motored in, we had no trouble spotting and avoiding the wreck of the Andes, a barque that had caught fire and sunk while carrying pitch to Chile in the early 1900s. Inside, we anchored in about 9 feet of water. 

The Royalton Antigua resort takes up the southern end of the beach, and a few small shops dot the shore, but most of the strand is backed by lush green shrubs that hide a salt pond behind. Ashore, we scrambled up the steep path to Fort Barrington, built by the British in 1779 on the headland overlooking the approach to St. John’s. The view was spectacular. We could just spy Montserrat through the afternoon haze, and we got a panoramic view of Antigua’s mountainous interior. 

Friday, we managed to create another extended sail for ourselves by reaching out past Sandy Island and its off-lying reef, and circling back to visit pretty Hermitage Bay and Five Islands Harbour, where the Shekerley Mountains tower over the anchorages. We stopped for lunch and a swim, and lingered as long as we could before motoring out and around the point, back to Jolly Harbour and the charter base. It had been a fine week with plenty of breeze for sailing, a happy crew, and sights to see. 

Saturday morning, as we cleaned the boat and packed, I spotted the crew from Talitha on the dock. I’d met them at the start of the week, when they were getting their rented Beneteau Oceanis 41.1 prepped for action. Skipper Jeff Dickinson along with the rest of the crew of eight all hailed from Aspen, Colorado, and are members of the Aspen Yacht Club. It was his third Caribbean regatta, he’d said. And of course, they expected to win their bareboat cruising class. 

“I love Antigua,” he told me. The pace of the regatta is just right: two to three hours of racing, then a party, plus a lay day for scuba diving.

So how did they fare? 

Well, they had fun. Dickinson was back at a rented condo where half of the crew had stayed at night. But his mates who returned the boat reported that Talitha was first over the line in three races—a victory of sorts—though they ended fifth overall on corrected time. One thing they were certain about: They’re coming back to race again. “Absolutely.”

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor-at-large.

Charter Racing

Antigua Sailing Week is one of several Caribbean regattas that include a charter-­boat division. For this particular week of racing, Aspen, Colorado, skipper Jeff Dickinson said that charterers can’t request a particular boat and can’t campaign the same boat two years in a row. § Erin Minner, Dream Yacht Charter’s sales manager for the Americas, says that racers have a few other requirements to consider. The minimum charter time is 10 days. There is a race-pack charge that includes a more detailed boat briefing and a check to ensure that sails are in good shape. The base registers the boat with race officials. There is a regatta surcharge of approximately $2,000, depending on the boat and event, and the security deposit is doubled. Dream Yacht Charter lets its boats participate in Antigua Sailing Week, the Caribbean 600 and the BVI Spring Regatta. § If you’re planning to escape winter and go racing, check with the regatta and local charter bases for yacht availability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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When Cruising World’s Boat of the Year judges step aboard a new sailboat, the first thing they ask the ­builder for is the boat’s design brief. Racing? Bluewater voyaging? Coastal cruising? Chartering? Daysailing? What’s the boat built to do?

In the case of two new Bali Catamarans, introduced to North America this past fall during the United States Sailboat Show in Annapolis, Maryland, the ­manufacturer’s intent seemed perfectly clear: These cats were built for ­hanging out on the water with family and friends, or perhaps for owners interested in putting them into a charter fleet to help pay the bills. “Pampered crew” were two words that came immediately to mind when I stepped aboard.

Both cats—the Bali 4.6 and Bali Catspace—were conceived of by Olivier Poncin, ­founder of the Catana Group, and ­designed by the in-house team that has been building well-­respected performance catamarans at their yard in France for nearly four decades now. 

When I think about Catana Catamarans, features such as daggerboards, sleek hulls and powerful sail plans designed to gobble up ocean miles come immediately to mind. When I think about Bali, my mind turns to comfortable surroundings and tropical anchorages, with soothing trade winds blowing through the saloon and multiple places to lounge in the sun or shade.

The Catana Group launched the Bali brand in 2014, on the company’s 30th ­anniversary. At the time, the multihull ­market was exploding, and while ­Catana had a strong following at the performance end of the speed-comfort continuum, their boats were expensive and geared to a niche market. Balis, on the other hand, were designed and built to be “more accessible in terms of price,” the company’s online brochure notes, and “therefore aimed at a wider clientele.” It’s no accident that many of those clients chose to add their Balis to charter fleets in the Caribbean and other tropical spots around the world. As a result, the brand took off, to the point where today, it takes up the bulk of ­Catana’s production capacity.

The 4.6 and Catspace share many of the same features found across the Bali Range: solid composite foredecks rather than the trampolines found on most catamarans; ­multiple spaces to kick back and ­relax; home-style refrigerators in the galleys; large sliding windows on the cabin sides; and ­garage-style doors that open and lift overhead aft in the saloon, making it difficult to discern where the interior stops and the great outdoors begins. 

The sail-away prices of the boats we visited in ­Annapolis were $920,000 for the 4.6 and $550,000 for the Catspace. In all, Bali manufactures seven sailing models and two ­power cats, so buyers have options when it comes to size and price.

Bali hulls and decks are ­resin-infused and foam-cored, which makes them strong and stiff while saving weight. Throughout the range, Balis are built with short, fixed keels, affixed to relatively beamy hulls that have abundant load-carrying capacity. In practice, that means the boats can be loaded with gear such as air conditioning, appliances and generators—and toys and provisions for all the crew.

With a length overall of 44 feet, 6 inches, the 4.6 presents a number of interesting features and options. First, there is the flybridge, set atop the cockpit Bimini and a portion of cabin top abaft the mast. It can be reached via steps on either side deck. A helm station is to port, with a bench that seats two comfortably. Adjacent to it is a good-size table with L-shaped seating around it, and sun beds behind. The wheel itself is mounted on a pedestal, and there’s room to walk in front, between it and the winches mounted on the cabin top. With this arrangement, there’s room for the crew to jump in and help trim sails, though without helpers, it does require the skipper to rely on the autopilot when leaving the helm to tend to sheets.

Underway, I liked the setup. There was good visibility, both around the boat and also of the mainsail overhead, thanks to a window in the canvas Bimini. The main was simple to control using the double-ended sheet led to blocks on the corners of the flybridge, replacing the traveler. The arrangement is ­especially good for jibing. 

In a good breeze, 10 to 12 knots, our speed over the ground hovered right around 5 knots; we added a knot to that when we bore off to a beam reach. If I bought the boat and didn’t have plans to put it ­into charter, I’d definitely add a code zero to my sail arsenal. 

Down below, I liked the ­layout of the saloon as well. With the sliding windows and overhead door open, I had the feeling of being outside, ­sitting in the shade. The dining ­table is to port; two chairs are ­opposite. Forward of the table is an L-shaped galley to port with loads of counter space; a large fridge and freezer sits ­opposite, with a ­proper nav ­station tucked forward, surrounded by windows and ­adjacent to the centerline door leading to another lounge area on the foredeck. 

Depending on how the boat will be used, there are a few different layouts for the staterooms and heads, ranging from a three-stateroom version, where the entire starboard hull is the owner’s en suite, to four- and even five-stateroom layouts. In the latter, access to the port aft stateroom is by a companionway from the cockpit, and a stateroom with bunk beds is amidships, with a third stateroom forward. Crew berths in either forepeak are also available.

The 4.6 we tested in Annapolis was powered by a pair of 57 hp Yanmars with saildrives; 45 hp Yanmars are standard.

At just over 37 feet length overall, the Catspace is one of the smaller ­production cats available these days. It ­also has an airy feeling in the saloon’s dining and ­lounging area, thanks to a ­similar aft door arrangement. But space doesn’t permit a second door to the foredeck. Instead, there’s a larger center window that opens to let in the breeze, and the galley (including a ­full-size fridge) is in the forward ­starboard corner of the main cabin.

Available layouts include a three-stateroom version, where the owner’s stateroom ­occupies the port hull, or a charter-­friendly four-stateroom layout, with athwartship bunks in the two forward staterooms.

As with its bigger sister, the Catspace has lounge areas on the foredeck and atop its flybridge. The helm station is up top too, to starboard, and is surrounded on the side and behind with cushions. Unlike the 4.6, the Catspace’s winches are close at hand when sitting at the wheel. A singlehander or skipper with a ­short-handed crew will appreciate this. I found access to the flybridge via stairs from either side deck to be quite good, with handholds located where I needed them.

Again, if I planned to buy and sail the Catspace, I’d ­include a code zero or some other all-round reaching sail to add a little more get-up-and-go. We went sailing in about 15 knots of wind and notched about 4 knots on the speedo closehauled. In a higher puff, I saw just under 6 knots reaching. But was it a comfortable ride? You bet.

As stated at the outset, ­sailboats are built to suit a ­purpose. During a Boat of the Year debrief this past fall, judge Tim Murphy told his colleagues that overall, he thought that the open-air concept incorporated into the design of the 4.6 and Catspace works quite well. Recalling a weeklong vacation spent with five friends aboard an earlier Bali model, he said, “On the ­charter, it was actually delightful.” 

Specifications

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Sailboat Review: New Models from Bali Catamaran appeared first on Cruising World.

Of all the tweaks and changes in the ­design and layout of large cruising catamarans, ­surely the most innovative has been the addition of the flybridge steering station and “upstairs” lounging space. To be perfectly honest, the feature took a while to grow on me. At first, it was a matter of aesthetics: What in the name of Herreshoff was that mainsail ­gooseneck doing a story or two up in the sky? 

But as I sailed a few flybridge-­equipped cats, ­particularly the Lagoon 620—the predecessor to the brand’s latest rangy cat, the Sixty 5—it dawned on me that my issue was a matter of perspective. The beauty of the flybridge isn’t obvious when you’re ­looking at it. The brilliance becomes clear when you’re experiencing the wide-open waters and 360-degree views of the horizon while perched upon it. 

The 67-plus-foot Sixty 5 has a wide, well-reasoned ­platform high above the seas. Its commanding panoramas are just the beginning. Twin helms with comfy, upholstered bench seating, as well as the ­engine controls and chart plotters, flank a quartet of ­Harken ­winches, all of which are ­canopied by a solid ­overhead Bimini. The ­traditional mainsail is trimmed with the aid of a continuous-­line traveler, also led to the Harkens. Unfortunately, our test sail was ­conducted in middling breeze, but we still made a solid 5 knots under the code-zero headsail in just 7 knots of wind. 

Happily, there were ­other attractions to hold our ­attention, especially the “topside ­galley” with a fridge, a sink, an ice maker, a Kenyon grill, and enough seating to open your own waterborne cafe. As for steering, there’s a second indoor station in the saloon controlled by the B&G autopilot, negating the need to venture aloft for course adjustments.  

Back at sea level, owners have many choices and options. There can be four, five or six staterooms; the ­galley can be up in the saloon or down in the hull; and there are numerous styles of Alpi wood finishes and upholstery—all of which you’d expect on a ­vessel with a price tag north of $3 million. The owner’s ­staterooms, in particular, are sumptuous. 

Construction, as with the entire nine-model Lagoon line from 40 to 78 feet length overall, is straightforward: a balsa-­cored laminate in both the hull and deck, with polyester and vinylester incorporated into the layup. The teak decks are a classy touch that you don’t usually encounter on a catamaran. There’s a pair of gensets, one of which addresses the ­overall house needs and a second ­dedicated to the ­individual air-­conditioning units ­scattered hither and yon. A pair of 150 hp Yanmars is standard, though our test boat had been upgraded to twin 195 hp diesels ­coupled with Flexofold props.

The cat’s profile is striking, with a straight stem on the bow to maximize waterline length and the coach roof’s familiar turret-style brow—a signature Lagoon feature. There’s a cool forward cockpit for lounging and reading, offset by an aft cockpit with seating and a dining area. The integrated bowsprit is another sweet touch, allowing for a triple-headsail arrangement for easily shifting gears depending on wind strength and direction. 

Lagoon is presently building about 20 boats a year. All have gone to private owners, not charter companies, though many owners are offering their boats with full crews from five to 10 weeks a year, to offset expenses. It’s a business model that’s tried-and-true with the superyacht set. The ­Sixty 5 is a lot of boat to handle, and nearly all owners will employ a hired captain, and chef and mate, who have their own ­dedicated quarters aboard. 

But let’s return to that flybridge. I’ve always wanted to experience what it feels like to have the conn on a big ­freighter or cruise ship, with the long scans and endless ocean vistas. Since sailing the Lagoon Sixty 5, I think I know.  

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Sailboat Review: Lagoon Sixty 5 appeared first on Cruising World.

As sailors and boat owners, we are, by nature, inveterate tinkerers. A sailboat has so many intertwined systems that there is almost always something in need of our attention. It might be a clogged head (ick!), a blocked engine water intake, roller furling that is doing neither, or any of several million other things.  

So it’s no surprise that sailors on bareboat charters, with handy multi-tools in their pockets, don’t hesitate to fix things. No one wants to waste hours of precious charter time waiting for a repair boat from the charter base to fix the freshwater pump or clean an engine strainer or troubleshoot a balky outboard.

Faced with a problem, we (and I speak for myself here) will flip out our multitool or pull out the usually meager toolbox (rusty pliers, Allen wrenches that fit nothing, and an abused Phillips screwdriver) and tackle the project.

Service managers at several major charter operations have a one-word piece of advice for people like us: Don’t.

Some of the service ­managers are more emphatic: Please don’t.

In the most popular bareboating areas such as the British Virgin Islands and Bahamas, charter bases have fast chase boats that can have a repair team at your boat in no time. Raul Bermudez, vice president of MarineMax Vacations in the BVI, says his company’s nearly 40-knot Aquila 28 and an on-staff repair team provide quick solutions. Charterers can then negotiate a discount or refund for any lost time.

In a worst-case scenario, when you are far from the charter base (Scotland and Thailand come to mind), your first course of action should be to call the base, describe the problem, and (hopefully) let them walk you through a solution. As Barney Crook, managing director of TMM Yacht Charters in the BVI, says, “We prefer that charterers in general do not try to fix anything themselves unless they are being guided by one of our operations team.” Many repairs are needed because of operator error, he adds, and can be resolved on the phone.  

Charter manager Ross Keeble at Conch Charters in the BVI puts the question of repairs succinctly: “Common sense will rule the day, but not everyone appears to pack their common sense when on vacation—but they will bring their multitool.” 

That said, here’s a look at some common bareboat ­problems and whether you should tackle them.

Prop Wrap

A common problem is getting a line wrapped around the prop. This usually happens because you failed to appoint a “tender tender”:  someone to make sure the tender is snugged up tight while docking, anchoring or maneuvering. Allowing any slack in the towline (or painter) is just an invitation for the hungry prop to eat it.  

The first instinct for most bareboaters is to grab a knife and a dive mask. “This is unfortunately not as innocent as it might seem,” Keeble says, because a wrapped prop “causes a massive amount of unseen damage to saildrives and to prop-shaft-driven vessels. It’s what you cannot see, and it dramatically shortens the life span of oil seals, can elongate the hub of the prop, and create premature failure of the transmission. We need to be informed, because it’s always the future customers that suffer from a bareboater not owning up to a prop wrap.”

Don’t think a wrap can be a major problem? On one charter, it was the mainsheet in the water as we rounded up to pick up a mooring under sail (yes, we were showing off). The prop was barely ticking over, but it was enough to suck in the mainsheet, which, as it tightened, yanked the entire prop shaft out of the hull, leaving us with a 2-inch stream of incoming water to solve.

Head Won’t Flush

Did someone try to flush something they hadn’t eaten first? That could be the problem, in which case, call the base and be prepared if there is a charge for this revolting project. 

Even if you have a plunger aboard, don’t use it: It can just make things worse. One item to check is the seacock. Make sure it has not been closed inadvertently. If your boat has a holding tank, make sure it isn’t full, which will prevent the head from flushing. 

Air Conditioning Stopped 

 “If you set it below 70 degrees, it will freeze up,” Keeble says. “Go outside into the cockpit, enjoy the breeze, and wait. It will defrost. Use your multitool to open a beer.”  

If the air conditioning is heating rather than cooling, did someone push the heat button? And if the AC is blowing but without cold air, check for water flow out of the vessel. If there is no water, then clean the seaweed out of the bilge-mounted filter (be sure to close the seacock).

Generator (or Main Engine) Is Overheating

This is often caused by ­seaweed or a plastic bag ­clogging the water intake.  

“Clearing seaweed is a common issue, and we show our bareboaters how to do that during the briefing,” Bermudez says. 

If you can’t flush the intake from inside the boat, this is when a dive mask and a piece of coat hanger can solve the problem when you’re ready for a swim.

Outboard Problems

These are among the most frequently listed issues and, hopefully, easy to solve.  

What if the outboard doesn’t start?

First, do you have fuel in the tank? Repair crews always carry a gallon can of outboard fuel because bareboaters rarely think to unscrew the cap and look in.

While checking the fuel level, make sure the air vent on the tank is open. Some engines have a fuel shut-off lever (probably mentioned in the briefing), so make sure it’s open.   

If there is fuel, why isn’t it getting to the engine? Do not ever squeeze the bulb a few times on the hose: That’s a sure way to flood the engine. Instead, make sure the hose is securely attached to the engine and fuel tank. There should be a solid click when it’s properly seated. Next, make sure the tank is not sitting on the hose and strangling it.  

Most modern outboards have a kill cord on the front of the engine that will stop it if it isn’t fully in place. If that cord is missing, Keeble recommends using a hair band, zip tie or piece of string to fake it.  

If the outboard runs and then shuts off, is there a hole in the fuel line? Most repair teams approve of a bareboater cutting out the offending piece and reattaching the clamp. Just be sure to report this after the charter.

If your outboard is ­stumbling and there is a plug wrench available, pull the plugs to see if they are fouled with oil. Dry them with a ­paper towel, but don’t try to reset the gap. Reinstall them, and you’re likely to be off again.

Electrical Problems

The first question troubleshooters for everything from computers to electric toasters ask is: “Is it plugged in?” Aboard a boat when the (windlass, davit, winch, whatever) doesn’t work, the question is: “Did you check the breaker?”  

If you don’t have power to an outlet, it might be a GFI outlet, so push the reset button.  

Fridge Is Warm

This is definitely a no-no. Don’t tinker with the fridge aside from checking the temperature dial to make sure it’s at the proper setting.  

The solution here is to buy ice until the repair crew arrives. Remember to drain out the melt water. Use the ice for something cold with an umbrella in it.

Sink Won’t Drain

As with the head, something has clogged the hose. Did someone accidentally close the seacock? If someone admits to dumping last night’s pasta into the sink, then pour hot water into it until anything greasy breaks up.

Broken Alternator Belt

Some charter boats carry a spare belt, which is sometimes taped in position, ready to go.  Your multitool can loosen the pulley (usually on the alternator) to allow the belt replacement. Tighten the belt and use your thumb so it deflects about three-eighths of an inch. 

Report this to the base, and don’t try to be cute by making a belt out of duct tape or a piece of knotted cord.  

Electronics Issues

Even if your last name rhymes with Gates or Jobs, don’t mess with the electronics. Period. Call the base. 

Battery Problems

If the engine won’t start, it’s likely one of two issues. First, the battery is dead (who left the lights on last night?) More likely, corrosion on a battery-terminal post or lug is shorting out the system.  

Even using the rusty pliers, most bareboaters can remove the terminal from the post and easily see if there is whitish corrosion. Scrape away the corrosion, tighten it securely, and you’ll be underway.

Electrical issues are usually one of three things: loose, wet or dirty wires.

Stove Won’t Light

The sequence is to turn on the propane at the tank, and then turn on the solenoid. Most bareboats have a second tank in place, so you can switch to a full tank if you suspect an empty one. Push in and hold the stove knob to make sure the thermocouple is getting hot.  

One service manager reported a customer shoving an orange between the safety grab rail and the knob to keep the thermocouple functioning while cooking. Another crew called the base, complaining that the barbecue had no propane tank so they couldn’t light the grill. It was a charcoal barbecue. ’Nuff said.

Sailing-Gear Fixes

Most sailing-gear problems involve chafe of a line (roller furling), which can usually be fixed by knotting the line where it doesn’t run through a block. Chafe on sheets can be solved by reversing the line to remove the chafed section from loaded areas, such as mainsheet blocks.

On one bareboat, the pin holding the gooseneck went overboard when the cotter pin failed, but lashing the (rusty) screwdriver from the toolbox into place solved the problem. On another boat, the shackle on the mainsheet failed, and the crew solved the problem using the padlock from the cabin door.  

One crew had a batten break, risking a tear in the mainsail if it wasn’t fixed. The main was lowered, the two parts of the batten were removed, and they sailed for a day minus a batten until the repair crew brought a new one.

Water Pump Running Nonstop

Besides possibly burning out the pump, this can run your water tank dry, meaning no showers. Keep the water-pump breaker turned off until you need water, and remember to turn it off afterward.

Engine Seems to Lack Oil

This was mentioned by a couple of service techs, particularly with three-cylinder Yanmars, which, one said, “have a habit of playing a game of hide-the-oil.”  

When in doubt, open the oil-filler cap and redip the oil stick. This should relieve any internal pressure.

Adding any fluids (oil or water) is a no-no, several service techs emphasized. One bareboater added fluid every day and returned to the base with nearly a gallon too much oil in the engine, which had overflowed, making a mess of the engine-room bilge.

Final Advice

Keep in mind that there are liability issues when you start tinkering. You might think you’re curing the problem when, in fact, you’re making it worse. That puts the liability for repairs and replacement parts in your lap—or wallet. 

Trust me, you don’t want that. Pick up the phone or VHF radio and call the base. The staff can talk you through any problem, or get a repair crew to you posthaste. 

With over four decades of experience, Chris Caswell was bareboat chartering when some of us were still playing with rubber duckies in the tub. Find more tips at his website: chartersavvy.com  

Four Rules for Bareboat Repairs

1. Always start with the simplest cures. Breaker on? Gas valve on?

2. Take your time and carefully think through any repair. Are you qualified?

3. Call the base and have the staff talk you through simple repairs.

4. Never, ever take apart anything. Just don’t.

The post The DIY Dilemma: Charter Edition appeared first on Cruising World.

I know what you’re thinking: a week to cruise around one little island? Having run charters on my Lagoon 410 Guiding Light for nearly a decade, my answer is: You bet! 

With the pandemic came a renewed interest in the US Virgin Islands, especially for US citizens, who found the nearly 20 square miles of St. John to be as ripe as ever for a fun, easygoing experience. Here’s a taste of what a week around St. John looks like. 

Day One: Pick up or meet your boat. I prefer to start in Red Hook because it is on the east end of St. Thomas and a good jumping-off spot. If you start in Charlotte Amalie, simply add a ­two-hour upwind motor to get to the east end. The first stop is on the southwest corner of St. John: secluded Rendezvous Bay. Tuck up into the eastern part of the bay just off a rocky beach. Here you have the choice of two snorkeling spots. The one to the left is against the cliffside, and you will be amazed at the variety of sea creatures. The second spot is on the opposite side of the boat. This one is from the edge of the beach all the way out to the point, where you’ll find large rocks, walls, and overhangs covered in coral and fish. It’s a bit deeper (in 15 to 25 feet of water) and more advanced, but it’s amazing.

Day Two: The first stop will be in Reef Bay to hike up to see the 500- to 1,000-year-old pre-Colombian petroglyphs and the last active sugar factory on St. John. This factory is also the only one that brought in steam equipment. After the hike, head half a mile or so to the east and snorkel Tektite Point in Great Lameshur Bay. NASA and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration ran underwater tests here back around the late 1960s. Finish your day at Salt Pond Bay, where you will find only five other boats because you have to take a mooring while inside the US national park that makes up two-thirds of St. John.

Day Three: Start your day with a sunrise hike out to Ram Head, one of the most ­popular hikes on St. John. Other highlights of Salt Pond Bay are the wonderful beach, turtles and snorkeling. If you want a more adventurous snorkeling itinerary, then check out the cliff between Salt Pond Bay and Blue Cobblestone Beach to the south (also where the Ram Head hike goes by). You can walk from the beach to the other side of the peninsula and check out the artwork people have made from coral on the beach at Drunk Bay. Around 2 or 3 p.m., head around Ram Head with the boat and anchor in Coral Bay so that you can have dinner at Skinny Legs, a funky little burger-and-sandwich joint that people love.

Day Four: Spend the morning snorkeling along the mangrove-lined bays of Otter and Water creeks in Hurricane Hole. This is one of my favorite snorkeling spots in the whole Virgin Islands because it has coral, sponges, fish, and other creatures in and on the mangrove tree roots. It is very different from what you find elsewhere. After snorkeling, head back to Coral Bay to grab lunch at Lime Out, a taco boat that has “lily pads” for your group to hang out in. Next, head to the east coast of St. John and Newfound Bay, which I can almost guarantee you will have to yourself. Make sure you are comfortable with reef navigation because you’ll need to sail between two reefs on a lee shore to enter the bay. You must have good light, so get there early. Once inside, you can tuck in behind the southern reef for an amazing view of the British Virgin Islands. If the weather is favorable for snorkeling outside the reef, it’s well worth it. Otherwise, explore the entrance to the bay on both sides. Rays fly through this bay all the time.

Day Five: It’s time to enjoy a 4-mile downwind sail to Waterlemon Bay, which has some of best examples of soft corals in the Virgin Islands. The best snorkeling is on the back side of Waterlemon Cay, reportedly the last place in the islands that pistol duels took place. You can also enjoy the beach and walk over to Annaberg Sugar Plantation, which is the most popular historic site on St. John and has the largest of the five windmills on the island. Up on the hillside from the anchorage, you will find a garrison house.

Day Six: Beach day! Choose among four major beaches and a handful of small beaches, all within a 1-mile area. Each beach has its own atmosphere: Francis is quieter and has a boardwalk hike; Maho has food trucks; Cinnamon is the national park’s campgrounds; and Trunk is one of the most beautiful. My favorite is the small beach to the west of Cinnamon Beach. You will probably have it to yourself. You can moor at any of the bays, but I prefer Francis Bay because it is the calmest and provides the best breeze. Another choice is to spend the night in Caneel Bay or off Honeymoon Beach, and dinghy around the corner into Cruz Bay to enjoy dinner and nightlife in town.

Day Seven: You can snorkel Whistling Cay and hang out on another beach in the morning and early afternoon before heading downwind to Christmas Cove. This is a popular anchorage outside the national park. There is great snorkeling along a 5-foot ridge at the head of the bay, as well as around the Fish Cays in the middle of the bay. The best part of Christmas Cove is having pizza for dinner from Pizza Pi, a boat built specifically to dish out traditional New York-style pizza. 

After 11 years of running charters in the Virgin Islands and Eastern Caribbean, Capt. Shane McClellan is setting sail for the Greater Antilles, including Cuba and Belize. Follow him at svguidinglight.com.

The post Seven Days Around St. John appeared first on Cruising World.

The most important sailor in my life was my father. The most important sailor in his life was a wood butcher called “Chips” who worked as a handyman at the Lutheran orphanage in Chicago where my father was incarcerated a hundred years ago. After a day of replacing lightbulbs and sweeping up the halls, Chips would retire to a modest toolshed on the grounds—and construct small sailing craft. My father, while plotting his escape, was attracted to the sounds of the caulking mallet, the wood plane, the brace and bit, the adze and the draw spoke. He loved the slap of the sandpaper and the grunt of the shipwright. 

My father stood at the door of the boat shed, doe-eyed—and then scurried in at precisely the right moment to hold the end of a wobbly plank, help soap the No. 16 silicone bronze screws, or assist in peening over the heads of bronze drift bolts. Like most shipwrights, Chips muttered about the sea as he marked off his planks, shaped his horn timbers, and angled the edges of the garboard just so. 

Timing is everything. My father longed to be free. There was then, and there is now—no freer place than the sea. 

Chips gained an apprentice; my father gained a mentor. About a year in, Chips told my father to brush off the sawdust, and he took him to a library and introduced him to the librarian as “Sailor Jim.” The librarian fed my father a steady stream of books by such seamen as Irving Johnson, Alan Villiers, Frederic Fenger and Eric Newby. He read every book about boats in the Chicago library system—twice. Only once did he ask for a nonmarine title: a book about forgery. 

While my father was a completely open and honest man who always told the truth and never cheated, he held no allegiance to the rules of others. He simply ignored them—a reason, perhaps, that he found the sea and her harsh-but-fair rules so enticing. 

In the orphanage, after a certain age, a kid could get a pass to visit relatives if the family jumped through a lot of bureaucratic hoops. My father had no family, had no hoops to jump through. So, after lights out, he’d work with his flashlight, paper and pens, and was soon allowed to visit his North Side relatives to help acclimate and integrate him into polite society. 

But the only society that interested Sailor Jim was the brethren of the sea. He’d stand patiently by the dinghy racks at the Chicago Yacht Club. When a boat owner would attempt to drag his tender down the beach, Jim would lend a hand. Everyone thought he was another member’s son. “Do you know anything about varnishing?” one owner asked.

“A bit,” Jim replied. 
Yes, timing is everything. 

Refinishers are always sought around a yacht club. Jim was soon popping open varnish cans on a 68-foot gold-plater designed by John G. Alden. He did such a good job with his brush that the wealthy owner invited him out sailing. It wasn’t long before he was skippering the foredeck—and studying celestial navigation on the side.

One day, Jim invited a friend from the orphanage to accompany him on a race. The race went well, and Jim was proud of all the smooth sail changes. On the bus ride back to the orphanage, his buddy slyly pulled out a pair of kid-leather gloves and said: “Lookie, Jimbo! They were just sitting on the table down there in the boat. Nobody was around, so I nicked ’em!”

My father couldn’t believe it. He grabbed the expensive gloves, rushed off the bus, and managed to get back to the yacht club just as the owner was climbing into his Bentley. He returned the gloves, explained the situation and apologized profusely—ending with: “Well, I made a mistake, sir. I invited somebody aboard that I should not have. You trusted me, and I didn’t live up to that trust. So, I guess I’ll see you around. And again, sorry.” 

“Now, now, Jim,” the owner said. “I invited you aboard because you could swing a brush—and I kept you as part of the crew because you were a hard worker and a quick learner. But frankly, I had no idea if you were a good person or not. Now I know. The key to the companionway is on a hook inside the quadrant box. I want you to treat my vessel like she’s your own—and keep that varnish glowing.” 

The big Lake Michigan race was, both then and now, the Mackinac. My father, always good with numbers, acted as backup navigator at first, and then as the main navi-guesser. Evidently, he did all right; he was soon shooting the sun from the decks of vessels throughout the Great Lakes, and then all along the East Coast.

As soon as he managed to spring himself from the orphanage, he purchased the 22-foot Dorothea for $10—$5 for the boat, and $5 for the team of horses to drag her to a vacant lot. Everyone on the South Side said “that fool’s boat” would never float. It did. It even won a couple of races. A Chicago Yacht Club member lent him an expensive mooring right downtown, within sight of the club. He met a local girl at the Rexall’s soda fountain (a hotbed of seduction in those quaint days) and drove her down Lake Shore Drive as he said nonchalantly: “That’s my little carvel-planked sloop out there—the black hull. Her name is Dorothea.”

“Lovely,” said my mother-­to-be, who vainly wasn’t wearing her eyeglasses at the time and couldn’t even see the dashboard. 

A few months later, he popped the question at the Butter Burger drive-in: That’s right, he asked her if she’d consider living aboard. 

“But isn’t your boat too small?” Marie asked, bewildered. “Can you really do that? With kids? It sounds crazy, Jim.”

“Yes, Dorothea is kind of small,” he agreed, “but I’ll sell her. I’ve got my eye on a lovely little 36-foot Friendship sloop that pounded on some rocks off St. Joe and—”

“Well, I guess I could try,” Marie said, all starry-eyed.

As children, we must have heard this story of their unusual courtship a thousand times. 

“At the time, I knew. Oh, I knew. I knew I wanted to have his babies—ashore or afloat.”

Father had enjoyed his time with pen and ink. He was good at calligraphy. And he liked to draw. So, he naturally slid into sign painting. Soon, half the transoms in Chicago displayed his work. 

“No need to haul,” he’d say from his paint-splattered dinghy. “I’ll just pick a day with less than 3-foot seas, no rain and not much adverse current.” 

And he raced every race in the Great Lakes and beyond. He purchased the Friendship sloop in partnership with a dentist called “Doc Zic” (if my memory serves). Upon its sale, the good doctor took every penny he invested (and not a penny more), thus giving the huge profit entirely to my father, who immediately opened Goodlander Signs on Englewood Avenue. 

But the winds of war were blowing across Europe. For America to win, the country desperately needed celestial navigators with lots of practical, hands-on experience at sea. Soon, my father was living in a posh apartment in the French Quarter of New Orleans and teaching. There was only one problem: He’d joined the service to stop the fascists and save freedom, but his commanders would not allow him to leave his desk. They said his teaching skills were too valuable. 

Damn! 

He consoled himself by hanging out at the yacht club on Lake Pontchartrain, and by racing from Galveston, Texas, to Key West, Florida. One day, he overheard that his base commander was in a big jam. He’d been ordered to get three ships from Cozumel, Mexico, to New Orleans by a certain date. However, the commander had failed to do so, and now time was growing too short. And, because of the red tape, well, it was almost impossible to accomplish now. 

“No problem, mon!” my father said as he took a gaggle of drunken bilge rats out of the yacht-club bar. They had all three ships in New Orleans within the week. 

His reward was an officer’s slot aboard a ship heading for the Pacific theater. There was only one problem: The skipper of the ship was old, frail and timid. This skipper had been asked to serve his country, and had answered the call nobly and to the best of his ability. But as the war wore on and his mental and physical health deteriorated, he was increasingly unable to perform his duties. My father attempted to help out as much as possible. They became close friends. Finally, they were ordered to San Diego to reprovision before heading out to patrol the western Pacific. 

As they approached the submarine net in San Diego, the elderly skipper was in his cabin, fussing, for a long time. Finally, he came onto the bridge and took the conn. He looked strangely ­dapper—freshly scrubbed with a whiff of cologne. As they got closer to the net, my father said softly: “I think we’re on the wrong side of that mark by the tugboat. We should go to port of it. I think we should leave it to starboard, sir.” 

The skipper didn’t move. He stared straight ahead. The tension on the bridge skyrocketed. Finally, the captain said shakily, “Enter it in the log, Mr. Goodlander.” 

This meant that, officially, my father would be accusing the skipper of making a major mistake and worse, sticking with that mistake after being corrected by a fellow officer. Father didn’t want to do that. 

“Do as I say,” the skipper said harshly. 

My father did so—and was barely finished with his log entry before the ship plowed into the submarine net and entangled its prop. Without a word, the skipper left the bridge and returned with his suitcase, which was already packed. 

While awaiting the gangplank to be lowered, he said wearily, “That’s it for me, Jim.”

Back at the shipyard, peace was declared. America had won. As all the horns started to blow. My father tossed his officer’s hat high into the air and walked out—never to return to organized discipline in any form. He’d done what he felt he had to do to protect freedom and defeat fascism. Now none of those silly military rules applied. 

Back in Chicago, Goodlander Signs grew to three trucks, numerous employees, and a large number of block-and-tackle stages to paint signs on tall buildings. Jim plowed all his money back into the business. While he was broke, the future was bright. His two daughters were growing up straight and true; his new son was gaining his sea legs.

To amuse himself on long winter evenings after the kids were asleep, he’d pen stories for Yachting magazine about navigation and seamanship. My mother would hunt-and-peck over her rose-scented novel.  

Every morning, he’d drive over a bridge on the Calumet Sag Channel and look down at a lovely 52-foot Alden schooner named Elizabeth. He’d raced against her many times. She was hauled out on a railway car. The graceful, carvel-planked wooden vessel, constructed in 1924 by Morse Brothers in Maine, was going through a major refit. All her hardware was off, and her rig was down. Off-site mechanics were working on her 25 hp Scripps gas engine and, not being sailors, had left some oily rags. 

That night, Elizabeth partially burned—mostly her main cabin and deck amidships. Her owner, Lynn Williams of the Chicago Yacht Club, wanted her declared a total loss, but the insurance company wasn’t too sure. In order to free up the railway car to haul other boats, the Elizabeth was relaunched and, a few weeks later, sank at the dock. 

The insurance company then declared her a total loss. The dockmaster wanted the use of his dock ASAP. And at this precise moment, my father came fishtailing into the shipyard in a cloud of dust, waving a hundred-dollar bill that he’d kept tucked in his wallet for exactly such a happy occasion. He screamed at the top of his lungs: “I’ll buy her! Right now! As is, where is!”

Yes, timing is everything. Fortune always favors the bold. Here, finally, was his escape pod. They’d never be able to lock him up again. 

And that is the story of my childhood floating home—the noble vessel I grew up aboard for the first decade of watery life, and the twin ideals of hard work and independent action that so emboldened me from an early, salt-stained age.

The post The Apple and the Tree appeared first on Cruising World.

Jan Reyers tried to take it in stride when his father started calling him “my deviant son.” After all, his father had sailed until he was almost 70 years old, and Reyers had spent countless years sailing a Columbia 22 on Lake Superior. This was a family that lived by the wind. The mere thought of buying a boat without sails made Reyers, well, a wayward child. 

The thing is, Reyers wasn’t a kid ­anymore. He’d spent years working for 3M, and when he took on a new role with the company in Minnesota, the job required dinners with clients. He wasn’t too keen about that—but, he thought, meeting with clients could be a lot of fun aboard a boat.

There was just one problem. “On a sailboat, that wouldn’t be too ideal,” Reyers says. “That was the first time we chartered in the Pacific Northwest, to see if we could adjust to a stinkpot—uh, I mean, a powerboat.”

The thought process that Reyers went through happens in the minds of countless sailors as they move into middle age. After years of blissfully hoisting sails and rounding buoys, any number of factors can trigger the transition in thinking: a desire to do more long-distance cruising in retirement, back problems that make tacking and jibing a literal pain in the rear, or, as with Reyers, a job change that nudges the lifelong sailor to wander down the docks at the trawler section of the boat show for the first time. 

What many of these sailors soon realize is that they don’t actually have to quit sailing. Instead, they can broaden their idea of boating to include sailing and powerboating alike.

Reyers, trying to suss out his options, started booking trawler charters with companies in the San Juan and Gulf ­islands of the Pacific Northwest. He and his wife tried an Ocean Alexander, and then an Ocean Trader. Along the way, they saw a Tollycraft—a cruising boat that was built in the Pacific Northwest until the 1990s. 

“We liked the design of that and found one back in the Twin Cities,” Reyers says of the 1988 40-foot Tollycraft they ultimately purchased. “For the next eight years, we used the heck out of it on the St. Croix River. That taught us that we could survive with motors.”

Making the Mental Shift

Reyers and his wife soon realized that they enjoyed different types of boating. Reyers still loves to sail—he regularly charters Beneteaus in Lake Superior’s Apostle Islands—but eventually, he outgrew the Tollycraft.

“When it started becoming time for retirement, the entertainment thing was out the window, and I was getting bored with the river,” he says. “We got kind of captured by the thought of Alaska, and we found NW Explorations. We had seen their fleet once when we were out there, and we were really impressed with it. When we saw that they had the flotilla in Alaska, we thought it might be a good way to go cruising without buying another boat.”

NW Explorations, founded in 2004, is a charter, sales and service company based in Bellingham, Washington. Its fleet is exclusively trawlers, and it regularly offers flotilla charters in destinations such as Desolation Sound and Alaska. The charter boats can be booked with or without captains, and the flotillas always include a lead boat with a US Coast Guard-licensed captain, a marine mechanic and a naturalist to help everyone.

The flotillas visit some of the most stunning destinations for scenery and wildlife in US and Canadian waters. In Desolation Sound, boaters cruise beneath 7,000-foot-tall peaks. Boaters on the Princess Louisa flotilla typically see wildlife ranging from grizzly bears to eagles. The Alaska flotilla’s sights include orca and humpback whales, hot springs, glaciers, fjords, and more.

“We have definitely found over the years that the trawlers we have here are a good transition boat for sailors,” says Emmelina Mojica, charter manager at NW Explorations. “They just go slow and enjoy the ride. And especially with the Grand Banks boats, there is really good visibility from the helm. You feel connected with the water, as sailors do.” 

The company recommends that sailors take about three hours of boat-maneuvering lessons to adjust from single-engine maneuvering to handling a twin-screw vessel. 

“Once they do that, we find that they are really very comfortable; it actually ends up being easier than what they’re used to,” Mojica says. “It just takes a little bit of time for them to get used to it.”

That’s exactly the experience Reyers had in 2015, when he and his wife chartered a Grand Banks 42 for a flotilla cruise in Alaska. They liked it so much that they did another one, on a Grand Banks 46, in 2017, with an extra stateroom for their son and daughter-in-law to join them.

“It’s a very different experience from sailing,” he says. “Out there, you are going to be motoring anyway if you want to go up the channels to get to the fjords and glaciers. I’ve always been a guy who likes to go explore and weasel into places that are hard to get to. That was one reason we wanted to go to Alaska, just to go into gunkholes and get from one point to another in a reasonable period of time without having to rely on the wind. It’s better for that.”

John McColloch has found the same thing to be true. He’s a lifelong sailor who started out on Penguins when he was 8 years old (learning that he could sail those boats backward hooked him for life). He went on to own a Sonar class one-design, a 28-foot Alerion Express sloop, a J/42, a J/105 and his current sailboat, another 28-foot Alerion Express sloop.

But today, he is also a powerboat owner. His interest in owning multiple kinds of boats took serious hold in 2004, when he bought a 2001 Offshore 48 Sedan.

“Why did I go to the dark side? Because you can do things you can’t do in a sailboat,” McColloch says. “It’s not a speed issue; it’s the reliability-of-being-­able-to-move issue. I don’t know how many times I took the J/42 up to Maine, cleared the Cape Cod Canal, and never unfurled a sail. It takes a long time where you need to go, and a lot of times, there’s no wind. It doesn’t mean I’m not a sailor.”

The Broader Boating Life

One thing McColloch and his wife were able to do on the Offshore 48 was a route called the Down East Circle. They started in Newport, Rhode Island, and made their way up New York’s Hudson River to the Erie and Oswego Canal System, then over to Lake Ontario, then down the St. Lawrence River to the Bras d’Or Lakes, and then down the Nova Scotia and Maine coastlines. Some 2,500 miles later, they were back in Newport.

“We did that over two summers on the Offshore. It was a phenomenal trip,” McColloch says. 

Wanting to do certain types of cruising more easily is why today, in addition to his Alerion sloop that he keeps in Rhode Island, McColloch also owns a 55-foot Fleming pilothouse trawler that he keeps at the NW Exploration docks. He uses that boat not only for his own cruising in the Pacific Northwest, but also to lead group cruises with fellow members of the New York Yacht Club, as well as friends from the Seattle Yacht Club, of which he is also a member.

McColloch says he has a particularly strong memory of a fellow New York Yacht Club member who chartered a 36-foot Grand Banks and had a similar epiphany about different ways to enjoy the water. 

“We were sitting there at one of the stops, which was the private home of a member of the Seattle Yacht Club,” McColloch says. “It was 78 or 80 degrees without a cloud in the sky, and I asked him if he was having a good time. He said: ‘It’s warm and sunny, no bugs, no fog, and a lot of fun people. What’s not to like?’”

Some participants in those cruises are trying trawlers for the first time, he says, but they’re all sailors at heart.

“We all love boats,” he says. “That’s the central theme. It’s going out and finding another way to enjoy yachting and cruising with people who are like-minded.”

Reyers says that even his father has come to understand. He gave up sailing after a day when Reyers’ mother went overboard and landed between the boat and the dock on Lake Superior. “He tried to pull her out and couldn’t. He had to hook a halyard to her and winch it and pull her up,” Reyers says. “The boat was up for sale the next week. At some point, you just don’t have the energy and strength anymore.”

And all of the sudden, what Reyers was doing—messing around on trawlers in addition to sailboats—made more sense. Today, he’s planning two different charters: one aboard a Hunter 36 in the Apostle Islands, and the other in Desolation Sound aboard a 46-foot DeFever pilothouse trawler. 

For Reyers, it’s all quite simple. “I always want to be able to boat,” he says. “I don’t want to quit.”

Upcoming NW Explorations Flotillas

Want to give a trawler a try as part of a flotilla charter? NW explorations has several in the planning stages, with most charterers looking ahead to at least 2023. “Most people who do these flotillas plan at least a year in advance, if not more,” says Emmelina Mojica, the charter manager at NW Explorations. The company offers three flotillas each year. The first is a 10-day trip to Princess Louisa Inlet on the British Columbia coast. The second is a two-week trip during the last week of September and first week of October to Desolation Sound. The third is an Alaska flotilla that runs from May through the end of August, with various legs. “There are six or seven legs that we offer, and they run from two to three weeks long. People can drop in and do a two-week segment,” Mojica says. “We have one client this year who has sailed around the world and they’re doing four of the legs, but most people do one leg.”

NW Yacht Group

In August 2021, NW Explorations merged with Cooper Boating, which has a charter fleet of sailboats, powerboats and catamarans in Canada, and is a Transport Canada Recreational Boating school. Both brands are now operating under the banner of NW Yacht Group with four locations: Vancouver, Sidney and Powell River, Canada; and Bellingham, Washington. § “Both now have a larger charter pool to draw from, with access to all four locations, and in-house maintenance, repairs and detailing,” the ­companies announced. “With a broader range of services and efficiencies in how we operate, we intend to establish a leadership position in our industry.”

The post Wisdom for the Ages appeared first on Cruising World.

It comes as a surprise to many boat owners that the only thing transmitting thrust from the propeller to the vessel’s hull, moving the hull forward, is the motor mounts. And, that the only connections between the prop and the hull are four ½-inch or 5⁄8-inch studs. A great deal of faith must be placed in those studs, so it’s worth making sure they are properly installed and maintained. 

And not just because they transmit thrust. A motor mount also absorbs vibration and torque, using a rubber or synthetic material as the medium. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to design and construct a motor mount that does all three tasks equally well.  

Absorbing vibration requires a softer durometer, while transmitting thrust and contending with torque requires a more robust durometer. The engine wants to counter-rotate in the opposite direction from the prop, which means the mounts on one side of the engine are compressed more than those on the other side. In some cases, the mounts on one side might actually be lifted, which means they are in tension rather than compression. For this reason, some engine manufacturers specify different durometer mounts for left and right.  

Taking these variables into account, most mount designs must represent a compromise across the range of use.

Commonly, the cause of motor-mount failure is related to installation and the length of exposed stud. Ideally, motor mounts should not be adjusted to the limit of their travel, up or down. Motor mounts are the primary mechanism for adjusting engine location relative to the propeller shaft, otherwise known as alignment. The coarse adjustment should be performed by the boatbuilder or engine installer using shims, or by removing some of the stringer to depress the mount.  

The goal is to get the engine bracket, which connects the engine to the mount stud, somewhere in the middle of the coarse-adjustment range. Then fine adjustment takes place, with the engine being moved a small distance up or down. If the engine is at the top of the stud’s adjustment at the end of this process, the leverage imparted to the stud can lead to its failure. If the engine is at the bottom of the stud’s travel, no further adjustment is ­possible—a potential problem for future alignment.  

Fasteners used to secure the mount’s base to the stringer or shelf on which it rests should be a through bolt, machine screw or lag bolt, in that order. Through bolts offer the greatest security. Machine screws that are screwed into a tapped metal plate embedded into the stringer are a close second, although if they strip, repair can be difficult. Lag bolts are less than ideal because their coarse threads are engaging fiberglass and likely timber, which can fracture or strip if overtightened. And, if the timber gets wet, it will rot, allowing the fastener to pull out.

The fasteners should be the same diameter as the hole in the mount base. There should be no slop or play. If there is, the engine might shift fore and aft when changing gears. Because of the cyclical and reversing nature of loads on mounts, fasteners are prone to loosening. Nylon insert locking nuts or cam-style lock washers should be used to ensure their security. Mounts should be aligned parallel to the vessel’s centerline, and studs should be perpendicular to their base. If twisted, the life of the flexible inserts can be severely shortened.  

Motor mounts should be inspected regularly. The studs and the shell (or cap) are usually mild steel, so they should be corrosion-inhibited. Check all adjustment and mounting hardware, making certain it is tight; you’ll need to put your fingers on each one to do this. If you see any indication that the mount base is sliding, that’s cause for concern.  

Finally, look for signs of deteriorating flexible insert material, which will often show up as black dust or “crumbs” around the base of the mount.

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

The post Installing Motor Mounts appeared first on Cruising World.

Having worked as an editor in marine publishing for the better part of a decade and a half, I’ve had a few opportunities to charter. I’ve been able to witness firsthand the whole spectrum of what some refer to as the best-kept secret in vacation travel. It hasn’t been often that those situations presented themselves, but since the opportunity to charter even once is a bucket-list item for most sailors, I never took an assignment for granted—though I did manage to embarrass myself at a cocktail party, complaining about having to leave home again for a week to “go do another charter story.”

My first taste of charter on a crewed luxury yacht had all the spoils. I was a fairly green editor working at a superyacht magazine, and the boat was a 160-footer owned by a billionaire and managed by a spruce crew of 12. The experience was truly something out of a fantasy.

I didn’t come from a ton of money. Heck, when my parents finally sprung for a well-aged Hunter 31 back in the day, for which I must have been lobbying for years, I figured my dad had hit the jackpot or something. So, that first charter came with a steep learning curve for me. It began the minute I stepped foot from the dinghy—they call them “tenders” up in that stratosphere—onto the massive swim platform. I’ll never forget the chief stewardess greeting us with the most sophisticated British accent I’d ever heard. The second stewardess tonged out crisp, cool, moist towelettes that were delicately scented with cucumber mint. A third stewardess asked if we would care for a refreshment. All the other mates and stewardesses scurried off to our lavish staterooms with our bags, unpacking and pressing all of our clothes before putting them neatly away. It was five-star service at my beck and call. It was surreal. And it was quite easy to get used to. 

For years, that story assignment defined the charter experience for me—until this past summer, when I got to experience bareboating. My wife and I, plus three other couples who are friends, helmed a 54-footer for a week through the matchless cruising grounds that are the British Virgin Islands. Unlike the superyacht experience—which is like a floating Ritz-Carlton that could have been anywhere—we plotted our own course, we cast our own lines, we poured our own drinks. We absolutely lived, in every sense of the word, for several sun- and fun-soaked days. It was soulful. It was real. It was home. 

One of the best things about charter is the wide variety of experiences that exists for cruising nuts like you and me. Charter is not only what I like to call the gateway drug to yacht ownership, but it’s also the actual gateway to some of the most memorable and exceptional waterborne experiences one can have on this planet. 

You’ll find some of those ­adventures detailed in this issue, such as our award-winning ­editor-at-large Mark Pillsbury’s ­recent sailing escapades in Antigua, where he had the rare pleasure of observing—and nearly unwittingly becoming a part of—Antigua Sailing Week from the deck of a Lagoon 42 on charter. Kim Kavin, another award-winner, takes a different tack, profiling why some lifelong sailors decided to cross over to “the dark side” (see also: power) to charter the scenic Pacific Northwest. Each charterer was rewarded with memories for a lifetime. 

On the subject of tacking, you’ve probably noticed a few subtle changes in the magazine, on which our editorial team has been working passionately and tirelessly. Our goal is the same as it’s always been: to be your gateway to the cruising realm, where the spirit of adventure calls those who feel most alive when they’re on the water, who aren’t afraid to venture a bit farther beyond the reef. 

One of those changes is the evolution of our previous Food column to the all-new Sailor & Galley, headed up by longtime CW contributing editor and Greece-based charter operator Lynda Morris Childress. She delves beyond recipes and into the lives and nautical inspiration of the hands that prepare them. I hope you enjoy the first installment of Sailor & Galley. 

As for charter, I can confidently attest firsthand that the ­business is booming—and rightfully so. There’s never been a ­better time to make that bucket-list item a reality. No matter your means or what type of charter you decide on, there’s a unique experience out there for everyone.

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