When I woke, my seasickness had subsided to a general feeling of queasy unease, like snapping to in someone else’s house after a big night out. The constant slamming of the previous two days was gone, replaced with gyroscopic rigidity. The boat was on rails. The sea bubbled along the hull and a curious clicking sound tickled the side of the boat, like there was something loose in the bilge. But the noise came from outside: a pod of dolphins caressing us with their sonar. Other, subtler sounds filtered through. Distant music, melodious but indistinct. Was it whale song?

I was grateful to be free from the nausea, so grateful that it didn’t occur to me that the Southern Ocean should not be smooth, particularly Drake Passage, south of Cape Horn—the 500-nautical-­mile stretch of big water separating South America from our destination of Antarctica. Not long after we’d departed from Puerto Williams, Chile, but before we had entered the Drake itself, I’d been struck with a cold sweat and irrepressible nausea. I filled a bucket with my breakfast and the boat with lamentation. Eventually Alec, the skipper, injected me with promethazine, probably more as a mercy to the rest of the crew than to me. Since then, I’d been cosseted in my bunk, gnawing at an energy bar during brief moments of consciousness.

I tried to get up and realized that all was not as it seemed. I had barely cocked my leg over the lee cloth when I was shoved back into my bunk by an unseen hand. I lay there peeved. I tried again, made it over the lee cloth, but stumbled against the bulkhead. I was a drunk trying to get dressed: a tangle of arms, legs and foul-weather gear. And yet the boat wasn’t moving. I didn’t understand.

I emerged from the cabin tentatively, clinging to handholds to make sure I didn’t fall over, and climbed the stairs to the pilothouse. We were riding a 4-meter swell; we were moving after all. My brain had just become attuned to the motion. The rest of the crew was on deck, watching an iceberg emerge from the haze off the port bow. At first little more than a pale silhouette, it grew into an island of towering white crags. Apparently, two days had passed; we were south of 60 degrees S, which explained the cold that suffused the boat.

Land remained elusive, beyond the bowed horizon but near enough for the arrival of seabirds. They skimmed the sea, breaking its skin with their breasts, daring it to pluck them from flight. A pair of whales emerged nearby, blasting frigid water from their blowholes. They dived back into the deep, water running from their slick skins like oil. Growlers, craggy bits of calved ice, hid themselves among the whitecaps. And between them, smaller shards, some shaped like birds that had frozen in flight and fallen into the water like forgotten ornaments.

Early in the morning of the third day, we sighted a shadow on the horizon: land. We had already slid unseen between Smith and Snow islands in an overcast twilight. Ironically, it was another isle, called Low, that first showed itself, only 4 miles to starboard. Seven hours later, we dropped anchor in the southwestern corner of Mikkelsen Harbor. We had arrived in Antarctica.

We’d completed the journey from Puerto Williams in just under three days aboard Pelagic Australis, Skip Novak’s 74-foot expedition sloop. We were 11 on board: three professional crew and the rest of us, whose experience ranged from very to none. Pelagic Australis is used for both tourist voyages and expeditions: mountaineering, skiing, diving and documentaries.

The pro crew comprised the skipper, Alec, his inimitable wife, Giselle, and Tom, a German mountaineer and sailor who looked remarkably like Capt. Haddock from The Adventures of Tintin comics. They were more than capable of sailing Pelagic Australis without any help, but the rest of us all stood watch and assisted with sailing duties.

RELATED: Unforgettable Antarctica

Before our Drake crossing, anything not fixed to the deck had been stowed below and strapped down. Now, before we could go ashore, the crew extricated the inflatable and its motor from the forward hold and assembled them. Tom ferried us to a flattish rock on D’Hainaut Island, where we carefully clambered onto the slick stone, and stood on the continent for the first time. The island measures less than 700 yards at its widest point, and is home to a cluster of seals and a colony of gentoo penguins. It was our first of many encounters with the captivating birds. We made our way through thigh-deep snow to a small rocky outcrop, next to the Argentine refuge that crowns the island, where the penguins had made a home.

Gentoos collect assorted rocks and pebbles to construct small stone circles for nests. While one parent sits on the eggs, the other fussily rearranges the stones, constantly shoring up their crumbling castle. But the number of loose stones on the island is finite, fewer than the penguins need. Consequently, they spend a lot of their time stealing stones from other nests in an infinite cycle of pilfering.

A sinister silhouette wheeled overhead. There were myriad nests for the skua to choose from, each holding a coveted meal of orange yolk cosseted in gelatinous albumen. The penguins responded to the imminent attack with flashing beaks and a rattling bray. But the skua was spoiled for choice, and it took only a careless ­moment—an instant of distraction—for it to seize an egg and fly off with it clamped in its beak. The skua landed nearby, cracked the shell and dipped into its rich reward. The bereft parents looked on glumly from their empty nest.

While most of us were engrossed by the penguins, Margie, an airline pilot, had other priorities. She stripped to her long johns and slid into the frigid water like a seal. And when he saw that he had been pipped, Eddie, a Scotsman, stripped to his goose pimples and waded out for a quick wallow. There were no other swimmers that day, but a challenge had been issued, and we would all, sooner or later, take a dip in the icy water.

We returned to the boat, raised anchor and, without a puff of wind to propel us, motored to Foyn Harbor, where we tied up to the rusting hulk of the Governøren, a Norwegian whaling ship that caught fire and sank there in 1915.

As an expedition vessel, Pelagic Australis carries most of the equipment needed for exploration on land and underwater. Among the “toys” aboard were two bright red inflatable kayaks, which were brought out and filled with air, adding color to the deck. My wife, Nicky, and I eased ourselves carefully into one and set off to explore some of the nearby inlets and coves. Having our bums below water level provided a new perspective. Soaring spires on our horizon hinted at ancient cities of ice; low dark shapes slipped between the cities like ships. It was unsettling, being away from the warmth and security of the boat, with handheld radios our only umbilical cord, as if we might slip into a void, never to be seen again.

That afternoon we donned snowshoes, climbed the hill overlooking the bay, and gained a different perspective. The vessel that had seemed so substantial when we crossed Drake Passage lay tied up below: a small and fragile thing in a landscape painted with a meager palette, a vista of infinite shades of blue and white. Snowy peaks stretched to the silent skyline, where they fused to the clouds. And, away from the babble of the penguin colonies, the jealous snow subsumed not only color, but sound too.

The following day we cast off from the Governøren and motored slowly into a bay of ice. Mist draped the mountains like a shroud, and a blanket of gray clouds hid the sun. Water lapped against the hull and trickled from ebbing icebergs.

Then, breath. A short, sharp explosion of air. A plume of water and frigid vapor pierced the scene as a humpback surfaced and blasted spent air from its lungs. Then another. The first noisily drew in a lungful of air, ducked its head and arched its back. Its tail slid from the sea, traced a trickling arc, then slipped back into the water. The whale disappeared, leaving only a ring of ripples as a reminder. Another surfaced, closer to us, and blew a cold cloud into the quiet air. And as we watched in silence, the whales dived and surfaced and blew and breathed and dived again; the bay echoed with their symphony.

When the whales submerged for the last time, we were left in frosty silence. We waited patiently for their return. When they didn’t, we departed reluctantly, like an enthused audience denied an encore. Pelagic swept us onward, down Gerlache Strait to Orne Harbor, where Spigot Peak hid itself in glowering clouds. The snow was firm enough to navigate without snowshoes, so we all went ashore and climbed to the col, where we found a small colony of chinstrap penguins safely ensconced. It seemed an extreme refuge, but the chinstraps were undeterred by the challenge and plied back and forth to the water some 500 feet below.

On the morning that we entered Lemaire Channel, the ice was sparse. A flurry of snow born by a fresh breeze brought a promise of sailing. We hoisted the main with two reefs and headed south along the eastern shore of Booth Island.

But after a few hours, the wind eased and the ice thickened, and Alec started the engine. We rounded the southern tip of Booth Island in polished water that reflected the mountains behind and inverted them in flawless symmetry. The kayaks were launched again, and four paddlers meandered to the anchorage in Salpêtrière Bay. We shadowed them in Pelagic, picking our way carefully between the icebergs.

The next morning there was too much ice for the inflatable, so Alec nosed Pelagic up to the rocks, and we disembarked over the bow. We quickly fragmented into isolated huddles of penguin watchers. The penguins, with their impossibly short legs and squat bodies, trundled up and down well-worn paths with their wings thrust out behind them like aged priests in tight cassocks, late for vespers.

RELATED: Sailing the Antarctic Island of South Georgia

Too soon ice began to crowd the bay, and we were recalled to the boat. We nudged through sheets of sea ice as flat as billiard tables, and bergs sculpted by wind and waves into intricate triumphal arches. Some were marbled with turquoise veins, while others harbored shallow grottoes with luminescent water and walls of iridescent blue.

We headed south, to Hovgaard Island, where we learned the value of the yacht’s lifting keel and the challenges of navigating in Antarctica. Alec was feeling his way into a bay when there was a loud metallic clunk, and the boat stopped. Despite his intimate knowledge of the area, we had hit an uncharted rock. We had been moving very slowly, so there was no damage, but it was a reminder of our isolation, our vulnerability and the potential consequences of getting something wrong in an unforgiving environment.

And then, too soon, it was time to plan the homeward journey. The relentless fronts and regular storms that lash the Drake meant that timing the return passage was crucial. Alec had analyzed the GRIBs and had chosen the upcoming Saturday as the best departure day. It would avoid the northerly gale that was forecast to reach Cape Horn in the early hours of the following Wednesday.

The news brought mixed feelings. Saturday was only three days away. The Drake was always going to be an ordeal, and one I would rather not subject myself to. But it’s part of the essence of being in Antarctica, and it must be endured. Our journey was always finite, but three days seemed like little more than a camera flash, and I didn’t want it to end.

Our imminent departure meant leaving tranquility and returning to a world that was dirty and noisy and crowded with the constant electronic chatter of mobile phones and televisions. We were filled with a new sense of urgency, a desire to make the most of every moment.

When we arrived at Port Lockroy, a sheet of ice still covered part of the bay and, with few opportunities to anchor, Alec drove Pelagic Australis into the ice, cleaving a red V into the shelf and creating a secure parking space for us.

After the solitude of the previous two weeks, Port Lockroy was a return to civilization, to a version of normality that I no longer desired. The station comprised a small cluster of black, painted buildings with red-framed windows perched on a small knoll. After lunch on board, we filed over the bow, down the boarding ladder onto the ice. At the world’s most southerly post office, we wrote postcards and succumbed to some souvenir shopping.

The following morning, we motored up the Neumayer Channel toward the Melchior Islands, home to another Argentine base, and a convenient departure point for the return voyage to Chile. On the way, we received a distress message about a trimaran that had capsized near Cape Horn in winds of over 70 knots. We were too far away to provide any assistance, but it was another reminder that the inescapable Drake Passage crossing was imminent.

Alec snugged Pelagic into a small inlet on Omega Island for the night. The next day was to be our last on the continent. Nicky reminded me that it was the final opportunity for an Antarctic swim, and persuaded Michiel and Aidan to join us. The water was black as night and littered with growlers. I held my nose and clamped my mouth shut, and Nicky and I jumped off the stern together. The water snatched the warmth from my body, and I fought the urge to gasp. Bubbles foamed around me, and I sank into the darkness. I kicked for the surface and emerged like a missile, gulping for air. The four of us scrambled back onto the boat and, still in our underwear, we posed for photographs, glowing pink in the relative warmth. And before hypothermia set in, we dashed downstairs for a welcome hot shower.

The next morning, Pelagic Australis raised anchor to sail back across Drake Passage for Cape Horn and Puerto Williams. I expected the worst and, with a sense of foreboding, slunk below to my bunk.

Brady Ridgway is the author of two novels and a professional pilot who, with his wife, Nicky, own an Ovni 435 that is currently on the hard in Greece after an eventful cruise through Europe and the Med after purchasing the boat in France. While current sailing plans are on hold, he is flying a Beech 1900 in the DR Congo on a peacekeeping mission for the United Nations.

High-Seas Charter Adventures

For the accompanying story, the author signed on with Skip Novak’s Pelagic Expeditions, which offers berths on a pair of custom, high-­latitude yachts on voyages to the Arctic and Antarctic, Cape Horn, Spitsbergen, Greenland, South Georgia and the Falkland Islands. For more info on their destinations and itineraries, visit their website.

The post Voyage to Antarctica appeared first on Cruising World.

As you think about your dream charter, what do you envision? There’s sailing, swimming, snorkeling, walking the beach, and great meals in the cockpit with a gorgeous view.

Those delicious meals and laugh-filled happy hours are some of my favorite memories. So let’s talk about how to provision for a charter trip, with some special notes on provisioning in the COVID-19 era.

Depending on the charter base, the typical provisioning options include:

• Provisioning through the charter company, either with preplanned-meal options or a grocery list. Groceries are delivered right to your boat.
• Using a provisioning company or provisioning service at a grocery store. Order online and your supplies will be delivered to your charter base. Some charter companies, such as the Moorings and Sunsail, are now requiring companies to drop off deliveries at the office to limit the number of people on the docks. Staff then deliver the supplies to your boat.
• Going to local grocery stores in person, shopping and transporting it back to your boat. This is generally the least convenient, taking up a day of your trip, and is subject to any local COVID-19 regulations.

Bareboat chartering is a great way to get away while still staying reasonably safe from COVID-19, and provisioning through your charter company provides an extra measure of safety as well as convenience.

The Moorings and Sunsail have implemented measures to ensure that provisioning is as contactless as possible. “First, staff responsible for provisioning our yachts will undergo daily temperature checks and will be wearing proper personal protective equipment to limit contact as much as possible,” said Ian Pedersen, senior marketing manager for the two ­companies. “Once groceries are selected, they will be put into a sealed, disinfected container, and labeled with the date and time it was sealed. This ensures that from the time the items are taken from the shelves to when they are unloaded on the yacht, the only person who touches these items is the guest.”

If you want something not offered by the charter ­company, using a provisioning service to fill in items works well.

The good news is that there aren’t any major supply issues due to COVID-19 according to Dan Lockyer, vice president of global tourism for Dream Yacht Charters. Yes, toilet paper is readily available! However, it’s a fact of life on islands that something might be sold out on a given day. Always keep a copy of your provisioning list and check off items as you unpack the delivery.

It’s better to know something is missing while you’re still at the dock, when you can hopefully find an alternate source or a substitute. If not, you can at least plan for it.

Should you plan on eating some meals out? Check with your charter company to see if local restaurants are open and if there are any COVID-19 restrictions. If available, I’d opt for a couple of dinners or happy hours out. Most tropical destinations have wonderful outdoor restaurants, which considerably lessens the risk of dining in public.

In the past, some charter and provisioning companies would allow you to return unused items at the end of your trip for a partial refund. Most are not allowing it now as part of their COVID-19 restrictions. This can make it a little trickier to plan the “just right” amount for everything. For anything you’d really hate to run out of (yes, toilet paper, I’m looking at you again), I suggest buying a little more than you think you’ll need and give it to the charter-base workers at the end of the trip if it’s left over when you get back to the dock.

As you unpack your provisions, it’s helpful to label what meal each item is intended for. I also create a snack bin that is available to everyone whenever they want. This will help prevent unwelcome surprises such as discovering that all the cashews were eaten as snacks when you intended part of them for cashew chicken. I also wash all the produce and cut into pieces any that are intended to be snacks. Anything else that takes prep work I try to do also.

While it’s extra work while at the dock, this simplifies meal prep once underway. And that’s when I want to put together delicious meals quickly—there’s just too much other fun to be had!

Carolyn Shearlock is the author of The Boat Galley Cookbook, and the founder of theboatgalley.com. She and her husband, Dave, are currently in the Florida Keys aboard their Gemini catamaran, Barefoot Gal. Through the years, they’ve chartered in the BVI, USVI, Turkey and Alaska.

Make A Plan

Consider planning each meal and making a list of all ingredient amounts needed to reduce waste at the end of your trip. Most provisioning companies aren’t currently allowing returns.

The post Charter Provisioning in the Covid-19 Era appeared first on Cruising World.

If you’ve gone sailing off on charter vacation before, you’re familiar with the usual drill upon arrival at a dream destination. Guests typically land at the local airport and travel to the charter base via a charter-company-owned shuttle or a taxi for an in-person check-in. Celebratory libations are common, followed by a detailed chart briefing and an extensive boat walk-through with a base captain. Then, skipper and crew often spend their first night aboard at the charter base preparing for a morning departure.

But, like so much else in 2020, these rituals have changed. In the midst of a still-unfurling pandemic, charter companies large and small are (more or less) open for business and have taken many preemptive steps to ensure that visitors are as safe aboard their vacation vessels as they are at home.

For starters, Ian Pedersen, senior marketing manager for the Moorings and Sunsail, and Mike Huston, a partner at San Juan Sailing in Bellingham, Washington, both say that their companies have moved many of the in-person check-in procedures online, allowing guests to complete steps such as safety briefings and vessel walk-throughs prior to their arrival at the base.

“We send our clients a link to a video the week before their charter, and we have a quiz at the end to prove that they watched it,” Huston says.

Pedersen says that the Moorings and Sunsail have taken similar steps to move many of the briefing procedures online. For example, the company has created video walk-throughs of their fleet, which are posted online and sent to charterers prior to their arrival. After watching the video, Pedersen says that customers engage in a live Q&A session with someone at their destination base so that they can ask specific questions about their chartered sailboats.

Likewise, Cindy Kalow, co-owner of Superior Charters in Bayfield, Wisconsin, says her company has moved payments, documents and signatures online. “People can come through the whole process and not see us in the office,” she adds.

Once guests are on the ground, Pedersen says that the Moorings and Sunsail are ­running extra airport shuttles and limiting the capacity of the vans to ensure more distancing. “We won’t cram visitors into vans,” he notes.

Distancing was a recurring theme across all the companies with whom we spoke. At Superior Charters, for example, instead of having charter guests crowd into the front office, they are instead directed to a lobby where they will find an envelope containing the name of their boat, a list of its inventory, codes to shoreside heads, and information on when their captain will meet them for their dockside check-out. Should a captain need to step aboard during this check-out, he or she is always masked.

While Superior Charters doesn’t supply linens or ­organize provisions, ­other companies, such as the Moorings and Sunsail, commonly perform these services. Pedersen says that, while charterers are welcome to go grocery shopping themselves, those who opt for provisioning services will step aboard to find their supplies disinfected and packed into lockers or the refrigerator in sealed and dated containers.

Pedersen adds that chart briefings, which once involved 30 charterers at once, have been reduced to just 10 to 15 socially distanced sailors.

Dan Lockyer, vice president of global tourism for Dream Yacht Charter, says that the company is taking steps to ensure that staff members are healthy. “Our base staff have their temperatures taken before starting work, wear masks when in contact with customers, observe social distancing, and regularly disinfect their hands,” he notes.

“Only one guest [or] the skipper is allowed in the office area, and only the skipper will take part in the technical briefing and be on the dock for check-in,” Lockyer says. “Check-in and check-out procedures will be conducted outside where possible. Guests will be asked to wear masks and sanitize their hands before any face-to-face interaction.”

While airborne transmission is COVID-19′s most common vector, all companies we interviewed are taking steps to ensure that charter boats are virus-free before guests step aboard. “We’ve eliminated back-to-back trips, and we allow a full day between trips,” Kalow notes. This extra time is used for stem-to-stern ­cleanings, which are performed by professional cleaners wearing ­respirators, and involve bombs that release a commercial-grade ­disinfectant spray that’s used in hospitals.

Pedersen echoes the themes of longer turnaround times and disinfectant bombs. “We’ve built in a 24-hour window to clean boats,” he says. “When boats come back to the base, cleaners in hazmat suits fog and disinfect each boat.” Once this virus-killing fog has lifted, cleaning teams disinfect the boat before performing a final fogging treatment. Linen service is still included, but Pedersen says guests can rest assured that all linens have been thoroughly washed, in some cases multiple times.

Lockyer also points to the importance of cleaning. “The fleet is rigorously disinfected with an ecologically friendly formula after each charter, including the interior and exterior,” he says. “Mattresses are sanitized, and the galley inventory set and bed linens are provided in sealed bags.”

At San Juan Sailing, silverware and crockery are similarly scrutinized. “All kitchen utensils, glasses, and silverware are put in a sink of water and germicide,” Huston says, adding that all high-­contact surfaces are wiped down between trips.

While these extra steps ­require time and resources, 2020 was bountiful for the domestic charter trade. “We’re busy, really busy,” Huston says of this past summer’s business. Kalow reiterated this positive message. “We’ve done hundreds of trips—it was a great year,” she reports, adding that Superior Charters has also seen more than a twofold uptick in the number of people—especially younger families—registering for ­sailing and chartering lessons.

Pedersen, meanwhile, says that some governments have reached out to the Moorings and Sunsail to learn more about the steps that the ­company has taken to ensure their guests’ safety so that they can mandate similar procedures across their greater travel sectors.

So, while all travel in the pandemic age comes with some hurdles, sailors will find that charter companies are taking smart steps to ensure that their experience is as safe, virus-free and socially distanced as possible.

David Schmidt is CW’s electronics editor and occasionally reports on other aspects of sailing life.

The post New Charter Vacation Routines appeared first on Cruising World.

In Jules Verne’s science-fiction classic Journey to the Center of the Earth, the entrance to the underground world is in western Iceland, at the top of the ice-covered Snæfellsnes volcano. His explorers have many fantastic adventures underground, encountering giant beasts and taking a punishing sail through a raging subterranean sea.

So when our two chartered 50-foot Bavaria sloops rounded the tip of the mystical Snæfellsnes Peninsula this past June, in the shadow of the volcano, we were not surprised to see some fantastic (but real) beasts: A huge whale—probably a minke—breached off the stern, large pods of orcas and dolphins passed by, and countless beautiful North Atlantic seabirds soared around us.

And when the inevitable Arctic winds kicked in from the north a day later, it almost felt as though we too could be sailing in a storm at the center of Earth.

Here’s how Verne described it: “Low clouds and fog, heavy wind and seething waves, a sunless, engulfing dull grey haze.” In the novel, it got toasty down below, so his sailors were warm; but it was bitterly cold up on the surface in the real world, and we piled on all the warm and heavy-weather gear we could muster.

Our group of a dozen friends had come here to spend two weeks sailing the incredibly beautiful coast of Iceland, where everything is—or quickly can become—extreme: the winds and ocean rollers, tides and currents, temperature, and an unforgiving volcanic shore. At the time of our visit, while various outfits offered crewed charters, only one company, Iceland Yacht Charter, was willing to rent its handful of yachts as bareboats to private sailors without a professional captain and crew, although the charter captain had to be licensed.

If you want to sail in Iceland but don’t want to make an ocean passage to get there, bareboat chartering is the next best way to go. There’s just one cruising ground, but it’s big: the western coast. Sailors set off from the capital city of Reykjavik, and head north toward the remote Westfjords and the Arctic Circle. The southern coast has no natural harbors and is swept by dangerous currents. The entire northern coast is a lee shore to Arctic winds blasting down from the North Pole, and can be mined with icebergs that drift over from glaciers calving off the coast of Greenland, some 300 miles to the northwest.

Our crew gathered and held a long safety briefing before setting off, emphasizing Rule No. 1: Once we left the dock, nobody left the cockpit unless tethered to a jackline. Going overboard while underway would be a death sentence.

“Anyone sailing here should be ­prepared for the conditions—strong winds, big seas and tides, cold weather—and should be self-sufficient,” says Jay Kenlan, a Vermont lawyer and licensed captain of our boat, Esja. “The reward is the beauty and remoteness of the place.”

Adds Ben Gardner, a New Hampshire physician and our first mate: “The crew needs to be people who understand this is not a warm cruise around a sunny lake. You are going to be cold and wet.”

There is virtually no cruising or ­chartering infrastructure outside Reykjavik. The commercial-fishing industry dominates the coast, and every harbor is industrial. We tied up every night to vertical steel bulkheads protected by old tires, clambering up and down wall ladders to get on or off the boat—sometimes 20 feet, at low tide. With no recreational marinas, we used local public swimming pools to shower (there’s one in almost every town, and it’s a terrific way to meet locals). In two weeks, we saw only four other sailboats; cruisers are rare up here, which opened some wonderful conversations with local Icelanders who were surprised to see us.

One night, because the local harbormaster needed all the bulkhead space he had for fishing boats, we rafted up to a 100-foot steel fishing trawler. Getting ashore meant scaling its hull ladder and crawling over the heavy-duty dragging gear sprawled across the deck.

So why go? For experienced sailors, a big attraction is that it’s not just another sodden tour of Caribbean beach bars. Iceland suffers from bad overtourism in summer (especially around Reykjavik) and the nearby Golden Circle attractions, so exploring by sailboat is the perfect way to escape the crowds and traffic jams. If you want to see the incredible natural beauty of Iceland and meet locals in a way few visitors ever will, setting your own course in your own boat is a deeply rewarding experience. You earn your vistas.

A Volcanic Hotspot

Iceland floats atop a volcanic hotspot in the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, between the American and Eurasian tectonic plates. Spreading apart a few millimeters each year, these shifting plates produce extremely active volcanic activity.

On the west coast, part of the defining geography created by these forces is the long and narrow Snæfellsnes Peninsula, which lies across Faxa Bay, or Faxaflói in Icelandic, roughly 90 miles northwest of Reykjavik. Farther north, across another big bay called Breiðafjörður, or widening fjord (and looking vaguely like a lobster pointing toward the North Pole), are the craggy and starkly beautiful Westfjords. Geologically, this is the oldest part of Iceland, and by far its most remote and interesting corner to explore, with sharp mountains, flat volcanic mesas, deep waters and a heavily indented coastline.

With a big cold front forecast to drop out of the Arctic within three days, our two boats pushed out of Reykjavik as hard and fast as we could to get as far north as we could. Day one was 100 miles, to the small fishing town of Ólafsvík, on the north shore of Snæfellsnes; luckily we had a rare clear day, revealing the dramatic volcanic glacier as we rounded the tip of the peninsula.

That was followed by an 80-mile push into the southern end of the Westfjords and another small fishing village, Patreksfjörður (Patrick’s Fjord). Day three was a final 80-mile slog through building weather to Ísafjörður (Ice Fjord), one of the northernmost towns in all of Iceland and the largest in the Westfjords.

That night the crews of our two boats celebrated our arrival with a warm and lively communal dinner. The chef aboard Katya cooked up fresh-caught salmon, while Esja provided baked potatoes and salad. The well-lubricated evening was capped off with rounds of Shackleton scotch, a modern blended malt re-created from the three cases of original century-­old whiskey discovered in 2007 frozen into the ice under Earnest Shackleton’s base camp in Antarctica.

A major fishing center in the ­region, Ísafjörður is home to the terrific Westfjord Heritage Museum, which depicts the harsh and bleak life of early fishermen there. It is attached to one of the best seafood restaurants in Europe: the Tar House, set in a beautiful, old post-and-beam fishing shed. With only two seatings a night served buffet-style on heavy picnic tables, the meal started with rich lobster soup, followed by several huge cast-iron frying pans filled with magnificently prepared fish, all just hours out of the water: cod, salmon, halibut, haddock, and others I did not recognize. Epicures from all over the world come to eat here, and we stumbled into it by luck.

After a lay day exploring the town, our two boats separated, Katya turning back south to keep to a shorter schedule, while we pushed farther north. This was our shortest leg of the trip—a motorsail of just 18 miles—and took us into a narrow and extremely remote branch of Jökulfirðir (Glacier Fjords), in the Hornstrandir Nature Preserve, just below Iceland’s northern coast.

This was the day the bad weather arrived, spitting cold misty rain, fog and strong northeast wind. As the day’s muted light began to fade, Iceland’s renowned “magnificent desolation” in the far north seemed to become just gray, grim, barren and bleak, and intensely lonely, punctuated with blasts of stingingly frigid wind. And it’s a long day of light in Iceland in June: Anchoring at 66 degrees 21.5 minutes north, 22 degrees 26.8 minutes west, we were less than 10 linear miles from the Arctic Circle and the never-setting midnight sun.

Given its volcanic nature, Iceland can be a hard place to anchor. There is precious little soil above or below the water, so the flukes don’t always dig in well. Although we finally got a good set after several attempts, a powerful williwaw hit around 0200 and pushed our boat hard over, dragging the anchor. With about a football field to spare from grounding on sharp lava, we motored back upwind. After several failed attempts to reanchor, we gave up and motored out.

Heading South

Once we left the cover of the fjords and entered the open sea, the strong Arctic wind quickly produced our wildest day of sailing, with 25-foot seas and a full gale at our back. Thus began our hopscotching down the coast of the Westfjords. Our first stop was the small fishing village of Flateyri, a former whaling station that lost 20 people in a snow avalanche in 1996, a tragic record for Iceland. Next was Bíldudalur, home of Iceland’s wonderfully tacky Sea Monster Museum, and, not coincidentally, the site of more sea monster sightings than anywhere in Iceland. It’s worth the price of admission just to see all the misspellings and leaps of logic in the exhibits, let alone the life-size monster models.

After a return trip to Patreksfjörður, we left the Westfjords behind and spent three days exploring the north shore of Snæfellsnes Peninsula, a notable place in the ancient Sagas of Icelanders. We first anchored in the hurricane-hole bay of Elliðaey Island, a refuge for colorful tufted puffins and Arctic terns. Then, the next day was a short hop to Stykkishólmur, a large and charming fishing town—but a little too popular, with tour buses clogging the streets.

Continuing down the coast, we stopped in Grundarfjörður, widely known both for its photogenic Kirkjufell, or Church Mountain, and legendary summer-solstice party. The crew of Katya, who stumbled into the party by chance on their way south, later confirmed that modern-day Vikings live up to their reputations as friendly and wild party animals.

Our last stop before returning to Reykjavik was a second visit to Ólafsvík, where we discovered the challenges of refueling in Iceland. There are two main fuel companies that provide dockside diesel in Iceland using all-automated pumps. The pumps have red and green covers denoting the brand of diesel, not fuel type (gasoline is rare at the dock). To use one, you must have a proprietary charge card and code to pump your own fuel.

Our experience turned into a classic example of cascading bad luck and a mistake: We arrived on a falling tide, and the only pump we could use was in very shallow water. Our depth alarm wouldn’t shut up, so we couldn’t wait, and besides, the card we had wouldn’t work. And, of course, human help did not exist. Our mistake? Our calculations of fuel reserve turned out to be based on a bigger tank than we actually had. The next day, in dead calm and within sight of Reykjavik, the engine sputtered out.

Despite the embarrassment of having our grand adventure end with a tow back into the harbor, our bareboat expedition in Iceland was a huge success and a lot of fun. No, it might not be a warm cruise around a sunny lake, but for the right crew, it’s a wonderful experience.

Stephen Blakely sails Bearboat, his Island Packet 26, on Chesapeake Bay.

Resources for the Journey

Iceland Yacht Charter: The company has five bareboat charter vessels available, four Bavaria sailboats, ranging from 37 to 50 feet, and an Arvor 215 power cabin cruiser. They are docked behind Reykjavik’s famous concert hall, the Harpa. A licensed captain is required to charter. Boats come with a good chart plotter at the helm and paper charts, but bring tablet or phone navigation as backup. Our Bavaria 50s were fully capable and comfortable even in the worst weather; as with any charter boat, check out your boat thoroughly during the briefing. Cruising season is June through early September. We were their first American customers.

Cruising guide: Arctic and Northern Waters, including Faeroe, Iceland and Greenland, by Andrew Wells, RCC Pilotage Foundation. Written by hardcore cold-weather sailors, it has a wealth of useful (and sometimes intimidating) information about Arctic cruising.

Currents and tides: The northerly flowing Irminger Current prevails in western Iceland, and is a branch of the North American Drift. Tidal currents run clockwise around Iceland starting in the southwest and are strongest on the west coast, usually running 1 to 3 knots but able to hit 5 to 7 knots in narrows and off headlands.

Weather forecasts: Reykjavik Radio broadcasts forecasts in English throughout the day. Iceland is one of the most wired countries in Europe, so Wi-Fi internet connections and forecasts were available in all but the most remote areas. Online wind apps were extremely helpful.

Radio and safety: The Icelandic government has only three Coast Guard ships, dedicated mostly to buoy maintenance (and there aren’t many). If you get in trouble, you will depend on the Icelandic Association for Search and Rescue, run by volunteers and funded by donations and contributions from the fishing industry. ICE-SAR has stations around the country, uses a fleet of old British lifeboats and, as does the US Coast Guard, monitors VHF radio Channel 16. In extremely remote areas blocked by sharp fjord walls, neither VHF nor cellphones might work. Virtually all boats have AIS, and the fishing fleet will clutter your chart-plotter screen.

Harbors: Contact the local harbormaster when you arrive; some charged us a fee, some did not, but all were friendly and helpful. Potable water is routinely available; electricity rarely is. Go to the public pools for showers. Outside Reykjavik, there were no marinas, and in the remote waterfront areas we visited, public toilets were nonexistent; you will often need to hunt for an unlocked commercial bin to dispose of your garbage. Larger towns have Bonus or Kronan grocery stores, but reprovisioning in rural areas can be difficult. Chandleries do not exist outside Reykjavik.

What to Expect

Prices are high in Iceland, especially for food and alcohol. A $15 bottle of Beefeaters gin in the US was $30 in the duty-free store in Keflavik Airport and $60 in the Vinbudin state-run liquor stores. We found that these stores have irregular hours and can be hard to catch while open.

The country’s environmental record is mixed. Eighty percent of Iceland’s energy is produced by clean geothermal or hydropower sources, yet Iceland is the only country that allows hunting of endangered puffins and one of the few that still permits whaling. There is only one company in Iceland that hunts whales but many that run tourist whale-watching trips. Icelanders note that only tourists tend to eat whale meat.

And while Iceland is famous for its world-class cooking, it’s also infamous for its winter food festival that serves up such historically accurate (and to me, vile) ancient Viking dishes as fermented shark. Chef, author and travel journalist Anthony Bourdain, in his No Reservations segment on Iceland, was one of the few reporters to explain why: “They serve only Greenland shark, a unique and rare fish that excretes its waste through the skin, making the meat both toxic and foul. Only after fermenting in the ground for six months does it become safe to eat—and the Vikings were willing to wait.” When he tasted the dish, Bourdain pronounced it “the single worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.” For someone who made a career of traveling all over the world seeking out weird, gross and disgusting things to eat, Iceland ranked No. 1.

The post An Iceland Sailing Adventure appeared first on Cruising World.

On charters aboard our Atlantic 70 cutter, Stressbuster, in the Greek Islands, I try to keep it simple—especially when it comes to onboard meal prep. After breakfast, we set sail; underway, the captain and guests enjoy the sailing while I duck below to start lunch—usually a cooked meal, per Greek tradition. Since food must be ready by the time we drop anchor between islands around midday for swimming and ­sustenance, prep time needs to be fairly quick and easy to do underway. The fewer pots and pans, the better—ensuring easy cleanup so we can get sailing again after lunch. Thankfully, Greek cuisine seems tailor-made for boats—fresh, local, simple and divine. One of my favorite recipes is avgolemono soup, which gets its name from the creamy broth—an ingenious combination of beaten eggs (avgo) and lemon (lemono). In its simplest form, this traditional soup is made with chicken broth, salt, pepper, rice or orzo pasta, and the last-minute blending of the eggs and lemon juice with the hot broth to make the base. There are many ­variations of this basic recipe. I’ve tried other versions, but—based on my love of Italian meatball soup—I created this one. It’s filling, but light and lemony enough to be perfect even on a hot August day. It never fails to be a crowd-pleaser!

Greek Avgolemono Soup

• 2 Tbsp. olive oil
• 4-5 green onions
• 1 large carrot, grated (about 1 cup)
• 2 small zucchini, grated (about 2 cups)
• 5 cups chicken broth
• 12 frozen, packaged meatballs**
• 1/2 cup orzo pasta
• Salt and pepper, to taste
• Handful of fresh parsley, chopped

For the avgolemono:

• 2 large eggs, brought to room temperature
• 1/4 cup fresh lemon juice

**or substitute ­homemade, frozen

Chop green onions. Use the pale bottom parts for the soup; reserve dark-green tops for a garnish. Cut carrot and zucchini in half, then grate lengthwise with a box grater. Heat oil in a large soup pot over medium heat. Briefly saute veggies. Add chicken broth, ­meatballs and orzo. Stir, cover pot, and increase heat to medium-­high. When liquid comes to a boil, reduce heat, cover, and cook at a healthy ­simmer for 20 to 25 ­minutes.

Make avgolemono: Crack eggs into a large (4-cup), heatproof liquid measuring cup or bowl. Add lemon juice. Whisk and set aside. When soup is done, remove from heat and remove cover. Let cool until broth is no longer scalding (at least 5 minutes; test temp with a clean finger). Use a soup ladle to gradually add broth to egg-lemon mix, whisking as you add. When liquid in the pot is almost diminished, slowly pour avgolemono back into the pot, a bit at a time, stirring after each addition. Stir to blend, cover, and let sit for 1 to 2 minutes, or until thickened slightly. Stir in chopped parsley. Garnish individual servings with reserved green onion tops, and serve immediately.

Preparation: At anchor & underway

Time: 35-40 minutes

Difficulty: Easy

Cook’s Notes

For perfect, smooth avgolemono, DO NOT add broth that’s too hot to the egg/lemon mixture—it will “cook” the eggs and clump. Use room-temperature eggs to decrease likelihood of clumping. If you reheat leftovers, use low heat and do not simmer!

The post Galley Recipe: Greek Avgolemono Soup appeared first on Cruising World.

Pepe had been drinking again. Oh, boy. It was the fourth time that day that he’d gone over the side, but by now our crew was ready to deal with the problem. “Man overboard!” Jodi called out, not nearly as excited as the first time our “friend” managed to accidentally remove himself from the safe confines of our catamaran. John pointed toward the stern with his right hand, yelling: “I’ve got eyes on him. Two boat lengths!”

With that, the catamaran lurched to starboard as Mike spun the wheel to angle back toward our inebriated ­crewmate bobbing just above the waves. I was standing on the starboard bow pointing the business end of a worn boat hook at Pepe so our captain could position us for the rescue.

As we closed in on Pepe, hand signals were flashed, the diesels slipped into neutral, and I lunged forward to snag our waterlogged victim. Pepe—a small fender to which a kedge anchor was attached—was not actually a drunken sailor, or even a human one. As I hoisted him (it?) on board, instructor Tim Jenne nodded with satisfaction and calmly said: “Great job, everyone. Let’s do it again.” As we all changed positions, Pepe backed down yet another imaginary one and was once again hurled into the sea for the next in an ongoing series of man-overboard drills.

Some guys never know when to say when.

We were practicing a little less than a mile from the ­southwestern shore of Grenada. The austere gray walls of Fort George stood high on a hill protecting the colorful Carenage and harbor below. Blue waters rose to meet the sandy shoreline, which ascended again to trace walking paths through the lush chaparral foliage. Picture-postcard Caribbean homes dotted the foothills like errant brushstrokes from a vibrant palette. Above it all stood the impossibly green mountains, remnants of massive volcanoes that bloomed from the seafloor to create this Eden. The remains had given way to rainforests visible only when the swirling shroud of clouds at the summit dissipated. When the wind swept down the overgrown slopes, a fleeting scent of exotic nutmeg and cinnamon tickled the senses; this is the Spice Island, after all. I still had to pinch myself that this was my classroom for a week.

I considered myself lucky to be part of a liveaboard sailing course offered by Nautilus Sailing, an ASA-affiliated sailing school founded by Tim Giesler in 2010. Giesler had learned to sail in Southern California, and at the outset, over the course of a two-year period, took lessons from more than eight instructors.

“They were very accomplished sailors, but sadly were not natural teachers,” he remembered. “I was disappointed at what passed for ‘instruction.’ Just because someone has a ton of sailing ­experience doesn’t mean they can effectively break down complex skills and material and teach people how to sail.” With a strong background in education that involved teacher training and developing experimental education programs, he knew there must be a better way to train new sailors. Nautilus was born, and a partnership with Dream Yacht Charters now allows its instructors to teach formal ASA sailing courses in exotic locales across the globe such as Tahiti, Mallorca, the Sea of Cortez…and, of course, Grenada.

Nautilus offers a curriculum designed to both cater to individual student’s needs and also to ensure that the instruction doesn’t get in the way of the fun one should have while sailing. Because the class takes place entirely at sea on a catamaran, each student is completely immersed in sailing concepts every moment of the day…and later, at night over drinks. All of this occurs in a paradise of tropical sunrises and sunsets, and stargazing late at night in picturesque anchorages.

RELATED: Sailing into Camp Grenada

But make no mistake: It’s an intense course, covering more than 100 practical skills with four written tests. By the end of the week, students receive ASA 101 (Basic Keelboat), ASA 103 (Coastal Cruising), ASA 104 (Bareboat Cruising) and ASA 114 (Catamaran Cruising) certifications. That’s assuming you’re a good student.

Which, it must be said, I most certainly am not.

Enter Tim Jenne, my instructor for the week, whom I didn’t envy for having to put up with my smart-aleck lack of preparation. Jenne is the quintessential old salt: a Navy brat, former member of a US Coast Guard rescue team, and sailor since the age of 13. He had that look you’d expect in a man of the sea: sun-bleached brown hair and a tan face broken up with white lines from his ears to his eyes where sunglasses have left a lasting impression.

Jenne was soft-spoken and calm, with a reassuring manner that almost made you believe he’s the most mellow human being you’d ever encountered. But if you watch him long enough, you’ll see that he never stops moving or scanning the horizon or calculating the next move that needs to be made. There’s never a moment when Jenne isn’t behind or beside you, ready to offer assistance or guidance. He believes in getting to know each student’s way of learning, and then instructing in a sequence of telling/showing/doing/discussing. When teaching a new skill, he tries to set up everyone in 20-minute rotations to provide ample learning time and a buffer to absorb it all. It’s another tenet of Nautilus‘ educational playbook.

Three other students joined me on the adventure: Mike, a commercial airline pilot from Canada, and John and Jodi, a couple who worked as a contractor and registered nurse, respectively, and who split their time between Ohio and St. John in the US Virgin Islands. We’d come together aboard a Lagoon 40 from Dream, with various seagoing dreams and plans. Mike was clearly ahead of everyone, and if there were a grading curve in this class, I soon realized he was destined to screw it up for all of us. He’d obviously read the material ahead of time, as we’d been advised to do during the ample communication from Nautilus before the start of our trip. From there it went slowly downhill in the preparedness department…from John to Jodi to me. That said, I’m no stranger to being last in the class, and Jenne was no stranger to teaching a problem child.

The first few days of the course unfolded rapidly; there was no shortage of information to be learned, forgotten and learned again…correctly this time. Before we’d even left the dock, each one of us had already been in the engine compartments checking filters and fuel levels, and filling out logbooks. Before our very first sunrise together, we’d already tied multiple knots to every available surface (knots, it seems, is a fascinating topic among sailors). And each morning began with one of us being promoted to “captain” for the day, which meant plotting the course to our next destination, assigning crew to individual duties, and keeping track of the systems and status of our vessel. During those times, Jenne would always be about, silently watching, ready to jump in if need be while still allowing the students to be in complete control of our collective destiny.

For two blissful days we’d been underway, but a stunning sunrise on the third morning heralded the arrival of the first of the dreaded exams. The title, ASA 101, loomed above my reading glasses like a grim specter sent to ruin a perfectly good day. Jenne had already done an in-depth review with us over a stout cup of coffee, but again I found myself revisiting the practice test again and again. “We should get this finished so we can go sailing,” Jenne suggested gently, but we received the message loud and clear: It was go-time. And so we gathered around the table and passed around a bag of pencils. Jenne handed out laminated copies of the test, and we were off.

Our catamaran gently swung to and fro against the mooring ball we’d picked up the evening before. Without question, as the waves sighed peacefully along the beach of the aptly named Sandy Island, beside which we’d spent the night, we’d stayed in the most distracting classroom on the planet. Resembling a long, flattened lowercase “j,” the island is no more than 20 feet across at its narrowest point and barely a few feet above sea level. Palm trees dot each end of the shoreline, and just offshore, millions of small baitfish skip across the water trying to outwit prey while pelicans crash into the water from above.

The occasional monohull or cat appeared to claim or leave a mooring ball, which inevitably led to our peanut-gallery observation of his or her skills. “Oof. That’s not going to go well,” someone would say quietly as we all prairie-dogged up to take a look. Or, more rarely: “This guy knows what he’s doing…” And as I refocused my attention on the task at hand, a strange sensation came over me: I know this stuff. The anxiety began to fade as the lessons of the past few days became clear. Before long, I was finished…and had passed with flying colors.

I did not do as well as Mike, however. Nobody ever does.

With the first of the gauntlets behind us, we gazed out at the open ocean, suddenly made textured by the steadily increasing winds. The rigging sang quietly as veins of breeze appeared on the surface of the water around us. “It’s a good day to sail,” Jenne said happily, and with no further direction, we each took up a different position on deck. Moments later, the mooring ball had been dropped and we’d motored away from Sandy Island to hoist the main. Again the thought struck me: I could be sitting in a classroom watching learn-to-sail slides, but here we are taking spray in the face and helplessly smiling. It truly was the way to learn.

Days four and five passed similarly, with repetitive drills and shared captaining duties. We practiced mooring and anchoring in the ever-present trade winds, followed by sailing in circles offshore to feel the boat power up and down with every adjustment we made. We rotated between roles, no matter what the activity, with each person getting plenty of time to learn and understand.

For every hard few hours of action there was a following, and welcome, respite. We snorkeled alongside vibrant Caribbean reefs and walked on tiny, deserted islands. Dramatic scenery slipped past as we sailed between massive rock formations that jutted up from the deep blue channel that ran between them. And one by one, the tests arrived and were completed. I kept repeating the old joke in my head as a way to combat the anxiety: “What do you call a guy who gets a ‘C’ on his sailing exam? Sailor.” But Jenne’s unflagging patience and attention were paying off. I watched him as he graded the tests in the saloon, nodding silently that his students were becoming sailors.

It had been a beautiful ­morning sailing south from Tyrell Bay on Carriacou toward Grenada, with strong winds to assist in the journey. We’d been running a fishing line off the port quarter the entire week without any bites, but on this day, a dorado took the lure, giving us a chance to heave to and catch lunch. Jenne filleted the fish on deck, and we enjoyed the freshest sushi one could ever hope to devour before continuing on our reluctant journey back to the mainland. The sense that this experience was coming to an end was palpable, and every so often the crew would simply go silent, breathing in the sights and sounds that would soon be behind us.

As we approached Grenada, the breeze began to pick up considerably, nearing gale-force conditions. Our destination was Molinere Point, the site of one of the most beautiful underwater sculpture gardens in the world. The plan was to pick up a ball, do a little snorkeling and have our final lunch together, but the rising seas and deteriorating conditions suggested a change of plans.

Suddenly the radio crackled to life with the last words any of us expected to hear: “Mayday, mayday, mayday!”

“Write down those coordinates,” Jenne said as he grabbed the radio to respond, but we quickly realized there was no need to plot a course; the emergency was right here at Molinere.

“Two people recovered,” the voice on the VHF continued, her voice trembling. “Unsure if there are more in the water.” I grabbed our binoculars and ran from the saloon to the bow of the catamaran and began sweeping the horizon.

After locating the boat that had made the distress call, I ­slowly scanned the turgid blue and white water between us. John appeared on deck beside me and said loudly, “Cooler, there!” I searched and spotted a floating Igloo, and not far from that, a tan, wooden gunwale and a paddle just below the waterline. A tangle of net still clung to what was left of the sinking fishing boat, but thankfully there were no other people to be found. With Mike at the helm and all eyes on the water, we continued to search the area for any more survivors. The radio crackled to life again: The two recovered fishermen were the only ones on the sunken boat, and coordinates for the vessel were called in to the Grenadian Coast Guard.

We managed to find calm water and an open mooring along the shoreline at Molinere to catch our breath and let the tension from the morning slide away. We slipped into the water and snorkeled through the now-famous underwater sculpture garden installed by Jason deCaires Taylor. Shadowy figures loomed out of the stirred-up sand along the ­bottom. Shapes—some whimsical, some disturbing—appeared below. A circle of stone humans held hands with their backs to the center, coral and algae covering their bodies. Colorful fish darted from limb to limb, seeking safety.

My head cleared and I was able to reflect silently on the importance of the skills we’d all learned this week, all of which were given a different level of importance after answering a mayday. But I knew this meditation had to come to an end: The final test would soon be upon us. The decision was made to head back in to St. George and do some docking practice in the fresh breeze to round off the experience. Then, finally, we were back at the marina.

There’s no point in any further suspense; Jenne trained us well, and we all passed the final exam, with the exception of Mike. I’m kidding, the teacher’s pet ended as he began—­impressively. I stood over Jenne as he signed off on each course in my newly acquired logbook, filling in the blank space where my certification seals would eventually be placed. I was filled with pride; I honestly didn’t think I’d make it this far. But I did. We all did.

The final numbers of the trip were straightforward: 117 total nautical miles. Max boat speed: 10.6 knots. Max wind speed: 34.8 knots. ASA courses complete: four. But none of these numbers really represents what an experience it was, and no retelling of the tale could ever represent what it was like to be there. But the beauty of this class at sea wasn’t just to learn, but to build a platform for future memories as well. And thanks to Nautilus, there will be no shortage of those on the water for years to come.

It was time to find Pepe. Cocktail hour was calling.

Well-traveled rogue and bon vivant Jon Whittle is a staff photographer and videographer for Bonnier Corp.

To learn more about Nautilus Sailing, visit nautilussailing.com or call (800) 680-7902.

The post Learning to Sail in the Caribbean appeared first on Cruising World.

One summer, while living on our sailboat in Wickford, Rhode Island, I was invited for sundowners aboard Carol K, a Beneteau Cyclades 43, whose owners, Carol and Peter King, had stopped for the night during a summer getaway from their home waters of Noank, Connecticut, on Long Island Sound.

The Kings are avid sailors, and at the time organized CW’s Adventure Charters, a series of flotillas to exotic sailing locations around the world. They always have great stories to tell, and I looked forward to seeing their boat, which had recently finished service with the Moorings fleet in Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands.

Motoring over, Carol K was immediately identifiable because, well, even without company graphics, she looked like a charter boat—sort of. There was a colored UV strip on the headsail furled on the bow, a blue sail pouch on the boom and a square floating Bimini over the cockpit, which at the time was quite popular with the charter fleet. But climbing aboard, it became quickly apparent this was no bareboat rental. From stem to stern, and especially down below, the Kings had added touches that made it abundantly clear that Carol K was their home on the water.

The Kings had owned two boats with the Moorings, each in service as a charter boat for five years. When their first contract expired, Peter says they decided to buy a second boat to put into the fleet. From the get-go, they planned to augment the monthly payments they received from the company to pay down the mortgage more quickly, and to keep the boat when its charter life came to an end. He notes that charter-boat owners are well-advised to have a plan in place for what to do with their vessel at the end of its charter contract. You don’t want to “get snookered,” he says, and end up with no economically sensible option.

During its charter years, Peter says he and his wife made a pact that if they saw the boat, they wouldn’t obsess about scrapes and scratches— they were out of the couple’s control and could be fixed during phase-out, the period when the charter company goes through the boat before either turning it over to the owner or selling it for them on the brokerage market.

Peter says that on average, their boat was in service about 18 weeks a year. And while he admits he had concerns about the number of engine hours racked up by vacationers, a properly maintained diesel has longevity. And in the end, they were happy with both the monthly payments and the maintenance plans the Moorings follows.

When it came time to take possession of the boat, the company replaced the table and refinished the sole. And then, Peter hired a surveyor to go through the boat and do a complete inspection. When the report came back, a few problems were identified, including worn turnbuckles, which were replaced. When all the work was complete, he had a second survey done, and then, on Boxing Day 2009, he and Carol left Tortola and spent the next four months sailing home to Noank.

Before leaving, the Kings installed a radar, a better plotter and a Flexofold propeller. And over time, Peter says they replaced two of the three manual heads with electric ones and removed a third to create a larger shower. Outside of that work and regular maintenance, they had no problems with the boat.

“I think it’s a pretty good deal,” Peter says when asked about buying and owning a used charter boat. Boats are often listed for thousands of dollars less than a similar model in private ownership, and a buyer can bargain hard because the charter companies need to routinely refresh their fleets. “You can get a good boat for a good price if you’re cautious and don’t get carried away,” he says.

Franck Bauguil, vice president, yacht ownership, for the Moorings and Sunsail, says his brokerage operation sells between 120 and 150 used monohulls and catamarans a year. And while these boats are not for everyone—layouts are optimized for chartering, and often the vessel will need to be picked up at the base or else there could be significant delivery costs for hiring a captain and crew—the boats have been professionally maintained and are kept in good working order.

Typically boats in the Caribbean see five peak seasons before they are phased out; in Europe, where the sailing season is shorter, and in exotic locations, where demand is less, they are typically replaced after six years. Both brands have created detailed maintenance manuals that prescribe regular service intervals.

Between trips, vessels get a general inspection, and any problems are fixed for the next guests. Quarterly, they see a more comprehensive examination. Semiannually, systems and engines are gone over, and once a year, the boats are hauled, new anti-fouling is applied, and any needed overhaul or replacement takes place.

Because boats need to be ready for quick turnarounds, Travelopia, parent company to the two brands, carries $1 million to $2 million in parts inventory so repairs won’t be delayed. “Our intent,” he says, “is to keep the boats in the best possible condition.”

Bauguil estimates that most monohulls will see their builder-supplied sails replaced at least once during their five working years. Catamarans are handled a little differently because their sails are spec’d out by Travelopia and are built for heavy-duty service.

The key, Bauguil says, is to have a thorough survey of the boat and systems.

Bottom line: While the boats see a lot of use, inspections are scheduled and any repairs are done by professional mechanics, composite specialists, electricians, etc. The same can’t always be said for private-owner boats, where the skipper might or might not know what he’s doing, Bauguil says.

A buyer looking at a used charter boat should compare the price differential for a similar privately owned model, and then factor into the budget cosmetics and other upgrades. Even big jobs, such as installing a new engine, might not be a deal- breaker when you look at the difference in price.

Andrew Thompson at Horizon Yacht Charters, another company with multiple Caribbean bases, including Nanny Cay in Tortola, and a large fleet of monohulls and catamarans, also emphasizes maintenance as part of the value proposition offered with used charter boats. A diver checks the bottom of every boat when it returns to the base to see if the boat was grounded or otherwise damaged. And customers are debriefed and asked about anything not working. Customers’ sailing resumes are carefully checked, and taking a captain is encouraged in some cases.

Thompson cites a comprehensive preventative- maintenance program that was created for owners with boats in the fleet and also those under private management, another side of Horizon’s business. It includes routine inspection of mechanical systems, rigging and the like, and annual deeper evaluations during the slow season. The result is relatively few insurance claims and clean survey reports when yachts reach the end of their working life.

For those hunting for a catamaran to make their escape, Horizon’s used inventory of smaller models—say under 42 feet or so—might be of interest because they include boats with both three- and four-cabin layouts. The former are preferred by most private owners, but many charter companies prefer to offer four- berth boats that can bring in more revenue. And larger yachts are nearly all configured with four cabins.

Thompson notes that when looking at used boats at online sites such as yachtworld.com, buyers might be faced with wild variations in price, depending on how an owner or company may have spec’d out a boat and how it’s been maintained and cleaned up during phase-out. Some European companies, for instance, offer boats with only minimal equipment, while in the Caribbean, a similar boat might be loaded with electronics and upgrades.

Patrick O’Loughlin, the owner of St. Kitts Nevis Surveying & Consultancy who also works for Jocelyn Maritime Training and Consultants in Tortola, has inspected charter vessels throughout the islands. He notes that most charter companies don’t actually own the boats they rent out, so maintenance and repairs are done to meet the expectation of the actual owners.

“What you do expect is more wear and tear, but what you can say, if you buy a charter boat, is it’s been well-tested. Given that most of these boats are fiberglass, they can be repaired,” he says.

When he’s representing an owner during a phase-out inspection, besides the integrity of the hull and major systems, he notes little things such as torn curtains and scratched woodwork. Owners should expect these to be corrected by the charter company before the boat is released.

He too stresses the importance of a thorough survey. “As the surveyor, I can’t really tell you in the final analysis whether to buy or not to buy—that’s not my job. But I point out all the little things I see that are not in keeping, not in sync.” And it’s those little things that are reflected in the value he puts on the boat. A potential buyer, he says, does well to heed that figure because it reflects how a particular boat measures up compared with others on the market. With a survey in hand, buyers can then make an offer based on their willingness to make repairs or live with dings and dents. When looking at charter boats, his checklist includes any cracks around the keel, evidence of a dismasting, water damage to the sole or furniture that would indicate a leak or sinking, and the engine and other systems. If he spots a problem, he then starts asking around the waterfront to see if there are any stories among the local captains that might explain the damage.

So is a used charter boat worth the look? We’ll give the Kings the final say on that one. Asked about their years owning Carol K, Peter says, “It was fun owning it.” And Carol shouts over him on the phone: “We miss it. We miss it a lot.”

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Buying a Charter Sailboat appeared first on Cruising World.

Remember the good old days, when all you talked about was going out on charter, or taking sailing lessons so you were qualified to do so? Now, like just about everything else in a pandemic era, the times have demanded new labels for recreational sailing and instruction.

Staff at Club Nautique on San Francisco Bay, like many others in the industry, immediately heeded the call: Socially Acceptable Independent Leisure (SAIL) became their go-to slogan. “We offered a basic keelboat and basic cruising package of instruction to families,” says Don Durant, chief executive officer. “We’d tried it a few years ago with no success, but in 2020 the timing was right. It’s been extremely rewarding, and the families love it.”

Slogans aside, Marcus Abbott, general manager of Anacortes Yacht Charters in Washington state, sums up current affairs this way: “People want to get out on the water. This pandemic has ended up being good for business.” By any name you call it—staycationing, quaranteaming, family adventuring, safe social bubbling, notching another checkmark on the bucket list—sailing in America is booming again.

RELATED: Buying a Charter Sailboat

After a bleak spring 2020 of lockdown due to COVID-19, sailing schools and chartering outlets across the country are enjoying a silver lining from customers venturing mostly closer to home. Instead of flying to the Greek isles, they’re driving to the Great Lakes. And to coastal towns in established sailing regions, from New England to the Chesapeake and Florida on the East Coast; from the Pacific Northwest down through the Mexican border on the West Coast.

Record numbers are joining sailing clubs, signing up for coursework offered by US Sailing and the American Sailing Association teaching affiliates, taking crewed charters if they’re nonsailors, or booking bareboat charters and buying boats if they are. Companies have scurried to hire instructors and skippers, add to new- and used-boat inventories for sales and charter, create standby lists for classes, and lengthen sailing seasons for clients who just want to get away—for a day, overnight, a few days, or a week or two.

This crop of new participants and old salts has much to look forward to as they fulfill their dreams and discover—or rediscover—remote anchorages, stunning scenery and pleasant weather in their beautiful backyards on the water.

Two Steps Back, Leaps Forward

Before the phones rang off the hook and the emails poured in, companies and schools had to adopt cleaning and safety protocols for workers and vacation sailors. It was anything but easy, yet in the end, they report that the efforts paid off, and clients, via their wallets and feedback, support the changes.

What transpired at Great Lakes Sailing Company and ASA school in Traverse City, Michigan, is a vivid example: “In May, we were frustrated that we couldn’t open our industry even with strict safety standards in place,” says company president Dave Conrad.

Great Lakes Sailing, which had developed its own guidelines with help from a medical doctor with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention COVID-19 Task Force, wound up getting involved with the Michigan Boating Industries Association and state senators to create industrywide standards. “It was one of those situations where we realized that the governor’s office was overwhelmed with trying to develop guidelines for every industry to safely reopen,” Conrad says. “It really shows what good can happen when people stop complaining and get involved.”

The changes ushered in include digital practices that will likely have staying power for clients and ­students who seek to explore the freshwater paradise of northern Michigan in 2021: “We changed our charter briefings so clients could better familiarize themselves with the boat before arriving,” Conrad says. “They receive digital information on where every mechanical and safety component is on the boat, and we digitized our chart briefings.

“We found that the client was arriving already familiar with the boat, and we could do a majority of the mechanical, systems and chart briefings in the open air of the cockpit. We’ll keep these procedures in place because it’s not only a timesaver for us and the client—it doesn’t skimp on the process. The client is actually better-informed.”

Not only are clients better-informed by the time they show up at the base, but their “asks” reflect pandemic-inspired trends. Those who shun dockage and restaurants are asking for dinghies and grills. Some clients, especially those coming by car, want the sleep-aboard service the night before the charter starts. “For the most part, people are driving to our base,” says Susan Restauri, charter manager with Cruise Annapolis and the Waypoints network in Maryland. “I get more inquiries out of Washington, D.C., than I’ve ever gotten before.”

Aside from experienced sailors booking charters a week or longer, the newbies are jumping aboard quickly. “Many of the new charter clients don’t even know what a monohull is,” Restauri says. “So the key is matching them with the size boat that would meet their party size and allow accommodations for a skipper. They would also reduce their group size just to get whatever boat is available.”

Other types of clients are also driving the activity. “We’ve had birthdays, daysails, bachelorette parties and a wedding,” Restauri says. “In 2020, family is what it’s all about.”

Families are definitely evident on the instruction side of the equation—similar to what worked for Club Nautique. Here’s what’s in demand at Offshore Sailing School in Florida: “We are doing more private courses—just for a couple who want to learn together without any other strangers aboard except the instructor, and for families who live together back home,” says Doris Colgate, president. Singles are also welcome, with one cabin going to the instructor and a maximum of three cabins filled by others, whether singles or couples.

“It turned out to be a family adventure rather than just a sailing course,” Julien Grascoeur says of his family’s experience with Club Nautique. “Once COVID-19 is under control, we’ll start expanding our horizons and see where the wind brings us. Isn’t that what sailing is all about, after all?”

As crewed charter client Maureen Fox sees it: “We always wanted to go sailing and have talked about it for decades. The pandemic pushed us to do it. It was time to check this off the bucket list.”

Fox, her husband, and another couple hired a captain and spent the Labor Day holiday sailing Chesapeake Bay with Cruise Annapolis. The weekend trip included an overnight off the town of St. Michaels, Maryland. “The best part of the trip was being back on the boat,” Fox says. “We grilled off the stern, and I was surprised at how easy that was. We watched the sunset and the moonrise. It was so beautiful and quiet. We couldn’t get over the silence. This was a very different experience for us—sailing is really relaxing. We’d do it again.”

Book It!

If there’s any tip for American vacation sailors, it’s this one: Book your charter now, whether near or far. A number of factors contribute to this advice from companies and schools. In the face of the pandemic, companies adjusted policies, usually giving clients a year grace period to rebook, so 2021 is filling up already. Others have offered partial or full refunds.

Read the fine print of your contract and know exactly what you’re paying for, as well as rebooking and reimbursement limits. Stay up to date with quickly changing travel-refund policies offered through credit-card companies and insurance agencies. Cancel for Any Reason policies, or CFAR, which are receiving attention now, carry stiff premiums but eradicate most risk up to 48 hours before scheduled departure.

The Moorings created a Travel with Confidence program, accessible through its website, to educate clients about safety measures, base reopening ­schedules, and refund and rebooking policies. “We’ve been extremely flexible the whole time,” says Josie Tucci, vice president of sales and marketing for Travelopia, owner of the Moorings. “A lot of ­customers are booking into 2021, and availability is limited due to rebooking. With all the policies in place, go ahead, get your vacation booked. Flexibility is key, so don’t wait too long. You can always postpone and change.”

While its partnership with Sailing Florida in St. Petersburg opened up a domestic tropical option for Moorings clients, US customers are still planning getaways in popular and as-yet-off-limits ­destinations such as the British Virgin Islands and other Caribbean locations, as well as in the Bahamas. “There is so much pent-up demand for chartering and travel in general, it doesn’t even matter which Caribbean destination opens up,” says Ian Pedersen, marketing manager at the Moorings. “People gravitate to what is open first. Lack of demand is not a concern for next year; sailors will go, one way or another.”

Funneling some of those bookings are the r­­ecord-breaking numbers of sailing-school students working toward bareboat certification. “When you look at what our clients write, as far as their plans go, nearly all intended to bareboat-charter in no more than two years from the time they graduated,” says Colgate, of Offshore. “Most, within the year.”

Destinations 2021

While Offshore has a full slate of Colgate Sailing Adventures Flotilla Cruises planned into 2021, Dream Yacht Charter is working to keep clients satisfied with expanded domestic and international locations.

In 2019-2020, Dream added to its 60 global ­destinations by taking on partners Navtours and Virgin Islands Yacht Charters. The expanded US footprint includes bases in Burlington, Vermont; Newport, Rhode Island; Annapolis, Maryland; Key West, Key Largo, and Miami, Florida; and St. Thomas in the United States Virgin Islands. Navtours and Dream are also partners at a base in Nassau, Bahamas. “The breadth of our company’s destination portfolio is critical to accommodate rescheduled bookings,” says Dan Lockyer, Dream vice president of global tourism. “Flexibility and clear rescheduling options are going to be key for customers unable to travel as planned due to COVID-19 disruption. We recently surveyed our customers and found continued demand for US-based sailing in 2021, plus much interest in the Caribbean and Bahamas.”

Access to the USVI has definitely helped with demand. “With the BVI being closed, we have definitely had some converts to sailing in the USVI waters,” says Kristi Query of Virgin Islands Yacht Charters. “The US Virgin Islands have always been used as a jumping-off point for the BVI, and charterers rarely take the time to explore here. So many of our guests have come back to the base so excited about their charters, asking, ‘Why have we not done this before?’”

While some companies hint at additional US base openings, like Dream, West Coast Multihulls is ­reaping the benefits of just doing it. ­With its ­headquarters in San Diego, the company recently expanded its Sea of Cortez operations, accessible by car or a two-hour flight from Los Angeles. Options include crewed and bareboat catamaran charters in San Diego and from the Baja California peninsula in Mexico. Bases at Marina Puerto Escondido in Loreto, as well as the new site at Marina Palmira in La Paz, offer Fountaine Pajot and Leopard sailing catamarans. The company also teaches ASA sailing lessons in all locations, specializing in catamaran certifications.

While the three locations have peak seasons, all West Coast Multihulls bases can offer charter and instruction year-round. Custom trips themed around blue whale and gray whale migration ­seasons, ­swimming with whale sharks, surfing, spring wildflower blooming, diving, yoga, and health and wellness spa treatments are available.

For those with a hankering to head offshore from the East Coast, Cruise Abaco offers multiple dates for a 160-nautical-mile Gulf Stream crossing with a licensed captain from Port Canaveral, Florida, to Abaco, Bahamas. ASA instruction and certification on the passage are also available. Dates in November and December 2020 as well as June 2021 are available.

Sorting through the options, it’s important to keep an open mind to the possibilities of SAIL. “We’ve ­experienced one of the best charter seasons we’ve had in over 15 years,” says Cindy Kalow, owner of Superior Charters in Bayfield, Wisconsin. “Our sailing-certification school has trained twice as many people as the previous year, and we’ve experienced a significant number of new customers as they travel from all over the Midwest to come sailing in the Apostle Islands.

“It’s hard to predict what 2021 will bring. Because we are pretty remote—four hours from the nearest major metropolitan area and major airport—we’ve always struggled with getting people to come here. Yet, in summer 2020, a number of new customers returned to sail a second or even third time. Once we get people to experience true wilderness cruising in the Apostle Islands, they want to come back!”

Elaine Lembo is a CW editor at large.

The post Charter Sailing in North America appeared first on Cruising World.

A seasoned skipper and sailboat that has successfully anchored in the Caribbean might not have the gear or expertise to safely anchor in the Pacific. Why? Because the anchorages in the Bahamas and Lesser Antilles are generally benign, with shallow depth, white sand, no swell, few katabatic gusts and zero current. Not so, say, in French Polynesia.

I recently spent a month anchored in Huahine in the Society Islands and was surrounded by dragging sailboats. Anchoring here looks so easy on Google Earth, but it’s extremely challenging in this section of the actual planet Earth. Every single evening, the crews of large vessels (many high-windage single- and double-hulled chartered bareboats) return after a night at the waterfront bars of the main village of Fare to discover that their boat has gone on walkabout. This requires these bewildered crews (if lucky) to find their vessel in the dark, board it in possibly rough conditions, get it underway in treacherous, reef-strewn waters in the pitch-black of night, and then safely ­reanchor it in a crowded harbor—no easy task.

Why?

The reason is simple: They anchor for the conditions they are currently experiencing, not the conditions they will experience. I repeat: A seasoned sailor realizes that he must anchor to withstand the wind and sea conditions he might get, not the conditions he is currently in.

Conditions change. We know this. These changes must be anticipated.

Is it possible to anchor safely in Huahine? Absolutely! We’ve had no ­problem (other than people hitting us), and not one fully crewed charter boat manned by a Polynesian skipper (that we know of) has dragged. Does it require unusual or extraordinary gear? No, all that is needed is regular rode and hook—well, a generous amount of chain helps.

Most of the visiting boats arrive from Raiatea or Bora Bora in the afternoon. Afternoons are generally pleasant in July, the season most sailors pass through. Navigation is easy—the white sand jumps out from the deep blue water, and the hundreds of coral heads are easy to spot.

Basically, new arrivals tend to anchor in a millpond and immediately go ashore. This is one of the friendliest isles imaginable. They meet some locals, fall in love, and everyone retires to the Huahine Yacht Club for a wonderful night of local music and food, and laughter.

Alas, every single evening for days on end, we had katabatic wind gusts over 30 knots, and three evenings, the gusts reached 40 knots. Please understand, these are not the winds offshore, which are generally in the 18- to 22-knot range. They are the savage stop-and-go gusts from the high mountains and low ­valleys of the Haabai area. Of course, any cruising vessel properly anchored should be able to withstand a 30-knot gust. However, a 30-plus-knot gust is much easier to survive from a 20-knot steady breeze versus no wind and then howling. Why? Because your relaxed boat and its chain rode will build up a lot of speed and inertia before it suddenly comes up short. This can, and regularly does, snatch out anchors that have too little scope or too short a snubber.

And all of this takes place inside the lagoon, which, as a child, I thought would offer 360-degree protection; as an adult, I now realize it’s also a 360-degree dead lee shore. Basically, you can’t drag for long off the town anchorage of Fare without hitting another vessel, rock or reef.

But that’s not the whole of it. The moment the wind comes up, the seas build and slop over the windward (east) side of the reef. Each wave contains millions of gallons of water, and all this water has to exit the lagoon somehow and fast. Thus, one’s almost always anchored in some current, and occasionally in more than 4 knots of it.

This means that no vessel in the harbor is lying downwind of its anchor, and some deep-draft monohulls of traditional design can be tide-bound, transom facing into the wind. Centerboarders sometimes lie ahull sideways to the wind. And often catamarans scribe huge circles around their anchors at high rates of speed. (One night we saw a Catana smash into a steel boat, and the sound of the crash almost sickened me.)

Some of the local boats or experienced New Zealanders who regularly cruise these waters have small anti-hunt sails they hoist off their backstay to prevent their vessels from scribing circles when wind and current oppose. We are ketch-rigged on Ganesh, and hoisting our mizzen often either stops this completely or greatly exaggerates it. Given that, we never go ashore with our mizzen sail up in case conditions change.

And, oh, wait—we’re not done. While all the boats anchored off Fare appear to be in a group, they are actually anchored differently. About half are anchored in 8 feet of water, and the other half are anchored in 65 feet of water. Wow!

Now any sailor worth his salt knows the importance of scope: You have to have enough rope or chain deployed to anchor safely. I use a Rocna anchor with 7-to-1 scope when I can, and 5-to-1 when I must. This means that in 65 feet of water, I must deploy 350 feet of chain to safely anchor at the minimum 5-to-1 scope, or 490 feet of chain to anchor with a safety margin of 7-to-1 scope.

That’s a lot of chain. I carry only 225 feet of it, because otherwise my boat goes bow-down and begins to hobbyhorse excessively at sea. True, I have numerous nylon rodes I can add, but this makes retrieving the complicated mess in the middle of the night (say with a 30-foot-wide catamaran jammed on our bow) difficult.

Thus, I avoid anchoring in difficult conditions in 65 feet of water.

I also know that most (but maybe not all) recreational sailing craft anchoring ahead of me in 65 feet of water haven’t planned for 7-to-1 scope or 5-to-1 scope; more likely they’re at 3-to-1 or less, which is totally inadequate for the conditions they will soon face.

Now some Cruising World readers have very sharp pencils and are jumping up and down in protest because my scope numbers are wrong: 65 times 5 isn’t 350, but rather 325! Why am I being so sloppy with the numbers?

I’ll get to that in a second.

My ketch draws 6 feet, and in the ­lagoon, I was anchored in 8 feet of water, so I deployed 65 feet of chain plus my ­nylon snubber. Excessive? No, it’s minimal. I should have paid out 91 feet for 7-to-1 scope. Why? Because scope is calculated from the bow roller to the bottom, not by the depth of the water.

Think this doesn’t matter? Think again.

Anchored near us is a centerboard Skipjack-esque vessel (it looks like a Tarpon Springs sponge boat) with a large amount of sheer and a long bowsprit pointing skyward. It’s anchored in only 3 feet of water but requires about the same amount of scope as we do in 8 feet because its side-roller chock is so high above the water on its bowsprit.

There’s another factor: I was anchored on the edge of a sandy shelf, with my anchor well dug into the bottom, in 8 feet, as I said, and eventually with 7-to-1 scope out. So it was almost impossible to anchor ahead of me on this ledge because you couldn’t put out enough scope. Still, two boats anchored in 65 feet of water dragged back toward me until their anchors caught.

This “uphill” anchoring didn’t make me happy because the skippers of these boats couldn’t put out proper scope without hitting me, so they left their rodes as they were, though they were still in deeper water. If the wind reversed, they’d both drag back downhill and then go on walkabout.

In such a situation, what’s my ­responsibility as a cruiser? Tell them? Don’t tell them? Get in a fistfight or anchorment—er, I mean, argument?

I’ve found, from long experience, that the best thing to do is move. I ignore who is right or who is wrong and who anchored first; I just leave and reanchor my vessel safely. I have no right to tell others how or where to anchor, but I do, most certainly, have an obligation to anchor my boat safely. And that means moving when others anchor improperly around me.

Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying to not anchor in Huahine. I recommend you do, because this island is one of the nicest places in French Polynesia. And it is certainly possible because we never dragged, and none of the local skippers do either.

How do you do it?

You need a lot of chain because the Pacific is so much deeper than the Caribbean. I’m often forced to anchor in 80 feet of water in this ocean. Never have I considered such a thing in the Caribbean. (In northern Tonga, I managed to anchor in 105 feet for a month!)

And then you have to anchor far away from others. This usually isn’t a problem, but the fact of the matter is that someone without knowledge of any of the above might anchor right next to you and there’s nothing you can do (save move).

Example: My writer friend Dudley Pope of the Lord Ramage series wanted to finish his novel, so he purchased three spools of nylon line and anchored in more than 100 feet of water off Virgin Gorda. Just as he was tidying up, a Morgan Out Island 41 bareboat dropped its hook right next to him. With a smile, Dudley asked politely, “Do you realize you’re anchoring in over 100 feet of water?”

“No problem,” its not-yet-sunburnt skipper hollered back. “We only draw 4!”

Remember: Anchoring is the bedrock skill of sailors. Once mastered, the world is your oyster. But it can be tricky, especially at night, in Huahine, when the katabatic gusts blow.

Cap’n Fatty and Carolyn Goodlander are sitting out the pandemic aboard their ketch, Ganesh, in Singapore. You can read more about Fatty’s thoughts on dropping the hook in his book Creative Anchoring, available online.

The post Anchoring in Paradise appeared first on Cruising World.