What’s a sunset without a sundowner? Quitting time after a messy day in the engine room without an after-work beer? No matter how much storage a boat has, at some point, the liquid provisioning trickles out. Homebrewing—or rather boat-brewing—is the beverage solution for cruisers who enjoy hanging out in remote areas without beach bars or supermarkets.

When we set out toward the Pacific seven years ago, we knew that booze would be costly in many areas (if available at all). Therefore, we filled up our boat with boxed wine, cases of beer and some rum in Panama. When we met a singlehander from New Zealand in one of our first anchorages in French Polynesia who invited us to try his homemade beer, our reaction was more amused than interested: What a weirdo, we thought nonchalantly.

A year later, we were still in French Polynesia and had run out of Panamanian booze. Motivated by high prices for alcohol, we tried our luck with Polynesian recipes for komo—sugar water fermented with baker’s yeast that yields strong results. The locals brew komo in 200-liter (52-gallon) barrels, so we did the math, and filled regular 1-liter bottles with a similar ratio. After cleaning up the sticky mess from an exploded container, we had a go at DIY airlocks, which prevented further accidents but did nothing to conceal the socklike smell and taste of the baker’s yeast.

We searched online and ordered from homebrew shops. Starting from scratch and boiling hops seemed overly ­ambitious, so we went for ready-made beer kits. A 4-pound can yields 23 liters (48 US pints) and contains all that’s needed. Just pour the thick syrup into a large container, add water, sugar and the included packet of yeast, and wait for a week. Then comes the tricky part, because you need a whole load of empty, sterilized pressure bottles (old soda bottles work) for the golden liquid. A pinch of sugar in each bottle sets off a second fermentation to make the beer fizzy. There is a whole range of different beer types available as beer kits, but inventive boat-brewers take it a step further and add aroma hops, young pine tips, or even coffee beans for experimental flavors. After another two weeks of patiently waiting, the beer’s ready to be tasted!

As the sunset is painting the sky over the lagoon in shades of pink and orange, we clink our glasses. Yes, homebrewing equipment takes up some space and the procedure is rather time-consuming, but the luxury of sipping self-made ­Pitufa-brew all on our own in paradise is well worth the ­effort. Cheers!

How To Get Started

To start brewing beer aboard, you’ll need:

• 1 beer kit (e.g., Muntons Export Pilsner)
• 1 big container (23 liters/ 6 US gallons)
• 23 one-liter bottles or 46 half-liter bottles (regular plastic soda bottles can take the pressure)
• 1 air lock (to put on the big container)
• Disinfectant to prepare the gear (baby-bottle disinfectant from the pharmacy or special disinfectant from the homebrew shop)
• Enough patience to make it through 3 weeks of ­waiting time

The post Brewing Beer on a Boat appeared first on Cruising World.

We had to tack away at the last minute. Opus, a C&C 43, was just a few boat lengths ahead, and that was enough to make all the difference. The barge bore down on us both with the tenacity of a creature little inclined to slow down or change course. Our sails were sheeted in tight, playing the delicate balance of speed and point. The crew was quiet, eyes trained, muscles taut, minds wondering, Would we play chicken with a bird that big?

It was day one of the 12-day 580-mile race around Vancouver Island, British Columbia, and our grit was already being tested aboard Kotuku, a Farr 1220. But that’s exactly what I love about the biennial Van Isle 360 race. Every day dishes up a new plate of struggles and surprises. It is an event that converts cruisers into racers (if only temporarily) and taunts racers with glimpses into the joys of cruising in some of the most extraordinary sailing grounds in the world. After seeing the beauty of Vancouver Island’s west coast go whizzing by between tacks on our 30-hour upwind leg in washing-machine seas, I vowed to return. I promised myself I would cruise these waters slowly, stopping at every one of those intriguing nooks and bays.

With an unassuming “Let’s go,” almost in a whisper, the tactician called the tack, and all nine of us sprang into action to turn out of the path of the oncoming brutish barge. We watched as Opus squeaked by just ahead, its sleek lines and trimmed sails disappearing behind towering piles of timber. When they reappeared moments later, there was a collective exhale, the synchronized end of a breath held in ­anticipation of seeing that sail glide by unscathed.

Far from hurting us, our humility (along with some grit, dedication and a not insignificant amount of practice) carried us to a first-place trophy. And the experience of that race carried me on to pursue a life of cruising. Five years later, I kept that promise to return, cruising that same coast nice and slow. This time, I soaked up every unhurried minute of my wandering path in and out of sounds and inlets, crossing well behind every tug and tow I saw.

The post Nick of Time appeared first on Cruising World.

“I can hear them!” our son, niall, calls triumphantly from the side of Totem. We’re swinging gently at anchor in Banderas Bay, Mexico. At about 20 miles wide by 14 miles long, the large bay is a migratory destination for humpback whales, and the pods are arriving in force. Whale song resonates through the hull at our location on the fringe of the cruising fleet clustered off La Cruz. The sound is much clearer underwater, so our teenage daughters, Mairen and Siobhan, follow him in, and soon all three are marveling at the cetacean sounds. For our 20-year-old boat-kid graduate’s homecoming during a holiday break from college, hanging out under the keel to listen to the whales is a poetic return to his roots afloat. 

Ten years ago, we departed from this very anchorage for our first big passage as a family. After a year and a half of mostly coastal cruising, Totem’s bow pointed over the blue horizon to the South Pacific. This big step was the culmination of many smaller ones in nearly a dozen years of cruising so far. The first step was back in September 1991. That’s the year I nervously stepped aboard a J/35 for a weekend of racing and bumped into a cute skipper who would one day become my husband. Jamie’s idea of courting was offshore racing and sharing his copy of Dove, Robin Lee Graham’s memoir of the nearly five years he spent circumnavigating as a teenager. It worked. Jamie showed me that travel and sailing nested together. His dream became our dream, for someday.

Like many dreamers, our “someday” had no timeline. Departure was beyond an unknowable future of careers and kids and picket fences. Genre ­literature largely modeled cruising as a pursuit for two (often retired) adults, not a young family of five.

Fuzzy planning gained focus during a tumultuous spring when in the span of a few weeks, our family experienced a birth, two cancer diagnoses and a death. Holding our 2-week-old daughter, Mairen, at Jamie’s mother’s funeral, we keenly felt the tragedy of her unrealized retirement dreams. For the first time, our perfect life felt like a perfect trap. What were we waiting for? We flew home to Seattle and called a real estate agent, the first major move to kick off a five-year plan to go cruising as a family.

Early Days: Conventional Cruisers

Six years and a surprise third child later, friends helped untie dock lines of our Stevens 47, Totem, from our home port of Bainbridge Island, Washington; Jamie and I pointed her bow out of the Strait of Juan de Fuca and southward.

Our kids, Niall, Mairen and Siobhan, were 9, 6 and 4 years old, respectively, when we set off. With three young children aboard, our motivations for cruising shifted away from the adventurous dreams of our 20-something selves. We hoped for at least a couple of years out, and had a financial plan for up to five; at that point, Niall would be ready for high school. During those years, our goal was to experience the magnificent diversity of our world as a family, in the many forms it can take: cultures, languages, climates, religions, flora, fauna. We hoped to raise citizens of the world with appreciation for their opportunities.

RELATED: Totem’s Interim Normal

Shifting into cruising mode took our children approximately a day. Years of Puget Sound daysailing and dinner-table dreaming about “The Big Trip” paid off. They had two parents to pay attention to them, and that’s all they needed. For Jamie, the transition took a few months. I struggled. Positive feedback loops from my professional life vanished overnight, my tiny new bosses issued irrational demands and suffered from capricious emotions, and my routine responsibilities lacked clear measurement beyond “we survived the day, and everyone was fed.” We were living the dream, yet I had never felt more adrift.

October 2008: San Diego, California. Surf pounded the beach where I sat with my friend Annie, a cruising parent and veteran who had brought her 6-year-old son, Bear, home to the boat after he was born. While our children ran shrieking in a game of tag with the fingers of the Pacific Ocean, I poured my heart out to the beat of crashing waves: the guilt over the unexpected difficulties in this new life, angst over homeschooling, fear of failure in the accumulation of these factors. Annie’s guidance was easier to hear, harder to internalize, but played out: “Trust in yourself, trust in your direction, and trust in the effort you have put into preparing.” Life changes aren’t easy. The most difficult part is believing up front that you will succeed when the simplest days can feel like a challenge. The voice in my head assures me this anxiety is common. Choosing lives that run counter to what our culture rewards takes confidence and strength. 

The kids thrived, alleviating our fears about taking them from the only home they’d known, from a nurturing village of neighbors and friends and grandparents nearby, and an oversize house of toys to meet all wants. In fact, having less seemed to foster ingenuity in their imaginary play with each other; they didn’t need to be entertained, directly or through screen proxies, but developed concentration and the ability to work out what to do on their own.

A truism of the cruising life is it contains higher highs and lower lows. Highs from the extraordinary experiences the life enables, lows from the pressures imposed by life without a seatbelt. The real impact of everyday decisions makes life just that tiny bit more intense and spectacular and rarely terrifying. The trick is finding a balance: enough comfort in the requirements of seamanship and life in unfamiliar places to keep the lows at bay, and keeping an open outlook to the highs.

Like most new cruisers, we had a plan. We would voyage from our homeport to Mexico, then south to Panama and west to French Polynesia—all in the first year. And like most new cruisers, the plan did not line up with reality. We made a conscious decision to slow down, spend more time in Mexico, and find our rhythm. And it paid off. The highs of that first season included sailing with a mega-pod of dolphins, whales breeching next to our anchorage, and finding our tribe among the migratory cruising fleet. The lows were there but grew further apart as we became more familiar with our vessel’s creaks and groans, and gained comfort with how the boat and crew managed conditions. All of this helped me finally find my balance. We departed on the 2,900-nautical-mile passage from Mexico to the Marquesas a year later than originally intended but with a more confident crew aboard. 

Route Planning by Necessity

Secured to a mooring in Tahiti, our little family sat around a big chart contemplating Totem’s future route. We’d been cruising for nearly two years, and only six months of funds remained in the cruising kitty.

“The Plan” had always been to sell our house on Bainbridge Island before we set sail. Yet when the time came, the real estate market crashed; our mortgage was underwater, so selling was no longer a viable option. Waiting for a market rebound wasn’t an option either. Instead, we set off with less than half the savings we had intended and a mortgage that exceeded rental income. As our funds trickled down, decisions loomed. 

From Tahiti we considered paths out across the wide expanse of the Pacific, lines drawn out on the chart to possible destinations. The obvious option was to sail back to Puget Sound, resume jobs and school and normal lives, and declare ­victory on a sabbatical family cruise. However, none of us were ready to go home—back to the chart! Next came weighing route distances and job opportunities in places as disparate as Samoa, Guam, Singapore and New Zealand. After interviewing via Skype, a strong opportunity for me surfaced in Sydney. Now Australia became our end-of-season goal, about 4,000 miles and four months away. By most cruising standards, it was a dizzying pace through the Cook Islands, Tonga, Fiji, Vanuatu and New Caledonia; but in truth, the weeks in each of these exotic and stunning islands is a luxury by most standards, and it ­confirmed the joy of living adventurously.

Looking back, we’re still cruising today because we couldn’t sell our house in 2008. Had the market held, a merry sabbatical would have arrived at a natural financial end concurrently with teen years and questions about what they were presumably missing out on. But because we couldn’t sell, we subsequently lived aboard while I worked in Australia for a year and a half. There, our family made two key discoveries: First, thanks to attending public schools in Brisbane before they really wanted to go back, our children concluded that homeschooled boat kids had a pretty good deal. Second, returning to professional/agency life—even with exciting clients and projects—showed me I no longer fit in; what I had once professed (and still believe) was the best job I’d ever have before we cut dock lines in the US lost its former glow. 

Finding a Way Forward

With savings banked to fund another ­couple of years afloat, it was time for another family meeting to choose the route away from Australia. Not interested in a Pacific loop back to Washington and high school, the kids helped map an adventurous plan. We’d start with an uncommon route through Papua New Guinea. 

October 2012: Bramble Haven, Papua New Guinea. It’s been a rough passage to this placid atoll. Beam seas lifted and smacked Totem’s hull as we struggled through an unexpected squash zone after departing Australia. Three days of wet sailing with wind in the 40s was an appropriate cleanse for the transition from the bright lights in Queensland to the elemental life in Papua New Guinea. There, sandy footpaths replaced multilane highways. People wore tired rags or homemade clothes instead of disposable fashion. Local diets were comprised of about a dozen foraged or harvested choices, instead of innumerable options of heritage-variety handpicked-organic whatever that might have been flown in from afar.

As we picked between coral heads to find a sandy patch at anchorage depth, the outriggers with hand-sewn tarp sails that we noticed on the beach were a visual cue that we’d arrived in a dramatically different place. Their crews set up rustic camps in the uninhabited atoll for shelter during fishing forays away from their home islands. We met Sake on the beach, where he beachcombed for washed-up bits of fishing line to twist into rope for his canoe. Characteristic of those who have the least to give, Sake and his three sons with him were unfailingly generous with offerings from what they had: bananas, drinking coconuts, fish. When weather moderated enough for them to sail home, the men first sculled their outrigger to Totem to say goodbye. “If you come to Brooker, we’ll kill a chicken for you to have a feast!” A waypoint set, the tone of our new/old rhythm reestablished, and grateful to be omnivores, we wandered our way to reunite with the crew of the outrigger.

From there we sailed west to Indonesia, which I called home more than two decades ago in my early 20s, and aimed for mainland Southeast Asia, officially growing the miles between us and the USA instead of closing them. This was a new chapter: a bet on our ability to find new ways to support ourselves, and a new family dynamic as our children had grown into active crew and adventure-seekers.

We started testing work-from-anywhere ideas before leaving Australia. Jamie was a sailmaker in the ’80s and ’90s, and thanks to the internet, he was now a sailmaker again—working remotely to consult with customers on specifications for new sails, and coordinating the production and shipment of sails. I expanded my writing work, publishing in magazines and online, and later working on a book project with two other cruising parents: Voyaging with Kids, now the de facto guide to family cruising. These trickle income streams stemmed the flow from savings.

Cruising through Southeast Asia involves frequent motoring in little or no wind, but the combination of low-cost living, accessible internet and fascinating destinations definitely made up for the lack of good sailing breezes. Around the same time, rental prices for our property in Washington increased enough to change the house from a drain to net-zero cash flow. This helped open a new chapter of frugal freedom where we could travel based on seasonal weather patterns, provision as needed, and undertake maintenance and repairs as the budget allowed. 

Financially sustaining ourselves even partially brought new security and a bizarre comfort with poverty (by US standards). With one foot on the boat and one on the beach, we continued to string together the resources and ways to carry on while seasonally migrating from Borneo to Singapore, peninsular Malaysia, and Thailand for about two years.

Committed Cruisers

We sailed across the Indian Ocean in 2015 on a northerly route from Thailand to Seychelles before diving south to South Africa. Our family sought experiences so unfamiliar that they defied explanation: If you’ve walked on the moon, how do you explain how that felt to someone who has never been to the moon? The Indian Ocean was full of moon-walking experiences. Joining pilgrims in a pre-dawn climb up a holy mountaintop to view the sunrise in Sri Lanka. Foraging the Maldivian water’s edge for spicy salad greens and ghost crabs to grill in a beach fire. Freediving around neon coral fluorescing as a last gasp before bleaching in Chagos. Engaging in three days of extended dialogue to clear into Comoros, a process based on oral tradition instead of technology.

September 2015: Barren Islands, Madagascar. Siobhan offers our iPad, where she’s opened the game Fruit Ninja, to a Vezo tribesman seated in Totem’s cockpit. “You swipe with your finger to play, like this!” He doesn’t understand a word Siobhan is saying; it doesn’t matter, as our daughter takes his hand and drags it across the surface to demonstrate. Images of falling fruit split with his finger-slice. Another swipe, and our new friend gets the drift; soon he’s giggling away while rapidly chopping falling pineapples. 

Our phrase book taught us how to ask “What tribe are you from?” and “Does your tribe have a king?”—amusing, but not helpful in our goal of ascertaining the community leader to explore trading. What we’ve dubbed Fruit Ninja Diplomacy has come to the rescue again, helping open communication and friendship with people we did not share a common language with. Sipping lemonade under our Bimini, women decorated with sandalwood paste waited their turn; one spoke enough French to begin stilted dialogue. Gifted scale models of the Vezo’s beautifully crafted canoes—Malagasy sand stuck to their roughly painted hulls—are now tucked in a locker to remind us of the value in making an effort to bridge language and cultural gaps. 

The Indian Ocean sent us packing with 55-knot gusts from a system near Cape Agulhas. It had delivered tricky passages and challenging conditions, but also deeply rewarding destinations along a less typical path. As we looked north up the Atlantic from South Africa, family news signaled it was time to return home. Instead of crisscrossing to Gibraltar, less than six months after departing Cape Town, Totem arrived in the USA.

June, 2016: Stonington, Connecticut. Advance notice requirements made us wonder how hard it would be to clear back into our home country. Officer Alvarez drove an hour and a half from Bridgeport to clear us in at Stonington. We came ashore bearing a folio stuffed with the legacy documents of past clearances, our passports, and boat stamp and ink pads, and asked him what we needed to do. His response was unexpected: “Welcome home, family! Can I take a picture with you?” 

Running down the dock (because you’re not in the USA until you set foot on land, Jamie said) our children got punchy calling out “American’”details they saw. Sometimes the obvious eluded them. What’s that?—it’s a fire hydrant. And that stick on it?—it’s to show how deep the snow is, and where the hydrant might be under the snow. No way! —Yes, really! Is that house a typical American house? Look, a flag! Another flag! (It’s picture-postcard New England and July 4th looms; there are a lot of flags.)

Returning to the US was dizzying. Cars, people, everything seemed to move too fast. Hurtling down the road in a car passing billboards hawking lawyers or plastic surgery or PSAs for drug addiction felt surreal. After years of witnessing human impacts on the natural world, it felt dissonant to be surrounded by a consumption-driven society that professed sustainability ideals. Strangers in our homeland: How much could be attributed to changes in the US during an eight-year gap, and how much to the changes that happened in ourselves? The season back on the US East Coast was a gift of time with loved ones, but we were unable to reenter a life we had once claimed. 

Sailing up the Mystic River (where Jamie grew up) wasn’t intended as testing the waters of returning home—but in hindsight, we might have swung either way, particularly as our finances remained thin. Affirmed by our surroundings that we no longer fit in, we turned our focus to growing income streams further so that we could continue nomadic living. Jamie grew his work as a consulting sailmaker with Zoom Sails. We launched a service coaching hopeful cruisers, now an important part of our income, from a mooring near Mystic.

As we sailed down the coast toward Florida, a mix of age and proximity prompted 17-year-old Niall to visit college campuses and consider where he’d apply someday. Family chatter debated Totem’s route; mapping a path toward the Panama Canal, we played out the possibilities. “You could come home from first semester of college to be a line handler!” That snapped us into awareness that if Niall continued his college plans, we wouldn’t complete a circumnavigation as a family. This was acceptable to no one. He postponed college applications for a year, and we wound a path through the Caribbean, then north from the canal. Totem and crew crossed our outbound track in Zihuantenejo, Mexico, in April 2018—­almost exactly an eight-year interval at the intersection point.

Circumnavigation was never a goal, but it’s an achievement we’re proud of, a gift we’ve been able to give our kids, an uncommon mantle we are fortunate to don. 

Looking Ahead

We’ve lingered in Mexico for nearly two years after closing our circumnavigation. For the first time in years, we’re in range to affordably fly home for family needs: aiding my aging parents, and supporting Niall’s move to Oregon for college. Lingering indefinitely has never crossed our minds. We will cast off for the South Pacific again this spring.

Very little is planned beyond getting to the South Pacific. A second circumnavigation? Maybe. A loop of the Pacific? We’d love to see new places. Who knows? Beyond seasonal planning for weather, that level of detail isn’t important to us yet.

RELATED: Sailing Totem: Nautical Escapes for the Confined Sailor

The ultimate freedom that cruising offers has become thoroughly steeped in our bones. We have learned that it’s entirely possible to reinvent ourselves along the way to support our dreams. This conservative decision-making, overeducated non-risk-taker would never have believed it a dozen years ago! That it has transformed us into entirely different, entirely happier versions of our pre-cruising selves feels obvious in hindsight, and fuels our passion to help hopeful cruisers embark.

Back at anchor off La Cruz, I hear Siobhan fire up the outboard as she and Mairen head out to meet friends onshore. A bevy of teenagers are among the other boat families heading to the South Pacific: It bodes well! And so we continue this priceless cruising life, one day at a time. 

Behan Gifford is the author of the popular cruising blog Sailing Totem, and a co-­author of Voyaging with Kids: A Guide to Family Life Afloat. Follow the Gifford family’s ­adventures at cruisingworld.com/sailing-totem.

The post How the Totem Crew Got its Start appeared first on Cruising World.

What cruiser hasn’t blamed a meteorologist for a bad forecast when caught “unexpectedly” in a boisterous blow? “It was only supposed to be 15 knots, but that forecaster couldn’t get it right if Mother Nature shouted the answer.” 

Supposed to be—as if a forecast were instructions for atmosphere and ocean to follow. I have a whimsical theory, in fact: Impugned for ruined weddings and rough days on the water, clever and dedicated meteorologists created computer-derived weather forecasts packed into a digital file called a gridded binary, or GRIB file. These GRIB forecasts deflect hurtful sentiments away from sensitive scientists and onto emotionless computers—and that’s how meteorologists get the last laugh: The various computer models require an understanding of how the data should be interpreted. In other words, a faulty forecast might be user error after all. 

Picture, if you will, weather geeks in a breakroom, pocket protectors and all: 

Wx Geek 1: “So this saltier- than-thou type returned to the marina complaining about the GRIB forecast—it was only supposed to be 15 knots he said.”

Wx Geek 2: “Let me guess, he thought that meant maximum wind speed?”

Wx Geek 1: “Better still, he never checked the gust forecast that showed 30 knots!”

Cruising our Stevens 47, Totem, through Papua New Guinea was a stark reminder that we take weather tools for granted. On Panapompom Island, children gawked at us, the strange visitors, and squalls seemed always on the horizon as we walked the beach talking to islanders. Tumbling in the surf was the carved bow section torn from a canoe. Lateen-rigged outrigger canoes are the primary mode of transportation throughout Papuan islands. One woman matter-of-factly said, “Sometimes they don’t return.” 

Conditions in the region were tough due to a stalled low-pressure system. We expected it well before heavy grayscale clouds arrived, thanks to a GRIB forecast downloaded with our SSB and Pactor modem. Papuan sailors are skilled and tough as nails, but the destroyed canoe in the surf exposed the consequences of a thousand-year technological gap between us. 

Safety at sea is immeasurably better because of weather forecasting. Weather predictions are imperfect, but here’s the catch: GRIB forecasts are a series of images with symbolic meaning; the forecast is how you interpret those images. Put another way, you are the forecaster.

Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” has nothing to do with weather forecasting, but the celestial whorls share more than passing resemblance to the swirling flows in a GRIB image. My untrained interpretation of “Starry Night” is thin: captivating colors that seem alive with movement. That’s all I’ve got. Professional interpretations online speak of turbulence, agitation, a cypress tree representing a bridge between life and death. It’s easy to have an interpretation of GRIB images, but is it the whole meaning? Or do you need to dig deeper?

A GRIB Is Not an App!

There are a number of meteorological agencies worldwide that create global and regional GRIB forecasts. Agencies within the National Ocean and Atmospheric Administration and the European Center for Medium-Range Weather Forecasting are the biggest GRIB sources. Each produces multiple forecasts, called GRIB models. For example, a few of the GRIB models created by NOAA agencies include: 

• Global Forecast System, depicting surface wind, ­pressure, precipitation, etc.
• Real Time Ocean Forecast System, displaying ocean currents.
• Wave Watch 3, predicting waves and swells.

In addition to national sources, private companies produce GRIBs, such as PredictWind’s PWE and PWG models. On the whole, it’s a dizzying display of acronyms! The takeaway is knowing that GRIB sources and GRIB models are different than the app or viewing tool.

Windy, Passage Weather, Ventusky and many other apps/viewers don’t create a GRIB forecast, they only display it. An app is like a theater, and the GRIB model is the film being shown.

GRIB viewers are set apart based on which models they offer and what control features are available. Maybe they show only one model, or don’t reveal important information about the GRIB. Or perhaps they don’t have the option to limit file sizes for offshore or remote downloads using a satellite device or Pactor Modem.

When choosing and analyzing GRIB files, here are technical criteria to consider:

Geographic area: The bigger the forecast area, the bigger the file size. If bandwidth is constrained, it’s best to use a GRIB viewer that enables a user-defined area to manage download size. How much area do you need? Your planned route is the obvious starting point, but sometimes a broader area can show weather systems that will affect you later.

In 2016, we sailed 9,614 nautical miles from South Africa to the US. Between Bermuda and Connecticut, a maze of current eddies, meanders and filaments splintered away from the Gulf Stream to make it one of our least comfortable passages. We used GRIB current forecasts to minimize foul eddies and wind against current situations, but water flow was too dynamic. Had I not been so miserly and insistent on small area, small file size, I might have seen current flow patterns to pick a cleaner, more comfortable path.

Resolution: Often overlooked, GRIB resolution is a major reason that cruisers get the forecast wrong. The color shading on GRIBs applied by some viewers is used to represent wind speed, wave height, etc. At first glance, it appears as though a supercomputer calculated forecast data for every pixel on the screen. But it hasn’t. Resolution refers to the spacing between the actual calculated data points. Wind-barb symbols, when shown, reveal the real spacing. All spaces between them are shaded by the viewer, which is making its best guess at what the wind speed will be. At the source, GFS model resolution is 18 miles (28 kilometers) and ECMWF models can be 5.6 miles (9 kilometers) or 11.2 miles (18 kilometers), depending on the model. For perspective, 18 miles’ resolution means that one data point represents 324 square miles. One data point per 5.6-mile spacing covers 31 square miles. High resolution means less estimated information but creates a problem for sailors. The GRIB file size quickly becomes too large to download offshore or in remote areas using an SSB radio or budget satellite communications. Fortunately, GRIB resolution can be dialed back. A medium resolution of 31 miles (50 kilometers) has one data point per 961 square miles; low-resolution spacing, with data points 62 miles apart (100 kilometers) has one data point per a whopping 3,844 square miles! If there aren’t features in a 3,844-square-mile area affecting your weather, then that might be all you need. Add land, though, and the low-resolution forecast won’t show wind deflected, blocked or funneled—or seriously altered as land heats and cools on a daily cycle. Along a coastline, the gap between data points that span land and sea, and estimated wind speeds displayed by a viewer’s color shading, can be seriously flawed with low resolution. The overland prediction often has little resemblance to wind over water. With big spacing, the viewer’s color shading could, for example, show 30 knots of wind 30 miles offshore and 10 knots nearshore because the overland data points skew the speed estimates in between data points. In reality, those 30 knots could carry to just off the coast, causing problems for a coastal sailor. Always know GRIB resolution, and use high resolution when you have the bandwidth on board. When you don’t, remember that land has a big impact on any forecast.

Duration: The number of days covered by the forecast is known as duration. It can range from one to 16 days. Forecast accuracy tends to be high for the first three days, then decline with each successive day. What value does a 16-day forecast have if only the first three are accurate? It can show trends. 

Let’s say you’re in the British Virgin Islands and want to make the 170-mile trip to Antigua. This is against prevailing easterly trade winds and can be a slog. Looking at longer-duration forecasts reveals trends that help find a better window for the passage. Trade winds blow with consistency but still cycle up and down, and occasionally break down completely. Using a large-area and long-­duration GRIB forecast, tracking weather across the broader area can hint at local conditions days later. For instance, maybe a gale flowing east from the Carolinas will have enough impact to shut down the trade winds for a smoother ride across the Anegada Passage.

Increment: A GRIB forecast is a series of snapshots; increment refers to the number of hours between those snapshots. Options are three, six, 12 or 24 hours. Smaller increments help to show changes more clearly over small areas. Larger increments have the benefit of smaller file size while being adequate to look at trends over a large area. 

Work with the Elements

The features that define the forecast are its elements. Wind is the most common used by sailors. It’s a start, but taken at face value, is misleading. Taken without considering other elements underutilizes the full value of GRIB files. Here are tips to get the most out of a GRIB forecast:

Pressure: Differences in pressure make wind. To see this, look at the black lines on a GRIB indicating ­pressure changes. As the gradient spacing gets closer, the wind ­increases. Use pressure to better see the big-picture weather.

Wind: How much does the forecast really indicate? Forecasted wind speed tends to be interpreted by sailors as representing the maximum expected, but in fact, is an average of the top range expected. A blustery spring day showing 20 knots can have wind ranging meaningfully higher and still fit the forecast. Also note that wind forecasts struggle for accuracy in whisper-light conditions. 

Gust: Short bursts of higher wind speed can be much different than the wind forecast. Ignoring the gust forecast is disregarding an excellent indicator of what the highest winds might be. Comparing wind and gust forecasts is a gauge of volatility: the larger the difference between them, the less stable conditions are.

Waves: Sea state affects comfort on board more than wind. Unfortunately, sea-state forecasts require the most experience to conjure an interpretation. Wave forecasts predict height, direction and period. Height is not the maximum size but rather the average significant height. Waves forecast to be 6 feet can have a 1-in-1,000 wave that is 10 feet. 

Forecasts don’t quite ­capture the “real-feel” out there. Prediction algorithms don’t account for local factors such as coastal topography and bottom contours that amplify size, compress period, or make sea state erratic and confused. Multidirection sea states are common offshore but don’t make GRIB forecasts either. To better interpret wave forecasts, consider the things that push and shove water out of pattern. 

Current: Along the coast, tide charts are useful for routing with a speed advantage. Ocean currents are often forgotten about, their forecasts underutilized. Ocean currents are often irregular and shifty, but they are worth identifying to route for efficiency and avoid uncomfortable sea states created by conflicting flows of wind and current. 

Rain: A GRIB rain forecast indicates if it’s time to dust off the foul-weather gear. It has more value as a gauge of volatility. Rain is indicated by inches or millimeters per hour. High rainfall tends to be part of volatile weather conditions.

CAPE: This is an acronym for convective available potential energy. It’s a measure of atmospheric instability, such as thunderstorms and squalls. A high CAPE index doesn’t guarantee their formation but indicates their intensity.  

Cloud: A GRIB cloud forecast is a good indicator of visibility when sailing at night with little moonlight. It also might highlight an area of volatile weather such as a frontal system or trough. 

Indexing: Using a single GRIB model might show the best forecast available. It also might show the worst. Looking at multiple GRIB models sets up a problem: When they differ, how do you know which has the better prediction? I’ve listened in on some group-think weather ­discussions where a participant pushed a particular forecast. Turns out that this GRIB best fit their schedule, so they wanted it to be true. That’s gambling. A better method to follow is what I call indexing the models. 

The idea is simple. Study the GRIB models you have available. When they all agree on conditions, the real weather is likely to be as forecast. When they don’t agree, watch the real weather and make a note of which models trend closest to reality. A pattern will emerge. If you sail to a different region or slide into a different season, then re-index because the most accurate model might change. There might not be a single winner, but one model might be better for wind and gusts, and another for the rain or CAPE. When we crossed the Indian Ocean, PredictWind’s PWE was best by far for wind, GFS was best for rain and CAPE forecasts, and ECMWF was the best read of sea state. It took a little more work to download and view them all, but it made for a sweet trip across a lively ocean.

Just as it’s important to start with multiple GRIB models, it’s best to use multiple forecast resources when facing challenging passages. GRIBs give us convenient information anytime or anywhere, but always remember that you are the forecaster. If that makes you uncomfortable, consider the aid of a professional meteorologist to interpret the data for you. Hiring a weather router is a smart way to start cruising with better weather information, while learning in the process. Just don’t complain when results are imperfect! It’s a tall order to predict the future.

Jamie Gifford is a sailmaker, and along with his wife, Behan, provides coaching to fledgling cruisers. The Giffords have completed one eight-year circumnavigation aboard their Stevens 47 Totem, and are about to set off across the Pacific again. You can follow their travels at cruisngworld.com/sailing-totem.

The post How to Read and Interpret GRIB Weather Files appeared first on Cruising World.

Every spring, the US Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland, sends out dozens of plebes on its beautiful dark-blue Navy 44 sloops to do a “Delmarva”—a circumnavigation of the shrimp-shaped peninsula that divides Chesapeake and Delaware bays, and is shared by Delaware, Maryland and Virginia.

This 400-or-so-mile circuit covers the entire length of both bays and includes a 150-mile offshore passage between the two, a “little loop” that the Navy sails nonstop in about three days. The route offers round-the-clock training exercises in leadership and command, boat systems, navigation, safety-at-sea, and watch-standing protocols in all kinds of weather.

Local sailors like this challenge too. Since fun should be part of the journey, I took a leisurely 10 days to sail the Delmarva in my own boat, a 1983 Island Packet 26 named Bearboat, which gave my two crewmembers and me time to explore some wonderful places along the way. We started in early May, just a week before the Academy flotilla set sail in what they dub the “Fogmarva,” due to the risk of fog this time of year.

As the Navy recognizes, this is a serious journey for any sailor, with plenty of big-enough water. Our voyage coincided with the onset of a Greenland Block—a stalled northern high-pressure system that pushes the jet stream south and blankets the East Coast with strong, cold Canadian air. We had gale- or near-gale-force winds for well over half the trip, initially from the south. The howling wind and long fetch straight up the Chesapeake produced some of the biggest waves I’ve encountered on the bay: 5 feet with short wave periods, which is a lot for the narrow northern section. 

Delaware Bay is often a tough slog too; the route is long enough to ensure opposing wind and tide, much of it in restricted waters. It’s generally quite shallow and has lots of big commercial-shipping traffic. Unlike Chesapeake Bay, it has rocks and almost no harbors of refuge. To our surprise, the open ocean turned out to be the smoothest part of the entire trip.

This was the second Delmarva I’ve done in Bearboat, which had just received several major repairs and upgrades. Most important were a rebuilt diesel and quick-­setting single-line reefing system because we sailed under single or double reef almost all the time.

As I did on my first Delmarva, I sailed the loop clockwise to take maximum advantage of the west-to-southwest prevailing winds. I prefer to go in May to avoid late-winter cold fronts and early-summer heat waves. Because my boat does not have radar, I timed the overnight coastal passage to the full moon to take advantage of the light. Two crew came along: Mike Koleda, former owner of a wooden lobster boat, and Mark Burosh, an ex-Marine and now a professional fly-fishing guide with commercial marine experience. 

Aptly enough, since Bearboat’s home port is Galesville, Maryland, we cast off in a gale. Our first day was just a two-hour sail north to Annapolis because the morning was spent with final packing and a thorough boat briefing. 

The storm had canceled a big sailboat race out of Annapolis that day, so we had lots of room to tie up inside Ego Alley, downtown’s famous and usually crowded narrow harbor inlet. Rain, strong southerlies and a near-full moon had flooded the banks. A flotilla of ducks paddled over the submerged harborside parking lot. Because Mark had never seen Annapolis, we set off to explore the US Naval Academy’s campus—especially Bancroft Hall (with 33 acres of floor space, it’s the largest dormitory in the world) and the Academy’s fleet of Navy 44s docked in the sailing basin.

Breakfast was at Chick and Ruth’s Delly, the oldest eatery in the historic district, a palace among greasy spoons, and a magnet for local color. Afterward we suited up in our foulies and motored out into a southeast gale. It was a daylong roller-­coaster ride up the bay under heavily reefed sails. 

In between squalls, we passed under the soaring double spans of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, and watched the smokestacks and office towers of Baltimore pass by to port up the Patapsco River. 

Chesapeake Bay narrows as you go north, forcing recreational boats into the deep commercial shipping lane that hugs the Eastern Shore. Just past Poole’s Island, the channel tightens and bears northeast, which put us in the lee of the Eastern Shore, settling the ride a bit. By midafternoon we entered the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal, the northern boundary of the Delmarva Peninsula, and were soon tied up at the Chesapeake City town dock, tired but happy that both boat and crew had passed a tough early test. 

My little Island Packet is a strongly built boat, and—properly handled—loves a gale, but these conditions were a bit unsettling to Koleda at first. “When I was at the helm looking up at the wave crests going by, I was starting to wonder what we were doing out there,” he said later over a beer. He’d get used to heavy weather.

The C&D Canal is a 14-mile-long sea-level connection between Chesapeake and Delaware bays and one of the busiest waterways in the nation, carrying about 40 percent of the commercial marine traffic to and from Baltimore. It can be a dangerous place: Currents are deceptively strong, fog will shut it down, and various fatal accidents have occurred here over the years.

We left early the next day, motoring under several bridges and pushed along by a cold westerly near-gale. The canal exits to the grim industrial landscape of the Delaware River: Boiling clouds of steam gush from the hulking Salem nuclear power plant on the far shore. Huge pylons and power lines snake across the water, and refineries dominate the shoreline upstream. Turning north, we motored through yet another rain squall to the nearby entrance of Delaware City and the long floating dock of the town’s marina.

We had come to visit Pea Patch Island and Fort Delaware State Park, a little-known Civil War-era fort and prison in the middle of the Delaware River. Just half a mile offshore, the fort is in surprisingly good condition and has excellent displays of what life was like there. The fort held more than 40,000 Confederate prisoners of war (including almost all Southern troops captured at Gettysburg), and is well worth a visit.

We cast off at dawn the next day—our first without rain—and began winding our way down Delaware Bay, edging just outside the buoys to dodge the occasional gasoline barge, container ship or liquefied-natural-gas tanker.

A somewhat dicey passage begins in Delaware Bay below the nuclear plant: The channel narrows sharply along rocky ledges, marked by the Ship John Shoal and Elbow of the Cross Ledge lighthouses. It can be a tight squeeze—Elbow light was hit by ships so many times, its keepers slept in life jackets.

Almost all outbound private boats head for Cape May, the northern entrance to Delaware Bay, but we were going to the smaller town of Lewes (pronounced LEW-iss) and Cape Henlopen on the southern shore. The town’s narrow harbor is reached via the Lewes and Rehoboth Canal, and its gateway can’t be missed: A huge wind turbine marks the spot. A sharp turn to port on entering takes you down a long channel to the harbor, with an immaculate town marina and park on the south side next to the bright-red Lightship Overfalls museum. The town’s small but charming historic district, just two blocks from the dock, has wonderful architecture, great shops and excellent restaurants.

Early the next morning—our first clear and dry day— Koleda reprovisioned the boat while Burosh and I rented bikes to explore nearby Cape Henlopen State Park. This area was Fort Miles artillery base during World War II, part of the coastal-defense system. Today, the park offers 6 miles of pristine Atlantic beaches, nature trails and campgrounds, Army barracks and artillery displays, and an original observation tower you can climb.

By noon we returned to the boat, topped off the tanks at Lewes Harbor Marina, and headed back out to sea. Riding a peak ebb tide before a crisp northwest wind, we flew around the tip of Cape Henlopen, bound for Chesapeake Bay.

On my first Delmarva, I kept about 10 miles offshore on this leg, but this time followed the charted 3-mile line down the coast. This was the day the Greenland Block finally ­dissolved, and as the wind clocked lightly ahead, we rolled up the genoa and chugged comfortably down the shoreline in gentle 2-foot seas. For trips like this, I cook up one-dish meals that are vacuum-bagged and frozen, then simply reheated in a pot of boiling water. Just as the fading sun slipped into an orange horizon, a fat, full and stunningly white moon rose to port. We celebrated with a delicious hot stir-fry.

It’s always magical being at sea in the moonlight, and for me, it’s a rare privilege to bear witness to the slow passage of a complete celestial night. The moon, with bright Jupiter just to the west, provided easy headings to follow as they slowly arced across Bearboat’s bow and rigging. There was little traffic during our cold four-hour shifts, and the off watch below was rocked softly to sleep by soothing Atlantic swells.

At dawn the next day, approaching the distinctive skeleton tower of Cape Charles Light at the northern entrance to Chesapeake Bay, we were greeted with a surprise—in the ­shimmering early-morning sunlight there was a sudden, ­confusing appearance of a strange-looking orange-and-white freighter ahead. It turned out to be an optical illusion, showing a much-distorted entrance to the Chesapeake Bay ­Bridge-Tunnel just over the horizon. 

We re-entered Chesapeake Bay through the North Channel span of the Bay Bridge-Tunnel, a convenient passage for boats with less than 75 feet of air draft. This allowed us to quickly round the cape and make landfall at Cape Charles City, just up the Eastern Shore.

Cape Charles City was the once-prosperous railhead for all ferryboat traffic between the tip of the Delmarva Peninsula and Norfolk, Virginia. It was bypassed when the 23-mile-long Bay Bridge-Tunnel opened in 1964. It’s still a bit of a ghost town (especially the rusting railyard) but is slowly coming back. For cruisers, the main attractions are Cape Charles Yacht Center and Kelly’s Gingernut Pub, set in a beautifully restored old bank.

The next morning, as another storm blew in, we headed north toward an even more isolated part of the bay: Tangier Island, the last inhabited offshore island in Virginia. This hardworking community of watermen descends from original settlers from Cornwall in the 1770s, and residents still speak in a unique “orphan dialect” of British and Southern accents. This small, deeply religious community is fighting to survive: With high ground only 4 feet above water and flooding increasingly common, scientists say the entire island is destined to be lost to rising sea levels.

Early the next morning, we set off on a long northwesterly passage toward the Western Shore. This route took us past Smith Island (Maryland’s last inhabited offshore island) and the Hannibal—the last live-fire target ship on the Chesapeake, scuttled on a sandbar and riddled by Navy aircraft.

Late that afternoon, we entered the Patuxent River, ­watching jets and helicopters buzz around the massive Naval air base on the south side of the waterway. On the north side is the narrow entrance to Solomon’s Island, an excellent hurricane hole, home to some of the best marinas on the Chesapeake and one of the top cruising destinations midbay. Just as we arrived, a strong northerly windstorm set in, delaying our final run for home.

When the blow passed, we started the last 40-mile leg due north up the midbay. This route has some interesting landmarks: Cove Point Lighthouse, the huge Cove Point LNG dock, Calvert Cliffs nuclear plant and a Navy radar base. This is a popular stretch for striper and perch fishing, so we had to dodge lots of charter boats. By midafternoon, we reentered the West River and backed into Bearboat’s slip in Galesville, safely closing the loop.

A circumnavigation of the Delmarva peninsula has plenty to offer sailors. As the Navy knows, it’s a serious test of seamanship; for cruisers, it’s a challenging circuit you can do in a week or so. And it’s a great way to explore one of the nation’s best cruising grounds and meet some wonderful people—such as the funny-but-tough-as-nails waitresses at Chick and Ruth’s; Tim Konkus, the incredibly helpful owner of Delaware City Marina, who gave his storm-stranded mariners an excellent weather briefing; and Milton Parks, the owner of Tangier Island’s Parks Marina, and a legendary retired waterman.

But perhaps the best parts are being able to go for a long sail in varied conditions; putting the boat, skipper and crew to the test; and making “local” a bigger place.

Based in Washington, D.C., Stephen Blakely sails his Island Packet 26, Bearboat, throughout the mid-Atlantic coast.

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Gasoline-powered ­outboard engines have been in production for more than 100 years, and these days, they can be found aboard nearly every cruising sailboat afloat. Most often, they are used to zip around in a dinghy, although on smaller vessels, they can also be used as the main propulsion for the mothership. Relegated to the rail when not in use, the average outboard is usually a little neglected, if not slightly abused.

Whether you have a ­two-stroke or a four-stroke, a 2.5 hp or a 25 hp, all outboards consists of two main parts: the power head and the lower leg, sometimes called the lower unit. The power head, which is protected by a removable cowl, is the engine itself. The lower leg extends from the power head down into the water, and it contains a lower gearbox unit and propeller, as well as the water intake used to cool the motor. 

The best way to service an outboard is to hang it on an outboard stand, giving full and easy access to all aspects of the engine. Trying to service an outboard while it hangs on the rail or on the back of a dinghy can be messy, if not downright difficult. In the boatyard, we made a rudimentary outboard stand by lashing a 2-by-4 to a piece of scaffolding.

Power-Head Service and Inspection

Removing the outboard cowl and confronting the power head can be daunting, but getting to know how your outboard functions is important. Doing regular inspections and being able to diagnose minor problems will extend the life of your outboard. Forget about this task being on the “blue list” of chores, every crewmember who uses the dinghy should have knowledge of how the motor runs and how to fix it. And your outboard will benefit from routine maintenance, either at regular intervals if cruising year-round, or at the end of each season when the sailboat is laid up.

Begin by draining the fuel. First, fill a large bucket with clean, fresh water, and place the lower leg in the bucket so that the water intake is submerged. By using fresh ­water, you are also cleaning salt residue from the water-cooling system while draining the fuel.

Next, remove the cowl and locate the fuel hose. Detach the fuel hose and drain any gas into a container. 

If the outboard has a small inline fuel filter, either clean the screen or, for disposable filters, replace it completely.

Start the engine with the fuel hose detached, and run it until it stops. This will burn all the remaining fuel in the engine. Then loosen the fuel-bowl drain screws, and empty any remaining fuel from the carburetor bowl. Reattach the fuel hose and fuel bowl. With the power head emptied of fuel, it is time to inspect the engine for wear, rust and corrosion.

Clean and wipe any ­residual salt from the cowling. Carefully wipe the engine free of dirt, dust and salt. Make note of any corrosion on screw heads or wires, and replace as necessary.

Slowly pull the start cord all the way out, and check for chafe. If there are weak points close to the pull handle, shorten the cord by pulling the chafed cord through the handle and retying. Chafe farther up the pull cord might require replacing the cord completely. Remove the spark plugs, and inspect for carbon or oil buildup. Replace plugs that are fouled.

Lower-Leg Service

The first thing to do on the lower leg, once the engine is on a stand, is to inspect and remove the propeller. Check the prop for dings and bent blades. A minor bend can be straightened and dings can be filed out, but major damage will necessitate replacing your propeller.

To remove the propeller, first remove the cotter pin. If the outboard does not have a cotter pin, check to see if it is missing or if it is simply one of the few models that doesn’t include one.

Unscrew the prop nut. It is usually a castellated nut, named so because it has several cutouts in the outside edge, making it look like the turret of a castle. The slots capture the cotter pin, which further prevents the prop nut and propeller from spinning off. If a bit more traction is needed to free the nut, block the prop with a piece of wood so there is something to push against.

Clean the old grease off the propeller hub, and inspect the splines for wear. Badly worn splines will cause slippage; replace if there is excessive wear. Inspect the rubber hub bushing in the center of the prop. Check for any deformities or signs that the rubber is beginning to deteriorate. This rubber bushing is what absorbs the shock when switching gears or when the prop hits something. Once the bushing is damaged, the propeller blades will no longer spin at the correct speed, if at all. It is no longer economical to install a new bushing in modern outboard propellers; any wear or damage found here requires fitting a new propeller.

Remove and inspect the shaft seal guard, if there is one. Things such as fishing line often get wrapped around the shaft seal and remain undetected during normal use. Any damage to the shaft guard will allow seawater into your gearbox and, if not found, could cause major damage. Replace the shaft seal if wear or damage is found.

Check the anodes and intake grates. Outboards are water-cooled, and grates need to be free of growth to allow maximum water flow. Try using an old toothbrush to free the fine grates of growth. Badly corroded anodes should be replaced. Clean and inspect bonding wires and the shift linkage for corrosion. Outboards under 3 hp might not have either of these components because they are often direct drive.

Changing Leg Oil

The next step is to drain and replace the leg oil. Have a container ready to catch the used oil, and make sure you dispose of it properly. Some manufacturers use different terms to mark the “Oil” and “Oil Level,” so check the owner’s manual for particulars.

Loosen the lower screw marked Oil, and empty the fluid into a container. To increase the flow, loosen the upper screw marked Oil Level. Depending on the brand, leg oil might be dyed or, after use, black. However, used oil should not be milky or cloudy. Milky oil indicates there is water leaking in through the shaft seal. Over time this can cause rust to form inside the lower leg. Replacing the shaft seal immediately will prevent possible irreparable damage.

Filling the leg oil is usually done from the bottom, and leg-oil containers are specially designed to make this seemingly awkward task easy. Have a container and rag handy for overflow, and be ready to work quickly. Carefully insert the oil container nozzle into the Oil opening and squeeze gently, making sure the upper Oil Level screw is slightly loose. When the oil begins to flow out of the Oil Level ­opening, tighten the upper screw. Remove the leg-oil container and replace the lower Oil screw.

Assemble the Propeller

Reassembling the propeller is simply the opposite of the disassembly process. Grease the clean splines and seal guard with waterproof grease. We’ve found that Lanocote, an environmentally friendly grease made from sheep lanolin, is a popular choice.

Slide on the propeller and prop washer, and screw on the castellated nut, lining up a slot in the nut with the hole for the cotter pin. Insert a new cotter pin and bend the ends.

The final step in servicing the lower leg is to fill all grease points, also referred to as zerk fittings. Most outboards have one or two zerk fittings on the lower leg. Using a grease gun, fill grease points with outboard leg grease until the fittings start to overflow. Wipe up any excess grease.

Tank Care

If your engine doesn’t have a built-in fuel tank, take time to look at the external one and fuel line, including the bulb and connections. Inexpensive fuel hoses tend to harden with extended UV exposure, and the pressure bulb can split. Check hose clamps and connection for rust, tighten any loose fittings, and replace any clamps that are ­damaged. High-quality fuel-hose replacements can be very ­difficult to find outside the US, so carry a spare. 

Inspect the fuel tank for sun damage, splits and brittle plastic. Also inspect the ­fill-cap gasket. Gasoline is corrosive, and a damaged gasket can let gasoline leak out while carrying the tank and allow water to enter when the tank is in the dinghy.

Long-Term Storage

Prepping an engine for long-term storage is ­something most sailors will have to do eventually. After preforming the basic service outlined above, there are a few more steps to take to properly prepare your outboard if it will be in storage for more than a few weeks.

The most important thing to do, especially when storing an outboard, is to remove all the fuel from the engine. Modern fuel is a complex mixture of refined petroleum and additives designed to lubricate and protect your engine while it runs. Unfortunately, those additives have a short shelf life—modern fuel starts to break down in approximately eight weeks.

Unused fuel left in an outboard is the No. 1 cause of engines acting up. As the fuel degrades, the additives separate, forming a lacquerlike substance that will quickly block small fittings and jets, causing an outboard to misfire, idle poorly or fail to start at all. There are fuel stabilizers on the market; however, they are just more additives and chemicals. The easiest way to ensure that an outboard will start when taken out of storage is simply to properly drain the fuel, as outlined above.

Next, it’s time to fog the engine. Fogging uses a water-­repelling oil-based product to coat the internal working parts of the outboard. Sprayed as a heavy mist or fog into the air intake while the outboard is running, it prevents corrosion from forming inside the engine while it is out of service. There are purpose-designed products marketed for engine fogging, but for those of us down-island, an alternative appropriate for both two- and four-stroke engines is a spray bottle filled with two-stroke oil.

While running the engine to drain the fuel, spray the fogging mist or two-stroke oil into the air intake at the carburetor for five to seven seconds. As the engine runs, the oil is circulated through the interior parts of the power head, lubricating and protecting the outboard. Fogging sprays have a high oil content, so expect to see some smoke.

After the outboard has run out of fuel and cooled off, remove the spark plugs. Spray the fogging mist or oil directly into the spark-plug hole, slowly pulling the start cord a couple of times to make sure the oil is well-distributed on the pistons, rings and cylinder walls. Replace the spark plugs, making sure to put a dab of anti-seize grease on the threads. Spray the exterior of the engine lightly and wipe off any excess.

Outboards are best stored in an upright position, but when space is tight, they can be laid down for long-term storage. Usually outboards are stored with the tiller arm facing down so that no damage is done to the more-delicate gear-shift lever. Check the owner’s manual, or there might be a sticker on the side of the outboard indicating the manufacturer’s recommended position. Wrapping your outboard in an old piece of sail cloth or sail bag will prevent any cosmetic damage while moving it in and out of tight storage areas.

Like any piece of equipment, a little attention and regular care will extend the life of your engine. Performing a basic service to an outboard is not difficult, and properly preparing your engine for extended storage will ensure that you’ll be ready for your next adventure on the first pull.

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

A Filter and a Meter

Bad gas is probably the No. 1 cause of outboard problems. Unfortunately, it can be difficult to get clean fuel in many countries outside the US. Filtering fuel through a Baja filter when filling the dinghy tank is the first line of defense, but installing an inline fuel filter/water trap will further guarantee that your outboard will run smoothly, no matter where you buy your gas.

An hour meter is simple to install and is the most reliable way to record how long the engine has been run. Knowing engine hours makes service intervals easier to track, and when it comes time to sell up, there will be firm information about your engine’s use.

Tools for the Outboard

A new outboard comes equipped with a small toolkit, but if you don’t have the luxury of buying new, it’s a smart idea to put together a kit of your own for those unexpected breakdowns far from shore. Placed in a small waterproof bag, these tools may find a home in the dinghy or even fit under the cowl without disrupting the regular operation of the outboard, and will always be on hand when you need them.

Essentials and a few handy extras include:

• Spark-plug wrench
• Extra spark plugs to suit your engine (check manufacturers’ recommendations for proper model number and gap measurements)
• Spare pull cord
• Ratchet and sockets to fit all nuts
• Combo screwdriver
• Spare cotter pin
• Pliers
• Electrical tape
• WD40, small can

The post How to Service an Outboard Engine appeared first on Cruising World.

In the past decade, drones have completely revolutionized how we see sailing. Just a handful of years ago, capturing airborne images of a sailing yacht, a regatta or a harbor was exclusively the domain of professional photographers or well-heeled amateurs who could afford a helicopter and were equipped with a pricey long-lens camera to capture the moment.

Now, literally millions of people around the world carry a small, unmanned drone that can be easily launched into the sky and commanded to take photos and video; some even have the ability to distribute these images live onto social media. Due to the nature of sailing and the constantly changing seascape in which it takes place, being able to achieve this aerial perspective is invaluable to telling the story of a cruise or racing yacht and its crew, and the places and conditions in which it travels.

With the recent proliferation of drones, most sailors have undoubtedly seen or heard a drone buzzing around their boat or marina at some point. And many of us probably have a friend who owns a drone and has a good crash story. As an experienced, commercially licensed drone pilot and drone enthusiast, time and again I’ve heard a variation of this tale: “I got a drone once, and I wrecked it the first day. I decided that drones are not for me.”

To which I say: Imagine if you went for a sail once, with no experience and no proper instruction, and had a mishap while docking and decided that sailing just wasn’t for you. Don’t sell yourself short. Owning and operating a drone is far easier and more practical than many sailors think.

Getting Started

With about a thousand bucks, or less, and just a bit of practice, you too can capture beautiful high-resolution videos and photos of your boat at anchor or under sail in no time. For less than the price of the smallest, cheapest sail on your boat, you can have a device that has the potential to deliver incredible imagery that can allow you to share your sailing adventures with your friends and loved ones, add value to the eventual for-sale listing of your boat, and capture that incredible image of your boat as a gift or focal piece in your home.

Commercially available drone technology has improved by leaps and bounds since the original drones began to hit the market several years ago. Now, as then, one company has established itself as a leader in the industry and gained the lion’s share of the market: DJI. When this Chinese-based company first released the Phantom series of drones, they completely revolutionized sailing media and photography almost overnight. While there are several other reputable drone-makers on the market, virtually every single licensed professional drone pilot I have worked with (including myself) relies on DJI products. Disclaimer: I am not sponsored or paid by DJI in any way (but I wouldn’t be opposed to it!).

One of the first pieces of advice I can offer is to not buy a knockoff drone or the cheapest one you can find online. Like most things, you truly do get what you pay for. In the past couple of years, a number of DJI Mavic-like clones, oftentimes for crazy-low prices ($90, shipped), have popped up on the market. If you ever actually receive your drone, you will almost undoubtedly be disappointed in the product. My first drone was a cheap one, about $200; it was a liability and somewhat likely to crash itself or create some type of drama nearly every time I flew it. Operating off a boat? Forget about it. One of the best moves I made was to upgrade to my first DJI Mavic Pro drone, which now retails for under a grand. Overnight, my drone game was elevated significantly from the $200 beginner model.

When operating around boats and the water, turning off all of the auto and safety features is almost universally agreed upon by any experienced drone pilot. If you launch from a moving boat, for example, the drone will oftentimes try to “return to home” and land at its point of takeoff when the battery drops to a certain percentage. This can obviously be catastrophic when flying from a moving boat. Also, returning for a landing is usually met with resistance because the drone won’t want to come within several meters of the boat and its rigging, making landing impossible. Turning off all the safety and auto sensors also improves battery life and performance.

Before launching off a boat, it is quite critical to become familiar with your drone and how it operates and handles. A wide-open grassy space with no other people, trees or ­structures is ideal. Concrete and steel structures (e.g., ­buildings) in particular wreak havoc on the compass of a drone. When going through the drone’s initial setup, “swinging” the compass—just like on a sailboat’s autopilot—is one of the first required steps. This is best done in a grassy field or at least 50 yards away from your house, and definitely not on a hard, paved surface.

Once you have practiced and feel confident in operating your drone—having practiced launching and retrieving it by hand—it’s time to move on to the boat. A drone with legs, such as the DJI Phantom series, is the undisputed champion of boat-based ­operations. Due to its portability, however, DJI’s Mavic line of drones has become increasingly popular. Though these Mavic drones are less ideal to catch on a moving boat, it is doable, and it was interesting to see that several of the top onboard reporters in the recent Brest Atlantiques race were using Mavic 2’s. Aftermarket 3D-printed ­handles, or homemade ­versions, can make the task of catching a Mavic easier; online research is very helpful.

Useful Tips

During retrieval, but especially during launching, anything that can be done to reduce the apparent wind is helpful. When launching off a moving boat going upwind, I generally ask the main trimmer to ease the mainsail and the helmsman to luff up and slow down the boat. Once the drone is away, the helmsman simply falls back off and the main is retrimmed. The one drone that I lost was off the famous 70-foot racing sled Merlin, and it was entirely my fault. I tried to get the drone away without disrupting the team’s racing; had I communicated with the skipper, I would have known that they had one more tack before the mark. I easily could have gotten the drone away at that point. The major lesson learned in that loss of a really nice Phantom 4 was to always be hyperaware of launching off the leeward side of a fast boat going upwind; the turbulence, or “dirty air,” in the lee of the mainsail sent my drone straight into the drink. Launching while sailing downwind tends to be easier because the boat is generally flatter and apparent wind speeds are reduced. Once the drone is out of my hand, I like to immediately throttle it up and away from the boat.

Learning to fly a drone is just one part of the equation when becoming a drone pilot. It is important to ­remember that you are acting as an unmanned aerial vehicle pilot, and that you are subject to all kinds of local, state and federal laws. First and foremost, you must register your new drone with the Federal Aviation Administration for $5 per drone per year and comply with all relevant laws; for more information, visit the FAA website (faa.gov). Beyond that, the internet is an incredible ­resource to learn more, and there are also several good apps, such as the FAA’s B4UFly app, which can help you determine what is legal (and not) based on your location. As well, the DJI drones tend to have basic built-in-knowledge tests and features that will warn of local no-fly zones and restrictions. In many cases, a new DJI drone won’t even take off or fly in prohibited areas.

Once you have gained some drone experience, people might ask you to take drone shots or videos for them. While no license is required to fly a drone as a hobbyist, a license is required before conducting any commercial activity. Should you decide to fly your drone in exchange for money—for real estate agents, home inspectors, a yacht-racing team or anyone else—you will need to become a commercial drone pilot. Doing so is less difficult than you might think. Take an online course, watch some YouTube study guides, and head to your local FAA-approved knowledge-­testing center, which is usually at your nearest flight school. The fee for taking the test is $150, and the license is free. Welcome to the world of drones, where the sky is ­literally the limit.

Ronnie Simpson is a sailing-media professional who has put his commercial drone pilot license to work while covering major events, including the Transpac, the Rolex Sydney-Hobart Race, the Pacific Cup and Fiji’s Musket Cove Regatta. A veteran long-distance racer and frequent contributor to Cruising World, he is now based in Fiji.

Your Eye in the Sky

Choosing a drone is just like choosing a boat. You can spend virtually as much or as little as you wish, and what might be right for someone else might not be right for you, and vice versa. As a commercial drone pilot who frequently gets paid to film and photograph boats under sail, I am oftentimes launching off moving boats and am especially partial to the DJI Phantom series of drones. While covering the 2019 Transpac and 2019 Sydney-Hobart Race, every single drone I saw in the sky was a Phantom 4, including my own pair of them (though I never flew both at once, which is illegal).

They were out of production for approximately a year (from late 2018 until late 2019), but DJI’s supply-line issues have apparently been sorted out, and the DJI Phantom 4 Pro Version 2.0 was again back on the market earlier this year. If you are shooting off moving sailboats, this is the king of drones. However, at a starting price of over $1,700 for a new Phantom 4 Pro V2.0, it’s not cheap. That said, there is a strong secondhand market of Phantom 4’s and Phantom 3’s. As mentioned in the story, the legs of the Phantom 4 drone are arguably the model’s greatest quality; catching them off a moving boat is a breeze.

While the Phantom is the king of commercial-boat-based drone use, DJI’s Mavic series is the company’s bestseller. Portable, powerful and easy to fly, the Mavic is the go-to drone for most pilots. I still own two Mavic Pros and almost always have one in my backpack; unless I’m working from a boat, my Mavic is the workhorse. Ranging from the Mavic Mini ($399) to the Mavic Air ($919), and all the way up to the Mavic Pro ($1,149) and Mavic 2 ($1,729), one can spend as much or as little as they wish, and it’s quite easy to see where the money goes in each ascending level.

With the newly released Mavic Mini (above) at under $400, the incentive to purchase a $99 no-name knockoff or a cheaper alternative brand for a couple hundred bucks is less and less appealing. In my personal experience and that of my many friends who fly drones, many of us have tried different brands, but virtually all of us have settled on DJI drones. Like the Phantom drones, there is a massive secondhand market for Mavic drones, as well as the tiny DJI Spark. And remember, along with the drone, you will want a good smartphone. Unless you opt for an expensive controller that includes its own screen, your smartphone will permit you to see what you are filming and where you are going.

Happy flying!

The post How to Use a Drone on a Sailboat appeared first on Cruising World.

You know the old saying, “The more things change, the more they stay the same”? As a judge for the 2020 Boat of the Year (BOTY) competition at this past fall’s US Sailboat Show in Annapolis, Maryland, I helped inspect and test-sail 22 brand-new current-model sailboats. And I came away thinking, Man, these aren’t the boats I grew up on. In the case of new boats, the saying is wrong: “Nothing stays the same.”

OK, sure, today’s boats still have masts and sails, and the monohulls still have keels. But comparing the Hinckley Bermuda 40, considered by many to be one of the most beautiful and seaworthy boats of the 1960s, ’70s and even ’80s, with, say, the Beneteau First Yacht 53, which debuted at the show, is pretty much apples and oranges.

To get a better sense of what has happened to yacht design, boatbuilding and equipment over the past three, four or even six decades, let’s take a closer look.

Design Dilemmas

At the risk of oversimplification, since the fiberglass era began in the late 1940s and ’50s, the design of midsize and full-size yachts has transitioned from the Cruising Club of America rules, which favored all-around boats (racers had to have comfortable interiors) with moderate beam and long overhangs, to a succession of racing rules such as the IOR, IMS and IRC. All of them dictated proportions, and each required a measurer to determine its rating.

As frustration grew with each (no handicap rule is perfect), alternatives arose, such as the Performance Handicap Racing Fleet, which essentially based one’s handicap on past performance of the same boats in the same fleet. Also, one-design racing became more popular, which spread beyond identical small boats to full-size yachts, popularized in part by builders such as J/Boats and Carroll Marine. The ethos there was: Who cares about intricate rating rules? Let’s just go out and sail fast and have fun!

And that might best sum up the design briefs for the monohulls in this year’s BOTY competition: good all-around performance with comfortable, even luxurious accommodations. Gone are interiors that noted naval architect Robert Perry called “the boy’s cabin in the woods,” deeply influenced by stodgy British designers of the past century and their now-old-fashioned (though ­sea-friendly, one should note) concepts of a proper yacht, drawn and spec’d by the same guy who designed the hull, deck and rig. Today, dedicated European interior designers are specially commissioned to inject modernity, home fashion colors and textures, amenities, and more light—even dubiously large port lights in the topsides.

Overhangs, bow and stern, have virtually disappeared. Why? It seems largely a matter of style. Plus, the bonus of increased usable space below, not to mention a longer waterline length for a given length overall, which translates to more speed. Former naval architect for C&C Yachts and Hunter Marine, Rob Mazza, recalls that 19th-century pilot cutters and fishing schooners operating in offshore conditions generally had plumb bows, so in a sense, bow forms have come full circle.

Today’s boats are carrying their wide beam farther aft. Gone are the days of the cod’s head and mackerel tail. Wide, flat canoe bodies are decidedly fast off the wind, and might even surf, but they pay a comfort penalty upwind.

These boats have lighter displacement/length (D/L) ratios, which means flatter bottoms and less stowage and space for tanks. The Beneteau 53 has a D/L of 118, compared with the ­aforementioned Bermuda 40 of 373. Among entries in this year’s BOTY, the heaviest D/L belonged to the Elan Impression 45.1, with a D/L of 195. Recall that when Perry’s extremely popular Valiant 40 was introduced in 1975, the cruising establishment howled that its D/L of 267 was unsuitable for offshore sailing. My, how times have changed!

Perhaps more important, one must ask: “Have the requirements for a good, safe bluewater cruiser actually changed? Or are the majority of today’s production sailboats really best-suited for coastal cruising?”

The ramifications of lighter displacement don’t end there; designers must consider two types of stability: form and ultimate. As weight is taken out of the boat, beam is increased to improve form stability. And with tanks and machinery sometimes raised, ­ballast might have to be added and/or lowered to improve ultimate stability.

What else to do? Make the boat bigger all around, which also improves stability and stowage. Certainly the average cruising boat today is longer than those of the earlier decades, both wood and fiberglass. And the necessarily shallower bilges mean pumps must be in good shape and of adequate size. That’s not as immediate an issue with a deep or full keel boat with internal ballast and a deep sump; for instance, I couldn’t reach the bottom of the sump in our 1977 Pearson 365.

And how do these wide, shallow, lighter boats handle under sail? Like a witch when cracked off the wind. We saw this trend beginning with shorthanded offshore racers like those of the BOC Challenge round-the-world race in the early 1980s. As CW executive editor Herb McCormick, who has some experience in these boats, says, “They’ll knock your teeth out upwind.” But route planning allows designers to minimize time upwind, and cruisers can too…if you have enough room and distance in front of you. Coastal sailors, on the other hand, will inevitably find even moderate displacement boats more comfortable as they punch into head seas trying to make port.

A wide beam carried aft permits a number of useful advantages: the possibility of a dinghy garage under the cockpit on larger boats; easy access to a swim platform and a launched dinghy; and twin helms, which are almost a necessity for good sightlines port and starboard. Of course, two of anything always costs twice as much as one.

Some multihulls now have reverse bows. This retro styling now looks space-age. Very cool. But not everyone is sold on them. Canadian designer Laurie McGowan wrote in a Professional BoatBuilder opinion piece, “I saw through the fog of faddishness and realized that reverse bows are designed to fail—that is, to cause vessels to plunge when lift is required.” Mazza ­concurs: “Modern multihulls often have ­reverse stems with negative reserve buoyancy, and those are boats that really can’t afford to bury their bows.”

McGowan also cites another designer critiquing reverse bows for being noticeably wet and requiring alternative ground-­tackle arrangements. The latter also is problematic on plumb bows, strongly suggesting a platform or sprit to keep the anchor away from the stem.

Rigging Redux

If there was a boat in Annapolis with double lower shrouds, single uppers, and spreaders ­perpendicular to the boat’s centerline, I must have missed it. I believe every boat we sailed had swept-back spreaders and single lowers. An early criticism of extreme swept-back spreaders, as seen on some B&R rigs installed on Hunter sailboats, was that they prevented fully winging out the mainsail. The counter argument was that so many average sailors never go dead downwind in any case, and broad reaching might get them to their destinations faster anyway—and with their lunch sandwiches still in their stomachs.

That issue aside, the current rigging configuration may allow for better mainsail shape. But as Mazza points out, it’s not necessarily simple: “By sweeping the spreaders, the ‘transverse’ rigging starts to add fore-and-aft support to the midsection of the mast as well, reducing the need for the forward lowers. However, spreader sweep really does complicate rig tuning, especially if you are using the fixed backstay to induce headstay tension. Swept spreaders do make it easier to sheet non-overlapping headsails, and do better support the top of the forestay on fractional rigs.”

Certainly, the days of 150 ­percent genoas are over, replaced by 100 percent jibs that fit ­perfectly in the foretriangle, often as a self-tacker.

Another notable piece of rigging the judges found common was some form of lazy jacks or mainsail containment, from traditional, multiple lines secured at the mast and boom; to the Dutchman system with monofilament run through cringles sewn into the sail like a window blind; to sailmaker solutions like the Doyle StackPak. This is good news for all sailors, especially those who sail shorthanded on larger boats.

Construction Codas

Improvements in tooling—that is, the making of molds—are easily evident in today’s boats, particularly with deck details, and in fairness. That’s because many of today’s tools are designed with computer software that is extraordinarily accurate, and that accuracy is transferred flawlessly to big five-axis routers that sculpt from giant blocks of foam the desired shape to within thousandths of an inch. Gone are the days of lofting lines on a plywood floor, taken from a table of offsets, and then building a male plug with wood planks and frames. I once owned a 1960s-era sailboat, built by a reputable company, where the centerline of the cockpit was 7 degrees off the centerline of the deck—and they were one piece!

Additive processes, such as 3D printing, are quickly complementing subtractive processes like the milling described above. Already, a company in California has made a multipart mold for a 34-foot sailboat. Advantages include less waste materials.

Job training also has had an impact on the quality of fiberglass boats. There are now ­numerous schools across the country offering basic-skills training in composites that include spraying molds with gelcoat, lamination, and an introduction to vacuum bagging and infusion.

The patent on SCRIMP—­perhaps the first widely employed infusion process—has long ago expired, but many builders have adopted it or a similar process whereby layers of fiberglass are placed in the mold dry along with a network of tubes that will carry resin under vacuum pressure to each area of the hull. After careful placement, the entire mold is covered with a bag, a vacuum is drawn by a pump, and lines to the pot of resin are opened. If done correctly, the result is a more uniform fiberglass part with a more controlled glass-to-resin ratio than is achievable with hand lay-up. And as a huge bonus, there are no volatile organic compounds released into the workplace, and no need for expensive exhaust fans and ductwork. OSHA likes that, and so do the workers.

However, sloppy processes and glasswork can still be found on some new boats. Surveyor Jonathan Klopman—who is based in Marblehead, Massachusetts, but has inspected dozens, if not hundreds, of boats damaged by hurricanes in the Caribbean—tells me that he is appalled by some of the shoddy work he sees, such as balsa cores not vacuum-bagged to the fiberglass skins, resulting in delamination. But overall, I ­believe workmanship has improved, which is evident when you look behind backrests, inside lockers and into bilges, where the tidiness of glasswork (or lack thereof) is often exposed. Mechanical and electrical systems also have improved, in part due to the promulgation of standards by the American Boat & Yacht Council, and informal enforcement by insurance companies and surveyors.

We all know stainless steel isn’t entirely stainless, and that penetrations in the deck are potentially troublesome; allowing moisture to enter a core material, such as end-grain balsa, can have serious consequences. The core and fiberglass skins must be properly bonded and the kerfs not filled with resin. Beginning in the mid-1990s, some builders such as TPI, which built the early Lagoon cruising catamarans, began using structural adhesives, like Plexus, to bond the hull/deck joint rather than using dozens of metal fasteners. These methacrylate resins are now commonly used for this application and others. Klopman says it basically should be considered a permanent bond, that the two parts, in effect, become one. If you think a through-bolted hull/deck joint makes more sense because one could theoretically separate them for repairs, consider how likely that would ever be: not highly.

Fit-and-Finish

Wide transoms spawned an unexpected bonus; besides the possibility of a dinghy “garage” under the cockpit on larger boats, swim platforms are also possible. In more than one BOTY yacht, the aft end of the cockpit rotated down hydraulically to form the swim platform—pretty slick.

Teak decks are still around, despite their spurning for many years by owners who didn’t want the upkeep. In the 1960s and ’70s, they were considered a sign of a classy boat but fell from favor for a variety of reasons: maintenance, weight and threat of damaging the deck core (the bung sealant wears out and water travels down the fastener through the top fiberglass skin into the core). Specialty companies that supply builders, like Teakdecking Systems in Florida, use epoxy resin to bond their product to decks rather than metal fasteners. And the BOTY judges saw several synthetic faux-teak products that are difficult to distinguish from real teak—the Esthec installed on the Bavaria C50 being one example.

LPG tanks no longer have to be strapped to a stanchion or mounted in a deck box because decks now often incorporate molded lockers specifically designed for one or two tanks of a given size. To meet ABYC standards, they drain overboard. In tandem with these lockers, some boats also have placements or mounts for barbecues that are located out of the wind, obviating the common and exposed stern-rail mount.

Low-voltage LED lights are replacing incandescent bulbs in nearly all applications; ­improvements in technology have increased brightness (lumens), so some even meet requirements for the range of navigation lights. Advances in battery technology translate to longer life, and depending on type, faster charging. And networked digital switching systems for DC-power ­distribution also are becoming more common.

Last, I was surprised at how many expensive yachts exhibited at Annapolis had nearly the least-expensive toilets one can buy. Considering the grief caused by small joker valves and poorly sealed hand pumps, one would think builders might install ­systems that incorporate higher-quality parts or vacuum ­flushing, and eliminate the minimal hosing that famously permeate odors.

Dan Spurr is an author, editor and cruising sailor who has served on the staffs of Cruising World, Practical Sailor and Professional Boatbuilder. His many books include Heart of Glass, a history of fiberglass boatbuilding and boatbuilders.

Other Design Observations

Here are a few other (surprising) items gleaned from several days of walking the docks and sailing the latest models:

• Multihulls have gained acceptance, though many ­production models are aimed more at the charter trade than private ownership for solitary cruising. You’d have to have been into boats back in the ’60s and ’70s to remember how skeptical and alarmist the sailing establishment was of two- and three-hull boats: “They’ll capsize and then you’ll drown.” That myth has been roundly debunked. Back then, the only fiberglass-­production multihulls were from Europe, many from Prout, which exported a few to the US. There are still plenty of European builders, particularly from France, but South Africa is now a major player in the catamaran market.
• The French builders now own the world market, which of course includes the US. Other than Catalina, few US ­builders are making a similar impact. In terms of volume, Groupe Beneteau is the largest builder in the world, and they’ve expanded way beyond sailboats into powerboats, runabouts and trawlers.
• Prices seem to have outpaced inflation, perhaps because, like with automobiles, where everyone wants air conditioning, electric windows and automatic transmissions, today’s boats incorporate as standard equipment items that used to be optional. Think hot- and cold-pressure water, pedestal-wheel steering, and full suites of sailing instruments and autopilots.

The post Sailboat Design Evolution appeared first on Cruising World.

I’m walking down the street with a roll of new navigation charts under my arm, and it makes me smile like a drunken fool. The tight, heavy roll gives off the sour scent of new paper, telling me that I’ll soon be smelling the salty air of the sea.

I want to shout, sing, crow out this welling of joy. I want to call out to the woman with the kid hanging off one arm and a shopping bag on the other: “Hey! I’m going off to sea. Look at my new charts! Yes, I’m going sailing ­somewhere new!”

The thrill began as soon as I stepped into the map seller’s shop. The fact that I stepped through that door meant I was a sailor because no one else does business there. I told him my plans, the region of the world I wanted to see in paper and ink. Out came the catalogs, and we compared scale and coverage for the waters I’d planned to sail. I jotted down the numbers of the charts I wanted, and he went to the storeroom to retrieve my order. I browsed the bookshelves filled with almanacs and pilot guides, and admired brass instruments measuring time, humidity, and pressure and space—and I waited for my treasures to appear.

I had second thoughts when the map seller jotted up the total—Holy! I could buy new running rigging for that! Heavyweight, 50 percent cotton nautical-chart paper isn’t cheap, with each sheet big enough to paper your bulkhead. But the ink doesn’t run when the sea finds its way through an open hatch to douse the navigation station. Paper charts are so expensive that I’ve been forced to sell mine after a long voyage to pay for my flight home.

Then the map seller updated my charts, accounting for all the changes that had taken place in the physical sea while this chart lay waiting for me. With a fine-point violet pen, he noted changes in depths, buoys that had moved, and coordinates that might be off by a second or two. If there had been land reclaimed or new sea walls built, he would have glued an entire patch onto the chart, bringing it up to date. Then he rolled them tightly and wrapped them in protective paper, and finally I felt their precious weight tucked under my arm.

I bought a chart that shows an entire sea, its ratio 1-to-3,500,000, which means I’m going on a long voyage. Long enough for the weather to change, the waves to turn against me, and the sea to show its rage. We’ll lose sight of land for days and nights, and maybe even a week, just to get across this one chart. The harbor charts, 1-to-10,000, show me the rocks that the locals know by heart, the sandbanks and the curve of the jetty wall. These charts mean I’ll arrive in unfamiliar waters, where strange lights will wink at me in the night. I’ve bought the chart for that little port, this protected bay. I have charts for places I don’t plan to go—small insurances in case we don’t make it across the sea and must run and hide due to a broken spar, a storm that blows too hard.

It’s a dying thing, these lithographic charts. Most commercial ships don’t carry them anymore. Charter yachts no longer have a navigation table big enough to spread out a chart, or a designated cupboard to store them in. On my yacht, the paper charts are a back-back-backup plan for chart plotters, a handheld GPS and a smartphone. I’ve sailed many miles with only the glow of a digital screen to guide me—it worked out just fine. Chart plotters track your every mile, show you exactly where you are, and contain more chart information than you will ever need. Paper versus digital has been debated ad nauseam, and paper lost. I don’t need paper charts—just like I don’t need to write with a fountain pen or whistle when I walk through the park—but I buy them because they give me joy. They give me a joy that a zoomable, adjustable screen with endless functions can’t deliver.

I know that once at sea I’ll spend more time staring at my chart plotter than I will poring over my very expensive paper charts. But it’s a tactile thing. The snap of the rubber band that holds the roll together. The yesteryear quality of the paper. The ritual of unrolling them on my dining table at home, weighting down the paper and letting my finger trace the depth lines. Tiny squiggles and letters and numbers, each rich with meaning. The comforting palette of mustard yellow and pale blue with magenta highlights marking the traffic zones. Calibrating my brass divider on the left-hand side, and then dancing it across a clean chart like a ballerina twirling across the stage. The deliciously monumental first pencil mark, the first tiny X at a crucial waypoint. Carrying the charts in a cardboard tube as I board an airplane that will take me to a foreign port and a waiting boat.

It’s the little surprises I stumble upon while perusing a chart, seeing the entire coastline in one sweep of the eye. Finding out that there’s a beach on the far side of that peninsula. Spotting the rock that lies in wait just outside the fairway into the harbor. Intricate observations of the land, towers, steeples and cliffs. And the names you’d never been aware of before, the wakes left by captains and heroes passing centuries ago.

It’s the pleasure I get from reading the notes in the corner, warning me of whirlpools and shifting sandbanks. And, on the most often used charts, for familiar home waters, notes have been added over the years, marking good anchorages and fishing holes. Like when I borrowed a friend’s boat and sailed it in the Finnish waters he’s explored for 70 years. With the boat came his charts, marked with tiny X’s where he had anchored over the years. He requested that I mark my own spots, adding to his boat’s long narrative.

I enjoy sitting inside a cozy saloon after a long day of sailing, planning the next day’s voyage with a wee dram of rum for company. I pore over the precious sheets of paper, imagining what each mile will bring. I explore the coastline and poke into little coves and find they are too shallow for my yacht. I land on pebble beaches and slip through turbulent channels—the tip of my finger a prow that leaves a wake in my mind.

All of this is yet to come as I exit the map shop into the sunny, crisp afternoon air, the stiff roll of charts nestled under my arm. I feel jaunty with anticipation of the voyage to come, the romance of a sailor heading off to sea.

I can’t hide my smile, and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing. To the guy in the suit, on his phone, walking and talking like he owns the place, I want to shout: “Look how thick this roll of charts is! They cost me an arm and a leg, almost as much as your suit, but these charts mean I’m going sailing!”

Cameron Dueck is a sailor and writer, based in Hong Kong.

The post Point of View: Paper Chart Dreams appeared first on Cruising World.

Beneteau Oceanis 30.1

Of the five boats in this ­collection, the 31-foot-3-inch Beneteau Oceanis 30.1 was the compact yacht best-equipped and spec’d out as a dedicated cruising boat, and not coincidentally, it was also awarded the title of Best Performance Cruiser for 2020. But don’t let her cozy interior accommodations fool you; this is also one peppy little vessel.

One of the major appeals to the judging panel was the 30.1’s versatility. There are four different keel options, or a centerboard. The deck-stepped mast can be equipped with a tabernacle for easy lowering and trailering to a new locale, or for transiting canals. At $160,000, it was also the least-expensive offering in the category. The plusses just kept adding up.

The rig is a single-spreader fractional number with a square-top main, which maximizes power aloft in the sail plan. Our test boat had an overlapping genoa (with adjustable sheet leads) and an optional bowsprit; the standard version has a self-tacking 100 percent headsail. Twin wheels make handling simple, but for old-school dudes (like me), you can also get a tiller. That’s right, a tiller! The transom is complete with a little fold-down boarding step, along with a boarding ladder. At the opposite end, a Facnor headsail furler is stationed beside the Lewmar windlass. The overall attention to detail is terrific.

The Beneteau representative who presented the yacht to our judges said that the goal down below was “to fit a bigger boat in a smaller hull, to install a 35-foot interior in a 30-foot boat.” It was certainly an ambitious plan, and one that was largely successful. The V-berth forward is certainly impressive, and that aforementioned deck-stepped spar really opened up the space below, particularly the central saloon and dining area. At the foot of the companionway, the complete galley is to port and the enclosed head to starboard, which is also the locale of a functional little navigation desk. A good-size aft double cabin is also to starboard. For a small family, or a pair of couples, this is a perfectly fine arrangement.

Thanks to the coachroof windows and overhead hatches, there’s plenty of natural light below deck, which is augmented by efficient LED lighting throughout. The bold hull graphics are certainly attention-getters, and the well-executed dodger a perfect place to get out of the weather. Our sail test was conducted in a decent Chesapeake Bay blow, touching 20 knots, and the boat was nimble and responsive. All in all, it’s an ­impressive package—not to mention, a winning one. beneteau.com; 410-890-0270

Grand Soleil 34

Way back in the 1970s, when the well-known Italian boatyard Grand Soleil was just getting started, its first model was a Finot-designed 34-footer. With over 300 units sold, it was an instant success, and launched the company on an upward trajectory that spanned the intervening decades, mostly with an ongoing series of much larger, more complex racer/cruisers. For 2020, the builder decided to return to its roots with a completely revamped Grand Soleil 34, and it’s a terrific boat.

These days, there are a ­couple of major rating rules under which racing yachts compete, and a growing movement of doublehanded classes in many major regattas. And, of course, conditions vary wildly depending on where one sails. Grand Soleil has taken all this into account by offering numerous keel, rig and deck packages, so owners can optimize their boat for their particular region or events.

The shallower of the two keel options draws under 6 feet and is fitted with a lead bulb, which is also the recommended cruising configuration; a deeper 7-foot-2-inch foil is also available. There are three rig choices: a standard aluminum stick or a choice of two different carbon spars. Our test boat had twin rudders and wheels, but a single rudder with a tiller can also be had. The optional 30 hp diesel with sail drive was the power plant on our version; a 20 hp auxiliary is standard. See what I mean about optimization?

Whichever performance package you opt for, the accommodations remain mostly the same. But even then, you have choices. For instance, the open layout, in cruising mode, has a roomy double berth in the bow; but you can remove the cushions and their base when racing to convert the space into vast sail stowage. Likewise, much of the oak furniture and floorboards can be replaced with composite materials, or even carbon, for competitive sailors mindful of keeping weight at an absolute minimum.

Either way, a drop-leaf table in the center of the boat is flanked by a pair of settees, and there’s a spacious double cabin aft, to port, while the opposing starboard side includes a roomy head through which you can access a large storage area under the cockpit seat. For cruising applications, there’s storage galore.

We sailed the boat in light air, unfortunately, so we did not have the opportunity to put the boat through its paces properly. There’s no doubt, however, that she’ll haul the mail. mareblu.net; 619-840-3728

Italia 9.98

Of the five boats that comprised the Performance Cruiser class, in terms of sheer appearance, the futuristic 34-foot Italia 9.98 was easily the most distinctive. There are actually two versions of the boat: the 34 Club—which is the cruising alternative, the primary features of which are its twin wheels—and the 34 Fuoriserie—the racing model, and the one we tested, with its tiller steering being the identifying characteristic.

Both models share the same interior layout, and for ­cruising, the quarters are especially inviting and contemporary. The large double-berth forward is accessed by a large cutaway bulkhead trimmed in teak that doubles as a ring frame, and practically begs you to crawl in and kick way back. Two large, central settees flank the drop-leaf table that’s intersected by the keel-stepped spar.

Both the galley, to port, and the navigation station, to starboard, are most pleasant surprises: The former has a big fridge and gimballed, two-burner stove; the latter is much larger than one would expect on a boat of this size. Engaging details abound, including innovative, removable fabric lockers that can be offloaded when in racing mode, and cabin doors framed in aluminum for durability. Aft, there’s a generous double cabin to port, and a smaller double that also incorporates a big head to starboard. Other than sparing teak trim ­throughout, all furniture and fittings are clean, white composite structures that seem more aeronautical than nautical. Very modern and attractive.

Topside, the cockpit is spacious; the short, molded-in bench seats can be lengthened with dedicated storage boxes, which you can leave on the dock when racing and reinstall when cruising. There’s a good-size lazarette locker aft of the beam-width traveler, which in turn is aft of the tiller. The open transom adds to the overall feeling of being on a larger vessel. The double-ended German-style mainsheet is led below deck, contributing to the minimalistic theme; the sheet leads, naturally, are adjustable. The truly outstanding nonskid is molded directly into the deck.

Our test boat was equipped with an optional sprit to fly reaching and off-wind sails. Another iteration of the sprit includes an anchor roller as well; the boat we sailed did not have a windlass, but there’s provision for one. It would be quite easy to convert this boat from racing mode to a solid cruiser. And you’d turn heads in every anchorage. italiayachtsusa​.com; 410-279-3027

J/99

Beginning with the popular little J/24 way back in 1977, J/Boats has become famous for its steady introduction of terrific racing and cruising boats, almost all of which shared one main characteristic: They sailed like a witch. More than four decades later, having built more than 50 separate, mind-­boggling models, the Johnstone family that designs, markets and sells the brand shows no signs of slowing down. Their latest offering, for 2020, was another fast and fun racer/cruiser: the ­32-foot-7-inch J/99.

Our sea trials for Boat of the Year, conducted in a stiff 25-knot Chesapeake Bay breeze, was easily one of the most memorable test sails in this edition of the contest. The boat was fast, responsive and a joy to steer, perched on the weather rail with an extension for the tiller. Judge Ralph Naranjo was probably the most impressed of all. “It’s one of the most enjoyable small boats I’ve ever had a chance to sail,” he said.

Everything about the deck layout is set up for efficient boat handling. The beam-width traveler is aft but readily at hand; optimizing mainsail trim in the lulls and puffs is clearly a priority, and coarse and fine-tuning options on the mainsheet further simplify this task. Halyards and reefing lines are led to a pair of Harken winches on the coachroof. A Harken furler handles the 100 percent jib. The sheet leads, naturally, are adjustable. In past designs, the company was well-known for its retractable bowsprits, but with the J/99, it opted for a fixed sprit that is more robust and can handle the loads imposed by today’s big asymmetric kites and code-zero reachers. The entire point of this exercise is easily attained—not to mention sustained—performance.

The “cruiser” part of the boat’s racer/cruiser calculation is the lesser of the two, but the boat is by no means stripped out. The head is forward, with the forepeak reserved for sail stowage. But there are good sleeping quarters in a pair of doubles aft, as well as the two settees in the main saloon that flank a central table. Nice teak trim lends warm and welcome accents to the nav station and galley, which was rudimentary on our test boat, but which can also be upgraded with a basic propane stove. Sure, this layout is more of a camper than a cruiser, but it’s also more than serviceable for a dauntless crew. When they gather around at the end of the day, it will be more than adequate for ­spinning yarns about the wonderful sailing they just experienced. jboats​.com; 401-846-8410

Jeanneau Sun Fast 3300

If there were any doubt about what the 32-foot-9-inch Jeanneau Sun Fast 3300 was designed and built for, it was put to rest by our sister publication, Sailing World—a racing magazine dedicated expressly to the need for speed—when it named the boat its overall Boat of the Year for 2020. So let’s get that right out of the way: The 3300, pure and simple, is a raceboat. Sure, the interior has the basics to allow its crew to navigate, prepare a hot meal and catch a few winks between watches, but the idea here is to get you there, and as quickly as possible.

The boat is actually optimized for doubleha­nded races, a growing segment of the competitive scene, especially in France, where the boat was designed and constructed. One of the naval architects on the project was Guilaume Verdier, whose design credits include the remarkable 100-footer, Comanche. There are hollows, or “concaves,” in the bow and stern of the boat to promote planing in certain conditions. Jeanneau clearly pulled out all the stops in creating the 3300.

The deck-stepped rig—which will allow the boat to be shipped in a container for owners who wish to campaign the boat internationally—is carbon, of course. The list of tweakable features is endless. Both the mainsheet and running backstays are infinitely adjustable, with fine-tuned cascades for each. There are water-ballast tanks to simulate the weight of a full crew lining the windward rail when sailing in shorthanded mode. A three-dimensional jib–lead ­system provides the ability to dial in exact and precise ­headsail trimming. When ­racing, a five- or six-sail inventory will allow the crew to hoist and set the ideal sail combination for whatever the wind speed, sea state or point of sail.

Regarding the layout below, Sailing World editor Dave Reed wrote: “There’s not much glitz below deck, but that’s the point. The 3300 is no crossover cruiser. Inside the bowels of this white vinylester-infused capsule are nothing but rudimentary accommodations: galley, nav station, convertible settees and pipe berths that fold up to add additional crew berths. If distance racing and putting the boat away wet is what you desire, this is the level of interior you’ll come to appreciate.”

As the great designer Bill Lee once said, “A raceboat is like a jock strap you pull on to go racing.” So buckle up and hang on to your hats. And strap in, of course. jeanneau.com; 443-221-4203

Herb McCormick is CW’s executive editor.

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