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In 2013, NOAA announced plans to end the production of traditional paper nautical charts, to the wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth from many mariners. Ten years later, most cruisers do not rely on paper charts (arguably, many had moved away from them well before 2013). Is this a travesty, or just the march of technology and time? What do we do on Totem?

When Jamie and I were preparing to go cruising in the early 2000s, we spent several years gunkholing around Puget Sound with our growing family on board. We had a small handheld GPS, a Garmin MAP76, and a paper chartbook for the region. When we bought Totem in 2007, one of the changes Jamie made before our 2008 departure to begin cruising was a rebuild of the navigation-station table. Although Totem’s build predates the era of widespread GPS cruising, you couldn’t unfold a paper chart on the nav table. We expected to do this. 

The wider table let our West Coast chartbook lie flat. We also removed the slow, small, clunky chart plotter from the nav station. This we replaced with a ruggedized laptop running charting software, and connected to an NMEA2000 network for navigation data. The bigger screen, higher resolution and faster speed added up to a better mousetrap for our primary chart plotter.

Several years later, while we were putting coins in the cruising kitty in Australia, Jamie built a locker expressly for chart storage. Carved out of dead space from a portion of the pilot berth, the new locker allowed flat storage of our paper-chart collection.

Jamie began sailing more than 50 years ago and is skilled at navigating using paper charts. I am a confirmed map geek who finds joy in poring over them. Yet, as the years rolled by, we never pulled a chart from that locker to use for navigation. We did use paper charts for wrapping Christmas presents. We’re not the only cruisers who have done this. 

Tools and technology for cruising have changed within a generation. Recently, I posted a question on our Facebook and Instagram pages to gather opinions about whether to reinstall Totem’s SSB radio. Like paper charts, it’s been years since we made use of long-distance radio communication. Like paper charts, SSB is a tool that voyagers relied on for decades and remains in use by a shrinking minority of cruisers today. And like paper charts, the decision to use it or lose it elicits strong opinions from comments to the post. 

I went to a few forums to see what other sailors volunteered on the topic. “Real ocean sailors would rely on paper charts,” one tenured cruiser said. Well, then! Or how about, “See ya on the rocks,” another person lobbed from behind a pseudonym. Ah, internet. Scornful comments flung by the salt-crusted (or settee potato, hard to tell) to a newer generation ends up shutting down the ability to exchange thoughtful, different perspectives. Both comments are a dissonant clash with the 2023 reality where it seems most cruisers do not use the paper charts they have, and new cruisers don’t see the need to acquire them. I asked on Totem’s socials (find the posts here on Facebook, Instagram) how often folks use paper charts, or if they use them at all—then, held my breath waiting for responses.

Charting on Totem

Our philosophy isn’t chart-medium-specific, rather, simply put, our philosophy is: Don’t rely on a single source. Have multiple inputs and compare them, and most important, use your senses—especially common sense. We apply this for navigation and for weather, and it’s relevant for the SSB question as well. It happens that paper charts have not been among those inputs in a very long time aboard Totem. 

What exactly are we using? We have a primary chart plotter on a laptop, which is running OpenCPN with CM93 charts, pilot charts and KAP files (geo-indexed satellite images). We have two tablets—an iPad and an Android—each with different navigation software (currently, iNavx and Navionics). We are map geeks and will carry a few small-scale, large-area paper charts that we never expect to use.

For folks who love paper charts—cool, you do you! Hopefully you’re finding a way to compare them with other data too—partly for the intrinsic value in comparing different sources and because paper chart data might be outdated. We are astonished by how frequently different chart sources are different in the information or detail about the same location. Meanwhile, there’s a great rundown of the relative strengths of paper charts over electronic, and of electronic charts over paper, on the Starpath Navigation website’s blog.

Fostering navigation skills

Many sailing education courses are based on using paper charts and traditional skills. Do you feel cognitive dissonance there? Don’t! The skills are still valid, but we need a bridge to the tools used today. I sought opinions from instructors, and had a good conversation with Brady Trautman about how they manage this at Cruisers Academy. There, students coming aboard the program’s Passport 42 Lintika may have a chance to learn traditional skills (such as basics of a noon sight on the boat’s sextant), but instruction is grounded in modern reality. Brady noted how sailors accustomed to coastal cruising (where the internet is always on) need to be prepped for a cruising life where charts must be available offline on their devices, and to seek multiple electronic sources for redundancy and cross-referencing. Other traditional navigation skills we discussed still matter—and, they are not locked into paper charts. 

One example of how traditional skills play into digital tools is for understanding the different ways that latitude and longitude are given. A PredictWind tracking page for a vessel shows a given boat’s position in degrees and decimal minutes, such as: 6° 46.652 S / 179° 19.841 E. But the default setting (rarely changed; we see many) for a Garmin InReach tracking page uses decimal degrees, displayed as 6.777533° S / 179.33063° E. Perhaps you prefer the traditional presentation in degrees, minutes and seconds, such as 6° 46’ 39″ S / 179° 19’ 50”. All three waypoints given here represent exactly the same location in Savu Savu, Fiji. Examining a chart, plotting and analyzing your course ahead, and scanning hazards to avoid are equally important between paper and digital charts. Migrating from paper charts doesn’t mean navigation skills are lost. It means they evolve.

Meanwhile, most responses on my post to Totem’s social media about charts aboard were far more thoughtful than what the wild internet offered. In fact, they made me honestly feel so good about how people could share without judgment about what they do, instead of slinging “mine’s the best” drivel. MVP among comments came from our friend Fred Roswold. He has been cruising for nearly four decades aboard Wings, his Serendipity 43 (a custom IOR race boat), spanning from paper-chart-centric cruising into the digital-navigation era. Fred and his late wife, Judy, departed from Seattle with “more than 500” charts on board. His concern today? That mariners become lazy because electronic navigation appears to be so easy. “In my opinion, too many cruisers simply look at an electronic display, see where they are, and leave it at that. Even today, with all of our electronics, yachts get wrecked due to bad navigation.” 

One case for paper charts that must be considered is their value in the event of electronics failure. Power failure and lightning strikes do happen. This is partly managed with the redundancy of additional GPS devices. We have six or more on Totem, with a couple of them wrapped in aluminum foil as an imperfect makeshift Faraday cage. From a backup GPS (without chart plotter), traditional dead-reckoning and common sense (we know from last position, destination is 330 nautical miles away on a course of 264° magnetic), it’s not really so hard to make an approach to a destination with reasonable notion of when you should really be awake to avoid driving directly into something solid. Another case is that you can’t use auto-routing. We have a saying on Totem: FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS AUTOROUTE. We’ve seen the function recommend routes that aren’t just a terrible idea, but they also are boat- and human-threatening. One autoroute directed a crew in two different apps to drive right across the middle of the shoals off Cape Hatteras. As Fred pointed out, it seems so easy.

Paper or digital is not the fulcrum point. The real point is having multiple sources of information and broader fundamental skills. And common sense, which is something Jamie completely fails at when wrapping Christmas presents with old paper charts. They all turn out looking like a crumpled mess ready for the bin. A few of our old charts will still be stashed for wrapping paper, so just as the unused pilot berth was altered for chart storage, that space was reimagined and updated again in this 40-year refit.

We’re coming to Newport!September 14-16, Jamie and I will be instructors at Confident Cruiser Seminar Series: an educational seminar series designed to enhance your boating skills and confidence. Our courses include cruising for couples, offshore cruising essentials, how to make your dream a reality, and more. It’s just steps from the Newport International Boat Show. See you there!

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What do I need to charter a sailboat? 

That’s one of the most common questions that ­prospective sailing-school students ask, says Jonathan Payne, executive director of the American Sailing Association.

“If someone wants to charter, they need to feel confident,” he says. “They should have confidence in their sailing skills, docking skills, and know how to troubleshoot an engine. They should have navigational skills to manage unfamiliar waters. And they should have minimal anxiety.”

Although some sailors may already have the chops needed to bareboat charter, many look to the ASA and US Sailing to gain the skills—and the paperwork—that charter companies around the world often require.

Basic Keelboat Sailing (ASA 101), Basic Coastal Cruising (ASA 103), and Bareboat Cruising (ASA 104) are the foundational courses for learning to sail and charter a sailboat. The ASA has over 400 schools around the world. Local and weekend classes are spread across six-week courses, while destination schools in Caribbean hotspots offer seven-day liveaboard training.

US Sailing, the national governing body for the sport of sailing, offers similar building-block tracks: Basic Keelboat, Basic Cruising and Bareboat Cruising. 

“Our students are often people who want to explore the world under sail and visit destinations you can get to only by boat,” says Beth Oliver, vice president and director of sales and marketing at Offshore Sailing School, which offers one-week training courses in Florida and the British Virgin Islands where students earn US Sailing certifications for boats up to 50 feet.

While many US-based charter companies do not require a ­specific license and will look at training along with a sailing résumé, most charter firms in European waters require an International Certificate of Competence, or ICC. US sailors can apply for the similar International Proficiency Certificate once they have completed bareboat-cruising classes. Many international charter companies accept the IPC, but sailors should check ahead of time. Understanding the process, selecting a course, and choosing where to train can be confusing. Companies that offer classes can help narrow the options. 

“When someone interested in a charter calls, we discuss options and steer them in the direction we think is right for them,” says Amanda Kurland, charter sales representative for Sunsail and The Moorings. These sister companies offer numerous choices. “The Moorings offers Royal Yachting Association courses in the Med and Offshore Sailing School courses in the BVI,” Kurland says. Sunsail has destination sailing schools in the United Kingdom, Croatia, Greece, Australia and Grenada. These are destination schools where a week of sail training is often part of a long-planned vacation.

Blue Water Sailing School, an ASA-certified company based in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, offers destination charters closer to home. All levels of classes are available in Florida, Rhode Island, the Virgin Islands and the Bahamas. The (relatively) close offerings might appeal to sailors who aren’t ready to commit to a week in Dubrovnik.

“We try to get people to the point where they are confident enough to take their family out for a daysail or, more advanced, maybe take a boat and live aboard for a week,” says Blue Water owner David Pyle.

West Coast Multihulls in San Diego operates a sailing school with training exclusively on multihulls. Students who complete ASA 101,103 and 104 can take ASA 114—the Cruising Catamaran Certification—a five-day liveaboard class offered around Catalina Island and in the Sea of Cortez.

For all types of sailors, once the foundational training and courses are complete, the world really is your oyster. US Sailing and the ASA offer auxiliary certifications on navigation and safety at sea, and advanced courses such as Offshore Passage Making. Barefoot Offshore Sailing School in St. Vincent and the Grenadines offered three trans-Atlantic courses in 2022 on board a Bali 4.1 catamaran. ASA and Sail Canada certifications were available on all three passages.

See the following pages for special charter education resources offering more information on sailing schools.

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Ever since we cruised from Acapulco, Mexico, to Bay of Islands, New Zealand, in 1988 on Freelance, our 28-foot Bristol Channel Cutter, my wife, Harriet, and I longed to return to the South Pacific. In spring 2021, while going through a closet full of stuff in our condo, out slid a box of old paper charts from our voyage. A large chart of Bora Bora unfolded in my hands. The perfect circle of reef, the lagoon of dazzling blue, clouds streaming like cotton from the island’s volcanic peaks—the South Pacific had enchanted us again.

We sketched a plan: From our home port of New Bedford, Massachusetts, we’d head to Bermuda, then Puerto Rico, then the Panama Canal, the Galapagos, French Polynesia, the Cook Islands, the Kingdom of Tonga, and Fiji. We’d arrive in New Zealand a year later. It would be about 10,300 nautical miles, most of it ­downwind in the northeast and southeast trade winds. 

Ocean, our Dolphin 460 cat, had ­recently undergone an extensive refit and was up to the task. So, off we went.

Massachusetts to Bermuda 

Bermuda is an old friend for us. During the 13 years we operated our Caribbean child-literacy nonprofit, Hands Across the Sea, we called into the island 22 times. But getting to Bermuda from the US Eastern Seaboard in the fall is tricky. 

First, we looked for the tailwinds of a departing front to launch us off the continental shelf. Next, we looked for the Gulf Stream to quiet down. Finally, we looked for a favorable slant to get us into Bermuda after a three- to four-day hop.

Powerful autumn and early winter gales can be dangerous, so we checked and double-checked the forecasts (we find PredictWind helpful, and we rely on meteorologists at Commanders’ Weather to determine a weather window). We also had an old friend, Capt. Bill Truesdale, join us. Bill is a circumnavigator, and is cool, calm, and able to diagnose and fix anything. 

With breezy winds abaft the beam, we made great time on Day One. Ocean pushed through chunky, confused seas, flying a full main and the code zero. But after dinner, I felt seasick. Really seasick. Nine times over-the-rail seasick. Bill, who rarely gets seasick, felt similarly ill. He stood his watch, and Harriet held down the fort. 

In the morning, we decided we’d been pushing the boat too hard, sailing too fast for the sea state. Plus, I had started out the passage on four cups of coffee and not much breakfast; my stomach never had a chance. We knew all this was wrong, but we’d been away from passagemaking for a year and a half, and we’d forgotten. Lessons relearned: Ditch the coffee, eat enough noncombustible food to head off the stomach growlies, and take our foot off the gas until we get our sea legs.

The final two days into Bermuda were smooth and fast, pulled along by the code zero. 

Bermuda to Puerto Rico

Commanders’ Weather advised us that in a couple of days, a massive system would move south and overspread Bermuda, slamming shut the weather window to Puerto Rico. The choice was to leave the next day, or hunker down for weeks with uncertain prospects. We quickly wrapped up some engine maintenance, saw Bill off to the airport, and hoisted the main for Fajardo, Puerto Rico.

Harriet and I had both been looking forward to getting south, into the tropics and the soft, warm trade winds. It is certainly possible, however, that our hiatus from passagemaking had turned us into softies. Chunky seas bounced us. We slowed down Ocean enough to keep our stomachs calm, and to keep the off watch rested. Our sailhandling skills—reefing the main in the dark, rolling up the code zero before squalls—were a bit ragged, and we revisited our teamwork. We felt more tired than usual.

We’d been pushing the boat too hard, sailing too fast for the sea state. We’d been away from passagemaking for a year and a half. We’d forgotten.

On Day Five, the profile of Puerto Rico rose in the dawn light. We’d been there before only for connecting flights between the United States and British Virgin Islands, so everything about the island surprised us, mostly in a good way. Puerto Rico is larger than we realized, more developed (with malls that have US big-box stores and franchises), and uniformly welcoming to visitors. The shores are ringed with high-end marinas—we spent two nights at what’s now Safe Harbor Puerto Del Rey, the Caribbean’s largest marina—and the island has luxury housing developments, along with funky settlements behind barrier mangroves, and more. 

We spent 10 days exploring from the Spanish Virgin Islands to the sheltered south coast of the main island. Nature preserves have kept Puerto Rico’s cruising grounds in good shape, with lots of hidey-hole mangrove anchorages, plus some bioluminescent coves. On holidays, anchorages are crowded with raft-ups of local sport-fishing boats and personal watercraft.

Puerto Rico to Panama

Finally, an entire passage in the trade winds. The course from Boquerón, Puerto Rico, to the entry breakwater at Panama is nearly dead downwind, so we jibed to take advantage of shifts in wind direction and to avoid the near-permanent low-pressure system (possible winds to 35 knots with steep, ugly current-against-the-wind seas) that lurks off the northwest coast of Colombia. 

Our sail-carrying plan called for a single reef in the main, and Ocean’s 95 percent overlap jib (roller-reefable) and furling code zero (nonreefable) to suit the daily variation in wind strength. But just a couple of days out, we concluded that we’d idealized the trade winds just a wee bit. “I can’t recall seeing so many squalls like this,” Harriet said. “Maybe on the passage from Fernando de Noronha, in Brazil.” 

On Day Three, powerful squall clouds—to the south, west and north—triangulated on Ocean. Each announced itself with alarming gusts, and followed up with sheets of rain just short of a whiteout. We had little choice but to reef down or furl up. We’d peer out at the rain, then turn the ignition key and trundle along behind the squall in weak, ascending air and leftover chop. The squalls meant sailhandling work and slower progress—and nighttime squalls seemed worse in every way.

One evening, a prolonged 25-plus-knot blast sent us surfing down a steep sea at 18 knots. The autopilot steered blithely onward. (Ocean’s hull has lots of buoyancy forward, and a cat’s twin hulls are not prone to broaching, as a monohull might.) But the brief thrill ride through the darkness freaked us out. We double-reefed the main—we were happy averaging 8 to 9 knots—and concluded that we needed a better sail strategy for running deep in intensified trades. 

Later, we talked to a cat crew on the same passage who had used only a reefed jib. Their mainsail stayed in the lazy bag. We needed to keep reminding ourselves that, even though we are ex-racers, we were not in a race. We love fast ­passages, but quality off-watch rest for our ­doublehanded crew was the top priority.

When we pulled in the second reef, we disturbed a red-footed booby that had taken up residence on our solar panels; the bird squawked, moved to the tip of the port bow, tucked its beak into its wing, and continued sleeping. Later, we found a small black bird, maybe a petrel, snoozing on the dinghy davits. Later still, a flying fish flew into our dinghy. All of it seemed to say: “You are in the trade winds and you are a part of the trade winds, so pull up your socks. Enjoy.”

Some evenings, of course, were ­astoundingly beautiful, an impossible canopy of stars arcing across the horizon. “There’s the Southern Cross!” Harriet exclaimed, pointing out her favorite. 

Nearing Panama, the trade winds ­mellowed out: 15 knots, 20 in squalls, and far fewer of them. The seas grew smaller and kinder. These were more like the trades we remembered. 

By the time we jibed into the inbound lane of the ship-traffic separation scheme for the Panama Canal, I’d finished David McCullough’s 700-page The Path Between the Seas, so I was already in awe of the place. Unfortunately, we were stuck on the Caribbean side for three weeks because of issues with our mainsail batten pocket ends and steering cylinders (Ocean has hydraulic steering). We tied up in Shelter Bay Marina, at the Caribbean entrance to the canal, and the marina’s shipment wizard wrangled our repair materials for us. All the help we needed—a sailmaker and hydraulic guys—was on hand. 

After several weeks of work, Karen and Paul Prioleau, cruisers we’d met back in 1988, flew in to join us as line handlers for the canal transit. We also had a required Panama Canal Authority pilot and a specified line handler, who between them had more than 2,000 canal transits. So the 10-hour transit was easy. These 47 miles were a milestone and the gateway to a new life for Harriet, me, and Ocean. 

By the time 26 million gallons drained from the Miraflores locks, the final southbound lock, lowering us 27 feet to sea level, and we motored around the bend and under the final bridge, we saw a thin blue horizon waiting ahead: the Pacific. 

After 20 years of dinghy racing, the siren song of bluewater cruising called Tom Linskey, aka TL. In the ’80s, he built a 28-foot Bristol Channel Cutter in his ­backyard from a hull-and-deck kit, and sailed with his wife, Harriet, from Southern California to Mexico, French Polynesia, New Zealand, and Japan. Together, they’ve covered more than 50,000 doublehanded miles, most recently in their Dolphin 460 catamaran, Ocean.

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When we arrived in French Polynesia in May 2013, we saw the island group as a stopover on our way across the South Pacific. We’d heeded the advice of Jimmy Cornell’s World Cruising Routes and arrived after the end of the cyclone season, but we found lots of contradictory information in our research about everything from temperature to ocean swell to rainy seasons. 

As it turned out, there’s a good reason for all the confusion. French Polynesia is a big place. It has 118 volcanic islands, makateas (raised atolls) and atolls that stretch out over an expanse as big as Europe. The five archipelagoes—Society Islands, Tuamotus, Gambier, Marquesas and Austral—have different languages, different cultures and quite different climates. 

Based on our pre-arrival research, we expected to find a tropical climate year-round. That turned out to be true for the Society Islands but not the Gambier, where we shivered in temperatures below 68 degrees Fahrenheit. In August, we fled northward from the Gambier to escape the cold Southern Hemisphere winter, only to roll miserably in the Marquesas during the season with the highest swell.

Despite these rookie mistakes, we fell in love with French Polynesia and decided that we needed more time than just one season to explore this vast and diverse cruising ground. The temperatures and seasonal variations can be quite different across the five island groups. If you know your way around (like we do after eight years), you can find a pleasant corner for each season.

The distances between the archipelagoes are considerable—sometimes 800 to 900 nautical miles. What we’ve learned during our years cruising the region is that you can use the weather patterns to your advantage for fairly comfortable, easy passages. 

With the benefit of hindsight, we would plan our arrival and itinerary for the first year in French Polynesia quite differently from what we did in 2013. Wind patterns and seasonal shifts play a major role in planning west-to-east passages between the island groups (see sidebar on page 55). Here’s more of what we have learned about each archipelago.

Marquesas

Sailboats crossing the Pacific in December or January from Central America or the Galapagos Islands should have fairly reliable wind on the way to the Marquesas. The northernmost group of French Polynesia, the Marquesas ­archipelago lies outside the cyclone belt, so there is minimal risk of running into a developing storm underway. 

An early start means that you will arrive before the fleet of puddle jumpers starts crowding the anchorages. The islands’ high, rugged mountains are great for hiking, but the often murky, dark water discourages snorkeling—even though you may have impressive encounters with manta rays, pelagic sharks and groups of dolphins around the anchorages. Southerly swell, which makes the open anchorages very uncomfortable during southern winter, should not be a big issue at this time of the year. 

With a bit of luck, you’ll spend quiet nights even without a stern anchor. No-nos (biting little flies) are always a nuisance, but the situation is better during the dry season from October to April.

Tuamotus

Continue toward the Tuamotus in April after the end of the cyclone season, when the region is still warm and not too windy. That’s a good time of year to explore the motus and lagoons, and to enjoy snorkeling the spectacular passes. The low atolls give access to an incredible underwater world (take nothing but pictures; the resources of atolls are limited), and from June to October, humpback whales are often sighted on the outer reefs and even in the lagoons. 

Cyclones are rare in this archipelago, but sitting one out in the unprotected anchorages would be a nightmare, so we avoid cruising here in the cyclone season. During the strong trade winds in July and August, it gets quite cool. High waves and swell fill up the lagoons, so the currents in the passes are faster. Snorkeling is less fun, and the choice of anchorages is limited.

Society Islands

Head to the Society Islands in July, in time for the Heiva i Tahiti festival, which is filled with spectacular dancing and drumming events. The pleasantly dry, breezy winter weather (Southern Hemisphere winter) is ideal to go hiking on the high, mountainous islands of Tahiti, Moorea, Huahine, Raiatea, Taha’a and Maupiti. 

Unfortunately, the coral in the lagoons is mostly dead, but there are some nice dive spots on outer reefs. Humpback whales roam the area between July and October.

Before the onset of cyclone season in December, it is time to leave again. The following months will be hot, humid and oppressive in the Societies. During an active South Pacific Convergence Zone, many lows pass over the islands and bring a certain risk of cyclones. 

Austral Islands

Start looking for weather windows to sail to the Australs in October and November. The islands of Rimatara, Rurutu, Tubuai, Raivavae, and Rapa are spectacularly beautiful and have a thriving culture. 

They are also the least-visited islands of French Polynesia. While southern summer between December and March would be the most pleasant time there, it’s also the cyclone season, and these islands are right in the path, particularly when the South Pacific Convergence Zone is active. The best time to visit is November and December, when it’s already warm but the cyclone season is only in its beginnings.

After March, it’s already southern autumn, when frequent depressions start moving by, sending high swell, strong winds and cold air masses. 

Gambier Islands

Finding a weather window to sail to the Gambier Islands with favorable winds might require some patience. Convergence zones often bring northerly winds that facilitate easting. If you arrive in the Gambier in December or January, you can spend the pleasantly warm summer months exploring the numerous anchorages. 

The Gambier has a mixture of high, mountainous islands with clear lagoons, healthy coral reefs and low-lying motus on the barrier reef. For us, it is the highlight of French Polynesia. 

This archipelago has well-protected anchorages and a low risk of cyclones, particularly during El Niño-neutral periods, when the temperatures can rise to the mid-80s Fahrenheit, but the days are usually pleasantly breezy (there can be rainy days or even weeks). 

Leave before the southern winter hits from July to September and the temperatures drop to 60 degrees, which feels much chillier than it sounds when it’s blowing hard and raining.

On the way west, there is still time to see more of the Tuamotus and Societies before heading on in the next sailing season, or you might even decide that you need another year or two to enjoy French Polynesia, just as we did.

Wind Patterns of the South Pacific

As a general rule, the trade winds blow predominantly from the east between February and April, from the east to southeast between May and November, and from the east to northeast in December and January. Disturbances are common: During southern winter, fronts of strong low-pressure systems move far in the south. During southern summer, convergence zones influence the weather patterns.

Sailing westward in the trade-wind belt is most comfortable during a stable period of easterly trades. Frequent troughs interrupt the trade winds in the Pacific, which is annoying during a long passage westward. It’s best to have a series of possible stopovers in mind in case the window does not last long enough to reach the planned destination.

When sailing eastward, we use those interruptions to gain easting. When a trough passes, the wind shifts from east to northeast, then north/northwest, followed by a calm period and sudden southern wind (when the convergence passes over your location), or back to east (when the trough moves by to the south). With some patience, it’s possible to sail from Tahiti eastward to the Tuamotus and then hop from atoll to atoll. The predominant southeast wind facilitates passages northeastward to the Marquesas from May to November.

Passages southeastward to the Gambier archipelago are better undertaken later in the year, when phases of northeast wind become longer and more predominant from December on. —BH

Birgit Hackl and Christian Feldbauer have been cruising for 10 years, eight of them in the South Pacific. They have explored westward to the Cook Islands and Tonga on their 41-foot S&S-designed Pitufa, but French Polynesia is their home base. They are currently in Fiji. Check out their blog for weather information, cruising guides and more.

The post How to Use Weather Patterns and Seasons in French Polynesia to Optimize Regional Cruising appeared first on Cruising World.

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Our 1988 Passport 40, Billy Pilgrim, sailed south from Maine to Florida in fall 2021, then across to the Bahamas in what felt like a larger-than-usual migration of sailing snowbirds. In Florida, our population divided in two: those who would cross the Gulf Stream to the islands beyond, and those who wouldn’t. 

The Gulf Stream stands as a threshold—by no means ­impassable, but daunting just the same. Flowing north through the Florida Straits as swiftly as 4 knots, it brings its own set of problems.

Setting Up to Cross Over

The Gulf Stream challenges come in three parts: departure and entry ports, weather forecasting, and old-school vector piloting. Here, we’ll focus on crossings from Florida to the Bahamas and back. 

Coastal sailors quickly learn that the number of safe all-weather inlets from the ocean to inland waters is quite limited, especially south of Hatteras. In Florida, there are only seven: St. Marys (Florida-Georgia border), St. Johns River (Jacksonville), Port Canaveral, Fort Pierce, Lake Worth (West Palm Beach), Port Everglades (Fort Lauderdale), and Government Cut (Miami). Several other inlets can be transited in settled weather and good light, or with local knowledge. The print and online versions of the Waterway Guide (waterwayguide.com) are the gold standard for timely information about US coastal piloting, including inlets.

Across the Gulf Stream in the Bahamas, the number of official ports of entry is also limited. The closest of these include West End and Freeport on Grand Bahama Island, or Bimini at the western edge of the Great Bahama Bank. Of course, it’s possible to fly the quarantine flag, stay aboard the boat, and continue sailing deeper into Bahamian waters, and then clear customs in the Berry Islands, the Abaco islands or Nassau. The same principles for crossing the Gulf Stream apply. 

Assuming your boat travels at 8 knots or slower, you’ll want to leave from a US port that’s south of your chosen Bahamian port of entry. Look at the coordinates of each waypoint, particularly the latitude, recalling that 1 minute of latitude equals 1 nautical mile, and 1 degree of latitude equals 60 miles. (Degrees and minutes of longitude do not correlate with distance.)

Watching the Weather

Timing for the crossing to the islands is dictated broadly by the seasons, and particularly by insurance mandates. Many yacht policies stipulate that cruising boats must stay north of some predetermined latitude (typically, the Florida-Georgia line, but sometimes as far north as Cape Hatteras) until the end of hurricane season. Some policies set that date at November 1, some at November 30.

Regarding weather, crossing the Gulf Stream in December and January means two things: prevailing fresh to strong easterlies (northeast to southeast quadrant, typically 15 to 25 knots, sometimes higher) and occasional dramatic northers. Northers are weather fronts that blow from the north and, in winter, often arrive dramatically. In the day or two before a norther, your wind will typically veer through the southeast, south, west and ­northwest. The front itself usually comes with a black squall, a drenching downpour and a cold blast of high wind. On the backside of the front, the northerly winds can blow strong for several days. Veteran cruisers on both sides of the Gulf Stream learn to watch for northers and seek good shelter when they come.

For the Gulf Stream crossing itself, you want neither of those two conditions: not the prevailing fresh easterlies, which would mean beating directly into the wind and waves, and not the ­northers, which can mean monstrous seas when the north wind meets the north-flowing current. 

The moment you want is the fleeting transition between them: the moment the wind begins to veer. You want to catch it as the wind is coming from the south, blowing in the same direction as the ocean current. In winter months, this condition seldom lasts longer than a day. You have to be ready when it comes.

Tools for onboard weather forecasting have improved immeasurably in the past several years. You can still get the old standby: VHF and SSB radio broadcasts of the latest observations and forecasts from the National Weather Service and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. What’s improved in recent years is our access to multiple forecasting models. 

Global Forecast System, European Centre for Medium-Range Weather Forecasts, Spire, and the UK’s Meteorological Office—all these independent weather models are now accessible through such online graphic interfaces as windy.com or PredictWind, and others. Best practice is to watch the 10-day forecasts and cycle through the different models to see the variances among predictions. If you watch multiple models every day for several weeks before your crossing, you’ll learn the typical weather patterns for your season. You can also join a subscription weather-routing service like those offered by Commanders’ Weather or Chris Parker. 

For off-grid cruising, from what we’ve seen, the two most price-worthy options for continuous offshore weather forecasting are Garmin’s inReach and the Iridium Go! satellite communication systems. Our Iridium Go! cost about $700. While we’re in the Bahamas, we choose an unlimited subscription service for $150 per month (including international voice calls, texts and graphic weather downloads). We’ll cancel it when we’re back in the States. PredictWind developed a weather app called Offshore that works seamlessly with Iridium Go!

Plotting a Sine-Wave Track

If your goal is to spend time in the northern Bahamas (Grand Bahama or Abacos), then you might plan to clear customs at West End or Freeport. If you’re aiming for destinations farther south (Nassau, Exumas or Lesser Antilles), then Bimini probably makes the most sense.

The final Gulf Stream-crossing problem comes here. From Maine to Florida, nearly every leg of our passage followed the same procedure. We’d enter a waypoint in our chart plotter, zoom in to check the whole leg for hazards, and then steer to that waypoint. One of our watch-keeping tasks was to continually ensure that our course over ground matched our chart plotter’s recommended course to steer. From Maine to Florida, offshore and inland, the chart plotter and this method never led us astray.

When crossing the Gulf Stream, your chart plotter will lead you astray. The slower your boat, the more you’ll stray. The best tools for this crossing are the old-school ones: paper charts, parallel rulers, dividers and a pencil. Let’s say you’re under sail and making 5 knots. Your boat’s heading might be 100 degrees true, but when you enter the north-flowing current (2 knots, 2.5 knots, 3 knots or 3.5 knots of current as you approach the Gulf Stream axis), the chart plotter will show a COG altering ever northward, 50 degrees and more from your heading. As the velocity of the Gulf Stream current increases, if you try to resolve the COG on your chart plotter with its recommended CTS, you’ll find yourself turning ­ever more southerly and directly into the current—making precious little easting.

Cape Florida to Gun Cay

Rhumb Line: 45 nm at 103m/096t; Average current 2.5 kt at 017m/010t

The solution is to recognize this problem in advance, apply an average current velocity for the entire crossing, and plot a course that minimizes the treadmill effect. Your heading will remain constant, but the resulting track across the Gulf Stream will look like a sine wave. Most observers reckon that the average velocity of the Gulf Stream through the Florida Straits is 2.5 knots.

Billy Pilgrim typically sails at 6 knots on a nice reach. In flat ­water, we’ll sometimes crack 7-and-change; pitching through choppy waves will sometimes knock down our speed into the 4s. To plot our course, I started with the rhumb line from Cape Florida on the mainland to Gun Cay, about 10 miles south of Bimini. (You could do the same from the Government Cut sea buoy to Bimini, or from Lake Worth Inlet to West End on Grand Bahama Island. Ideally, choose a departure point that’s south of your arrival point.) Our rhumb line came to 42 nautical miles at 103M/096T. The Waterway Guides and US chart books tend to communicate in degrees magnetic, and the Explorer Charts communicate in degrees true, so I jot down both to keep my head straight. 

For our crossing, I created a table whose left-hand column lists boatspeeds ranging from 4.0 knots to 8.0 knots in increments of 0.5 knots (see the chart on this page).

The second column shows the duration of time we’d be exposed to that current (45 nm divided by each of the speeds in Column 1). Making 4.0 knots, we’d be exposed to the 2.5-knot current for 11.25 hours; making 5.0 knots, for 9.0 hours; making 6.0 knots, for 7.5 hours. 

In the third column, I computed the northerly distance we’d be offset by the current. At a boatspeed of 4.0 knots, we’d be exposed to the 2.5-knot north-setting current for 11.25 hours; that means if we steered the rhumb-line course, we’d be set 28.1 nm north of our Bahamas waypoint. Making 5.0 knots, we’d be set 22.5 nm north; making 6.0 knots, we’d be set 18.8 nm north.

The final sequence of the solution is to use old-school, ­pencil-­and-paper plotting techniques to find the course to steer. Using Gulf Stream data, I determined that the average direction of current drift for our crossing was 017M/010T between Miami and the Bimini islands. To counteract the current, find the ­reciprocal course by adding 180 degrees: 197M/190T. On a paper chart, I aligned parallel rulers through 190T on the compass rose, and then walked the rulers through our Gun Cay waypoint. In pencil, I drew that line through the waypoint and extending in a southerly direction.

Next, I used dividers to measure the offset distances from Column 3 in my table. If we made 4.0 knots of boatspeed, then I needed to offset 28.1 nm; making 5.0 knots, 22.5 nm; making 6.0 knots, 18.8 nm. On the 190T line, I made tick marks for each of these distances from our Gun Cay waypoint, noting the boatspeed associated with each offset distance.

The final step was to get the parallel rulers back out and draw lines from our point of departure in Miami to each of the tick marks. On each line, I wrote our projected boatspeed and the CTS for that boatspeed. Making 4.0 knots, our CTS was 136M/129T; making 5.0 knots, 130M/123T; making 6.0 knots, 127M/122T.

Working it out this way in advance becomes especially helpful once you’re out there actually crossing the Gulf Stream. If you find that your boatspeed increases or decreases in real time, you’ve already prepared yourself to make rational course adjustments.

As it happened, our 10-day forecast presented no good day of southerlies when we were ready to leave Miami in early February, so we chose a day of light easterlies and motorsailed across. We turned on our chart plotter but didn’t enter a Bahamas waypoint into it. Instead, we steered to the CTS we’d worked out in pencil ahead of time. 

At first, we found ourselves sailing south of our rhumb line. As the velocity of the Gulf Stream current increased, even knowing what we knew, we were still alarmed to watch the northerly ­component in our COG as the minutes of latitude for our position increased well above those of our waypoint. But we held to plan. As we approached the Great Bahama Bank, the Gulf Stream velocity decreased. In the last 10 miles, we adjusted our course in small increments and saw the Gun Cay Light just where we expected. We had left the Cape Florida sea buoy at 7:30 a.m., shortly after sunrise, spent a lovely day in that impossibly deep blue, and landed at our Gun Cay waypoint by 3:30 the same afternoon, with good light to pilot visually on the banks. We had sailed a steady course, with only minor alterations for traffic. But sure enough, our GPS track shows a sine wave across the Florida Straits.

Tim Murphy is a Cruising World editor-at-large and a longtime Boat of the Year judge. He and Lesley Davison cruise their 1988 Passport 40, Billy Pilgrim (svbillypilgrim.com), between New England and the Bahamas.

The post Seamanship: How To Plot Your Course Across the Gulf Stream appeared first on Cruising World.

Me, go around Cape Horn? Seriously? Do I want to brave roaring, high-latitude gales just to earn an earring in my left ear? 

Um, no. 

When Harriet and I decided to trade the Atlantic for the Pacific, we kept Cape Horn at the bottom of our bucket list, especially because there’s a safe, enjoyable, fascinating way to swap the Atlantic for the Pacific that doesn’t involve an 8,300-nautical-mile detour. The Panama Canal, a roughly 50-mile-long journey through history, is a cruising milestone that opens up both oceans to long-distance exploration. 

Life is short, so why not take the shortcut?

Lots of help 

For cruisers reaching the Panama Canal Zone for the first time—as we did in mid-December on our Dolphin 460 catamaran, Ocean, after beginning our transit from Colón, Panama, on the Atlantic side—there’s lots of research and reading to tap into beforehand.

Start with historian David McCullough’s 1977 book, The Path Between the Seas, and follow that with books and websites that look at more-recent developments, such as the 1999 transfer of the canal from the United States to Panama and the 2016 opening of a second set of locks to ­handle the mammoth Panamax and Neopanamax vessels (up to 1,200 feet length overall, carrying as many as 14,000 20-foot containers). 

While you are waiting your turn to transit, we recommend checking out the Agua Clara Visitor Center in Colón or the Miraflores Visitor Center and the Panama Canal Museum on the Pacific side in Panama City, which is a modern, cosmopolitan city.

We had a lot of questions about the requirements and mechanics of transiting the
canal, such as the official admeasurement of our boat (length, beam, draft, tonnage speed under power, and details about our crew and deck equipment), and the line handlers (Panama Canal Authority-supplied crew, your own crew or crew from other cruising boats), and the necessary fenders and lines. There’s lot of help available online, including from the Panama Canal Authority itself, and you’ll no doubt meet other cruisers who have done the trip before. 

The Panama Canal operates around the clock 365 days a year, and communication about all aspects of the transit, in these days of email, texts and WhatsApp, is well-organized.

Need an agent? 

How’s your Spanish? As first-timers, we contacted a few cruisers who’d been through the canal, and their advice was yes, get an agent for the transit, especially if your command of Spanish is, um, basic. 

Our agent, Erick Galvez of Centenario Consulting, proved invaluable. He spoke English well; answered our questions quickly; explained every step of the transit; arranged our canal booking, our admeasurement and line handlers; kept us updated as our time slot drew closer; and helped us with non-canal stuff too. 

The transit requires ­supplying the right documents to the right government official in the right office at the right time, and given the language barrier, there’s a fairly high chance of things getting lost in translation. 

Overall, the cost of this enterprise, including the $1,500 transit toll for Ocean—and the transit admeasure, security fee, fenders and lines rental, agent service fee, Panama cruising permit, and one line handler and a pilot/adviser—came to just over $2,900.

Our transit

Before heading for the canal, we spent about 10 days chasing down boat projects at Shelter Bay Marina, a full-service facility a few miles from the canal entrance. Two friends from our late-’80s cruise through the South Pacific, Karen and Paul Prioleau, joined our boat for the transit, so we needed only one more line handler. Our agent arranged for Juan, who was studying to become a canal pilot, to join Ocean, and a Panama Canal Authority pilot boat met us to drop off Roy, our pilot/adviser, as we approached the first lock. 

Once we were safely inside the Gatun Locks, the bells of the electric locomotives clanged and the sliding steel sluice gate closed behind us. Twenty-six-million gallons of water flooded in, silently lifting Ocean, along with the 45-foot powerboat we were rafted to, and an imposing container ship, 27 feet above the Atlantic. 

Our crew was excited: “How cool is this!” Yes, the Panama Canal is very cool—suddenly you find yourself in the middle of amazing history and modern technology.

The rush of water boiling up in the chamber combined with prop wash from the ship just in front of us was alarming, but Roy had positioned Ocean in the best spot in the lock. It’s safer to be alone, if possible, with your lines keeping you in the center of the lock, or to be rafted to another yacht that is tied to the wall of the canal; avoid nesting to a tug or alongside the wall. 

Keep your two bow and two stern lines taut. We rented 125-footers of seven-­eighths polypropylene and eight round fenders from the Panama Canal Authority. Be sure to ease the lines to avoid a high upward load that could snap your cleats. 

We found that the counter-­rotating props of our cat’s twin 40 hp diesels helped Harriet adjust our position as needed; the prop walk of a monohull’s single screw will require more anticipation by your line ­handlers. In any case, your pilot/adviser and local line handlers are experienced (Roy and Juan had each transited more than 1,000 times) with all kinds of boats.

Once released from the three Gatun Locks, most yachts spend the night on an official mooring in Gatun Lake, resuming the transit early the next morning. Swimming from your boat is not allowed, however, because of crocodiles. This shortcut between the seas is also a slash through the jungle: howler monkeys, which are pint-size creatures swinging through the canopy, let loose a roar that sounds like an 18-wheeler, while jaguars and pumas pad through the rainforest. 

Oh, and if you transit during the May-to-November rainy season, it likely will be pouring: Panama receives 12 feet of annual rainfall. The timing of our one-day transit was a bit unusual, beginning at 0430 and finishing by 1700, so we missed the overnight stay among the crocs and jaguars and howler monkeys. We missed the rain too.

The rest of the transit was easy. The interoceanic waterway eases into long, winding stretches, including cuts through mountain ranges that were won at a tremendous cost in human life—an estimated 25,000 people perished from tropical diseases and industrial accidents during the canal’s 1880 to 1914 construction. Just two final sets of locks—the Pedro Miguel and the Miraflores—and the canal dropped us into the Pacific.

Well worth it

History and politics weigh heavily upon the Panama Canal, but for cruisers, the experience is equal parts educational and magical. 

More than 100 years ago, the ditch was dug with steam-powered diggers and men with shovels. Some of yesteryear’s leading-edge technology, such as the line-handling electric locomotives running on both sides of the locks, are still operating today. The canal’s million-dollar tugboats with omnidirectional propulsion are present-day cutting-edge. The six new Panamax locks are a showcase of engineering and construction; the colossal project consumed more than 1.5 billion cubic feet of concrete and 192,000 tons of steel reinforcement. The Panama Canal has functioned in spectacular fashion from its opening in 1914.

Our transit of the Panama Canal was memorable—a milestone for Harriet, me and Ocean. It’s also difficult to sum up. As McCullough wrote, “The 50 miles between the oceans were among the hardest ever won by human effort and ingenuity, and no statistics on tonnage or tolls can begin to convey the grandeur or what was accomplished.” 

For cruisers, it is all that, of course—plus it’s a fantastic shortcut. And worthy of an earring in your starboard ear.

As of press time, Tom and ­Harriet Linskey were headed to the ­Marquesas.

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Studying weather forecasts is so much a part of the morning ritual on our boat that we automatically associate the smell of coffee with weather bulletins and surface-analysis charts. It doesn’t matter where we are—near a city with speedy Wi-Fi and downloads, anchored in a remote corner of the globe with text bulletins, or underway with the Pactor modem screeching and rumbling for half an hour to get a GRIB file—weather and morning coffee just go together. 

As sailors, we live much closer to the elements than most people. Keeping an eye on forecasts is imperative for the safety of the boat and the well-being of the crew. It’s also a fun and interesting pastime.

Get your bearings. When you start exploring a ­cruising area, the local weather might seem indecipherable. Get a good introduction to the ­dominant systems by ­reading a few articles about the ­regional weather. When is the rainy season? Is there a hurricane season? 

Guidebooks offer a helpful, albeit simplified, overview. For instance, guides to French Polynesia, where we’ve been cruising aboard our 1988 Sparkman & Stephens 41, Pitufa, for the past eight seasons, describe the area as having two distinct seasons: a dry and windy season between May and October, and a cyclone season from November to April with generally rainy, hot weather. This is true for Tahiti and the Society Islands, but the Marquesas are usually dry with two short rainy seasons in spring and fall, while the Gambier and Austral Islands have proper seasons with hot summers and cool winters. If you don’t study this kind of information beforehand, you’ll be in for a few surprises.

Pilot charts. Take a look at pilot charts as well. What’s the strength and direction of the predominant winds? How often do passing low-pressure systems interrupt them? Get an overview, and then choose a few reliable weather sources from the jumble of available information. Check them on a daily basis.

Look at the big picture. When we have a strong internet connection, we download wind forecasts for a large area to observe the distant systems behind the local winds. This technique helps us, for example, keep an eye on passing troughs that interrupt the trade winds, or take note of an acceleration zone on top of a high-pressure system. 

We like to compare the American Global Forecast System model with the one from the European Centre for Medium-Range Weather Forecasts. That way, we can ​see how they differ. We also like to check the models after the fact and keep track of which one was more accurate.

Surface-analysis charts allow us to visually interpret the isobars, and they turn features such as fronts, troughs and lows into comprehensible images.

Some cruisers crop too small of a frame when forecasting and download data on an immediate area without seeing the bigger picture. They’re often flabbergasted (and curse the stupid forecast!) if the wind blows from the opposite direction. By contrast, if you download a larger GRIB file, you might see a convergence zone with northwest winds on one side and southeast winds on the other. The big picture is important to understand because minor inaccuracies in the forecast can result in a major predicament that leaves you pitching and rolling off a lee shore. 

Looking at the big picture also means that you can prepare for multiple scenarios and have alternative anchorages in mind. We like to explore cruising areas thoroughly and have our own GPS tracks to follow to a safe anchorage in the event of a windshift—a tool that is especially helpful if a move must be made during a squall or in the middle of the night.

Get a feel for weather patterns. During a prolonged stay in a protected anchorage, it’s interesting to look at the forecasts every day. What’s typical for the season and area? Do forecasts tend to overestimate or underestimate weather features? How do systems move? What can you expect from windshifts from certain directions—sunny skies or squalls? If you know your weather, then you can enjoy fair-weather sailing downwind or use the windshifts that passing troughs generate to make miles against the prevailing trades. 

Wait for proper windows. Losing your patience and sailing out on a suboptimal weather window is tempting, but it often leads to frustration. Flogging sails in fickle winds, or too much wind from the wrong direction, is worse than waiting. 

Once you find your window, make sure that you have a reliable source for forecasts underway. Whether you’re using an SSB or Iridium, monitoring forecasts means you can change course if needed, or head for an alternative destination. 

Each year, we sail east from Tahiti toward the Tuamotus in September or October, and each year neighbors ask us which island we’re headed for. The answer’s always the same: “Where the wind will allow us to go.” Setting out with winds from the northerly quadrant, we make miles eastward and try to get as far as we can. If the wind shifts back to the east earlier than expected, or has less of a northerly component than hoped for, we have half a dozen atolls from which to choose. 

Keep it up. Continue to look at forecasts even at anchor, and be prepared to move. What looks like a benign calm in the anchorage might, in reality, be an approaching system loaded with squalls. Being prepared with information is better than trying to ride out nasty conditions on the wrong side of an atoll. Fetch can build quickly, and waves can reach surprising heights. We were anchored recently on the east side of Maupihaa in the Society Islands when we noticed that the GRIB files showed a major wind shift within the next two days. Those shifts often come with squally fronts, so we warned our neighbors in the anchorage and set out to explore alternative spots in the atoll that might be safer in the clocking winds. When the front arrived with 30 knots from the northwest, we were comfortably anchored behind a beautiful motu on the northwest side. Unfortunately, the boats that decided to ride out the shift on the east side spent “the worst night of their cruising lives,” according to the skipper of a 50-foot catamaran, even though they were anchored just 2 miles away from us on the other side of the tiny lagoon. 

Birgit Hackl and her partner, Christian Feldbauer, have cruised French Polynesia for eight seasons. For more information, visit their blog.

Check the Charts for Patterns

Cross-referencing pilot charts, local guides, and anchorage guides can offer a good overview and insight into the weather patterns of an area. 

See our satellite data-based global interactive wind atlas at pitufa.at/oceanwinds.

Pacific Weather

The weather in the South Pacific is dominated by two big highs—the Kermadec high and the Easter Island high—with the South Pacific Convergence Zone in between. The trade winds here are not as stable as Atlantic and Caribbean trades, and can be frequently interrupted by troughs that travel along the convergence zone. Every couple of weeks, a passing trough lets the winds clock around, which is annoying when passagemaking westward but handy when hopping eastward along the islands.

We use Meteo France’s weather bulletins and surface ­analysis, NOAA’s surface analysis and cyclone warning site, and the weekly summaries of MetBob’s Bob McDavitt. All of those sites are embedded here: pitufa.at/weather-fp.

For Fiji, see the weather forecasts on the government’s ­official site (met.gov.fj), which includes the marine forecast.

These sources provide a general overview: 

Pacific Crossing Guide (Adlard Coles Nautical); South Pacific Anchorages (Imray); Cruising World, July 2019, “Pacific Weather Routing”; and Cruising World, July 2019, “Pacific Passage Planning”.

We use an SSB radio in combination with a Pactor modem to download forecasts underway, or when in remote areas. SSB propagation is limited to certain times of the day, so some cruisers prefer a satellite phone. No matter which medium you use, saildocs.com provides a great free service to download forecasts, using small files to save data. For French Polynesia, visit pitufa.at/weather-fp.

The post Pilot Charts, GRIB Files and Wind Patterns: Understanding Weather Bulletins, Models and Forecasts Makes for Safer, Happier Cruising. appeared first on Cruising World.

How do you plan for a sailing voyage that promises extended time at sea? Aboard our Stevens 47, Totem, our family’s circumnavigation has included a number of memorable passages, enough to appreciate that each one requires careful research and preparation. And so, after a prolonged pause from voyaging brought on by an ­extensive refit of Totem, and the pandemic, we’re making this year’s plans for sailing into the Pacific with extra care.

Careful planning isn’t called for just because we’re rusty, although what should have been a year or two in coastal Mexico will stretch to nearly four by the time we cast off for the South Pacific. What we’ve learned from past ­voyages is that it’s always appropriate to plan carefully, and even more so here because of the series of passages between relatively remote islands that our first crossing will set up. After sailing roughly 2,900 nautical miles from La Paz, Mexico, to Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas, there’s a lot more Pacific to traverse. When we crossed the Pacific in 2010, those passage lengths typically ranged from 300 to 700 nautical miles. In 2022, closed borders will force longer distances between welcoming harbors. 

We’ll have plenty of time on the three-week sail to Nuka Hiva to contemplate later route planning, interspersed with dodging squalls through the Intertropical Convergence Zone and equator-crossing ceremonies. Here’s how we kick off that planning: with a zoomed out, big-picture view of the seasons.

Big-Picture Planning

A comfortable crew is a happy crew, so choosing good conditions sets up an easier and safer passage. But gazing at the trees on a hike tells you nothing of the forest and hazards that could be waiting weeks or months ahead. For sailors, focusing on the next passage creates a blind spot for seasonal hazards. Hurricanes, severe lightning, frequent gales, and monsoon winds from the wrong direction are a few ways discomfort and unsafe conditions force a stressful reality.

How do you work out that overarching plan? A ­fundamental task is to review pilot charts for a particular region to consider timing. These charts show monthly averages in wind directions and strength, ocean currents, storm tracks, average number of gales per month, and other weather data. 

Jimmy Cornell’s World Cruising Routes is another way to make big-picture plans. This tome distills the information encompassed by pilot charts into passage-by-passage recommendations, with notes on the best and worst time of year for each. These recommendations are a great shortcut to see when it’s good to sail from, say, Mexico to the Marquesas, but won’t provide the bigger view a regional pilot chart offers. 

What weather features bookend the cruising season in the region you will cruise? Does the season end with a hard stop, such as reversed wind direction in monsoon regions? We were lucky when we were sailing Totem over the top of New Guinea because of a later-than-expected arrival of a monsoon change. When it arrived, it would bring headwinds, and we were grateful to have extended calms to get west while they loitered from the forecast.

Or will the seasonal ­transition be more like ­cruising in New England, where mild summer ­conditions give way to cold temperatures and frequent gales? The stress from running late in a seasonal change might feel 1,000 nautical miles away from an idyllic anchorage in the good season, but the good feeling is gone when ­weather windows for an intended ­passage stop opening.

For boats headed along the storied coconut-milk run of the South Pacific, planning means debunking a popular cry claimed upon arrival in French Polynesia from the Americas: “We’ve crossed the Pacific!” Declaring “mission accomplished” promulgates the perception that once you arrive, the hard part is over. While it might be the longest passage in a westabout circumnavigation, French Polynesia is only about one-third the distance across the Pacific. There’s no easy way to reverse those miles, so another part of big-picture planning is the exit strategy. 

Plans and exit strategies are further complicated by the pandemic. In the past, gaining entry to nations in Oceania was mainly a matter of having current paperwork and providing advance notification for some countries. Our prior Pacific crossing aboard Totem was marked by a series of three- to five-day passages after our 19 days of sailing to the Marquesas. Planning for the upcoming Pacific sailing, we anticipate fewer short hops and several longer passages with at least three in the 2,000- to 3,000-nautical-mile range. 

Departure from Mexico is best made after the North Pacific high sets up west of Baja and Southern California, bringing better wind to an otherwise fickle wind region. This could be in March, but in reality, finishing Totem’s 40-year refit in preparation for future voyages might push our departure closer to the transition to hurricane season. This is a bookend we take very seriously.

Our exit strategy after a season in the South Pacific is based upon countries we know we can access. It’s a moving target due to the pandemic, but our endgame will be one that won’t look to the conventional destinations of New Zealand or Australia. Instead, our gaze is turned northward with the hope that one or more of the islands between Fiji and Guam will provide the opportunity to continue a westward migration while flipping hemispheres to remain outside a zone of active hurricane risk.

Set the Route

When creating a route for a passage, we begin with the start and end waypoints. The ­resulting track might be enough for a simple rhumb-line course, but usually there are hazards in the path. Additional waypoints added between the original two establish a route around fixed hazards. The goal is to create a route that is unquestionably safe.

Once we’ve added waypoints around all hazards and tweaked them for efficiency, we zoom in to ensure that every mile of our passage is hazard-free. Remember, electronic charts might not show small ­hazards when zoomed out. The consequences of not spotting them span from unfortunate to tragic loss of life. The most fundamental goal of creating a route is that it is free of fixed, known hazards. 

From this safe path, we can modify the route to incorporate sailing strategy. This can be to avoid a foul current, get to better wind sooner, dodge degrading weather, and many other reasons. In practical terms, this means that our passage from Mexico to the Marquesas has four distinct legs.

First: getting away from the coast. The region from which we’ll depart has variable winds that can make for a slow start to a very long passage if not accounted for.

Next come the northeast trades. They make for good and easy sailing but come with a tricky finish in staging for the best place to cross the ITCZ.

Then it’s time to cross the ITCZ’s doldrums. This area of little wind and many squalls is dynamic, shifting north to south and getting wider and narrower. The least amount time spent there, the better.

Finally, we’ll encounter the southeast trades. Within a few degrees south of the equator, these winds kick in for a fast home stretch to the Marquesas.

Each stage has a common set of conditions and tactics. We’ve also found that it helps shorten a longer passage by setting milestone (well, waypoint) goals along the way. At each, adjustments can be considered to account for weather or notice to mariners of possible developing hazards. Going north from Grenada in the Caribbean, for instance, there is one such notice to avoid the area known as Kick ’em Jenny, which is an underwater ­volcano that, when active, is best sailed around. Again, if you change course for a safer and more efficient route, zoom in, from start to finish, to ensure that no fixed hazards will be met.

Pick a Weather Window

The weather in which you depart to sail across a bay or ocean is a choice. Interpreting weather tools ­successfully takes practice. Hiring a weather router can be a terrific way to ensure better passage weather while improving your own weather game. 

But whether you plan to forecast on your own or rely on a router, start with a “we’re ready to depart on” date, rather than fixed departure date. It lowers a crew’s disappointment should the weather not be right to set out in. Look at weather patterns well in advance of the ready-to-go date. This can reveal trends helpful to routing strategy, the likelihood of getting underway when you hope to, and what the weather might be like. And look at the broader picture. Big weather far away might not have a direct influence, but it can deliver a complicating sea state.

Some passages will promise to be a joy, with terrific sailing, or tough-but-manageable conditions but with no hard stop at departure time because of the approach of bad conditions. When the forecast shows that the weather window will shut hard at some point during the crossing, then consider treating the passage more like a delivery. Set and stick to a minimum and realistic speed to arrive in advance of bad weather. If this includes the notion of racing to stay ahead of the bad weather, then there probably isn’t adequate buffer unless you are truly prepared for and capable of the consequences of running late. 

Since forecast accuracy decreases after three days, longer passages require more of the crew. On Totem’s 1,000-mile voyage to South Africa from Madagascar, a major gale showed up on the forecast about halfway through the passage. There was no bailout option. Forecast timing had us arriving in Richard’s Bay six to nine hours ahead of when gale-force southerly winds would smash into the strong, south-flowing Agulhas current. This recipe for disaster kept us pressing hard to maintain a buffer. Still, the gale arrived a little early, and we bashed our way through brutal conditions—but only for the last 5 miles.

Know Destination Details

When sketching out the passage plan, learn about the arrival formalities at your destination. It might be as simple as an automatic visa, using current vessel documentation and valid crew passports. Or it can be complicated, and our Pacific plans play out that version. Here are the questions that we’re asking:

• Are visas granted on arrival? Will they last long enough for what we are planning?
• Is a cruising permit required?
• Does the country ­require advance permission or notification for arrival?
• What is the arrival ­procedure and documentation required?
• Is an agent helpful (or necessary)?
• And in the pandemic era, what are the health checks and tests needed for entry?

Our plans to take Totem to French Polynesia tick many of these boxes, starting with visas. Like many other nationals, US citizens are granted a 90-day visa on arrival. For those who want more time to explore the archipelagoes and islands, the process to apply for a longer ­visa begins at a consulate months before actual arrival. 

Permission to arrive isn’t a given. Although COVID has kept borders officially closed, exceptions to arrive should be applied for in advance with DPAM, the maritime authority in French Polynesia. Since September 2021, entry ­permissions have been readily granted to smaller crews who present proof of vaccination. 

Arriving in certain Pacific nations without ­permission, when a permit or visa is required, has resulted in boats turned away, or worse. A German crew arriving in New Zealand were fined, had their boat confiscated, and were deported—with a police escort.

When approaching the Polynesian islands, additional advance notice is required to alert officials of a boat’s pending arrival. Once ashore for formalities, a bond must be posted to secure the cost of repatriation should you be required to depart the country by air. The layers of this can mean it’s easier to secure an agent to facilitate the process—a step Totem’s crew is taking. Arriving without knowing the requirements and having the proper documents can mean being turned away or fined, or both.

In addition to the ­legal requirements of a new destination are the practical ones. What charts are most ­accurate for the area, if any? We usually have at least two chart sources for any region. Often enough there are discrepancies between them, a reminder that the burden lies ultimately on piloting skills. When we were in Madagascar, a cruiser lost his boat on a charted reef. One chart showed a submerged reef, while the other showed a visible reef. He didn’t see the reef and assumed that the second chart, the one he was using, was wrong.

When a country doesn’t have resources to update charts or aids to navigation (something to which research should alert you), proceeding with exceptional caution and conservative choices is good seamanship.

The realities of the pandemic have added an additional layer to destination research. Still, the route we hoped for two years ago looks a lot like the one that might pan out for 2022—an unexpected delight. We know this only through careful, near-constant monitoring of updates on border closures. They’ve given us a feel for the tenor of decision-­making in individual countries to provide realistic grounding for the uncertainty of forward-­gazing in uncertain times.

The passage to the Marquesas and beyond excites us so much, in part, because it’s not just one extended passage, but the promise of several extended voyages as well. And shaking out the cobwebs during the planning process reminds us of a core characteristic of cruising that’s one of the reasons we love it so much: The opportunities to continue learning, and to improve our basis for understanding the dynamics of the world around us, are ever greater and more rewarding.

Behan Gifford and her husband, Jamie, are frequent CW contributors. They and their family are currently in Puerto Peñasco, Mexico, where they are neck-deep in projects as they refit their Stevens 47, Totem.

Plot a Voyage

Friends don’t let friends set autorouting and go! It might be fine for a snapshot, but no ­program anticipates the true ­complexity of a route.

• Begin by plotting in your starting point and destination.
• Zoom in to adjust departure and arrival points.
• Add waypoints to route you safely away from your departure point, and into your destination harbor.
• Add waypoints that shape the stages of your passage.
• Mark hazards (weather buoys) or possible ­hazards (debris areas) from research.
• Trace a zoomed-in view of the route for any ­charted hazards.
• Research and add bailout options and new routes in the event of changing circumstances that require rerouting ­underway, gear breakdowns, or unexpected weather or sea conditions.

Pilot Charts, Four Ways

Paper Pilot Charts:
Classic volumes are sold as a bound atlas, and are based on data going back to British Admiralty days, with one page for each month of the year; each book covers a major ocean region.

Cornell’s Ocean Atlas:
This spiral-bound book organizes monthly pilot charts for portions of the world in which cruisers are likely to be interested: a succinct format that allows breadth of coverage, and data is based on more-recent trends. These were developed by Jimmy and Ivan Cornell.

OpenCPN’s Climatology Plugin:
This free ­overlay to the open-source ­charting software allows users to scroll through historical weather data. It can be found online at opencpn.org/OpenCPN/plugins/climatology.html.

PDFs from the US Navy:
These are downloadable charts in PDF format, and are free from the US military, and are a no-cost option to get the ­information you want. Begin your search at www​.usno.navy.mil/FNMOC.

The post Planning an Offshore Passage appeared first on Cruising World.

The good news was that we were making 7 knots; the bad news was that we surfed at 12 knots down building seas. We were 20 miles to seaward of St. Augustine, Florida. A wan December dawn lit up a storm petrel. We’d zoomed here from Hilton Head in 20 hours. 

Following seas like those overwhelm the autopilot, so I was steering, and every wave brought us up and up for a view of tattered whitecaps, then released us on a luge run that settled us into its frothy trough. The cockpit was soaked from lashes of spray, and the companionway boards were bolted in. An hour earlier, I was on the pilot berth, half-sleeping and half-registering the violence in our motion. My wife, Whitney, came down to say “watch change,” and when she sat beside me, the stern slewed to one side, settled deep in a fluke wave, and: Bang! Splash! Drizzle! Salt water through the companionway, salt water gurgling out the scuppers, salt water pooling heavy in the cockpit…then Gusto rose again on the next wave. 

Pooped! Nature’s power written in salt, wind and worry. A cantankerous wave had broken into us, and outside the crests were just getting bigger. When a wave comes and finds you in your bunk, it feels personal. That’s why I was hand-steering in the dawn, and that’s why I was thinking about Greek mythology.

The gods seemed angry. Atlantic sailors saw more hurricanes, gales and squalls in 2020 than ever before. Between the waves in the cockpit and the wind in the rigging, I got the message. For those of us living aboard small sailboats, the relevant gods are the old ones, the pagan ones, those who make it personal. It’s Poseidon, Aeolus and Triton who drive spray over my dodger or tear the sheet off my genoa; they embody the same elements I negotiate by sail. They also embody the fact that cruising sailors will need to adapt to the environmental changes reshaping the Atlantic.

We left Maine in mid-­October to sail the East Coast to Florida, cross to the Bahamas, explore the Abacos, and then sail south toward the Exumas. That’s a straightforward goal for a sabbatical year. Plenty of blue water, and plenty of safe harbors too, for me, Whitney, and our 44-foot Chuck Paine-designed cutter, Gusto. The surprising thing was that the trip turned into a study on extreme weather, with conditions more severe than forecast, and conditions aboard more difficult than expected. The same old statistics about climate change are just not helpful anymore: hockey-stick graphs, parts per million, carbon sinks. It’s all so familiar that we barely see it anymore. Nonetheless, 2020’s stormy weather offers a pattern we have to decipher, and I think that sailors such as us can bring knowledge beyond the usual datasets and bromides about climate change.

First off, the weather has been tough lately. This year, 2021, got off to a windy start. The previous year was the most active hurricane year on record, and it follows above-average hurricane years in 2016, 2017, 2018 and 2019. That seems like a trend. I’m writing this in the Abacos, where Hurricane Dorian devastated this little cay called Man-O-War and left nearby Marsh Harbour with 70,000 homeless after sustained 185-knot winds and a 23-foot storm surge. That was September 2019, and there are still boats in the trees here, and docks twisted like pretzels. Throughout fall 2020, we found breezy days becoming small-craft advisories, and small-craft days becoming gales, and gales becoming storms we hid from like crabs in shells. 

A climate scientist friend tells me that the ocean holds 80 percent of the planet’s warming, and that when people talk global warming, they should be talking ocean warming. From his perspective, a changing climate is most likely to be expressed in a longer Atlantic hurricane season, more-vigorous tropical depressions, and stronger hurricanes. Coming south that fall, we saw hurricanes spinning south and west of us, and we watched the tropical depressions line up and march toward the US, with a record 12 named storms hitting the mainland. 

What’s going on? A warmer climate is generating rowdier weather that makes life less predictable for cruisers in our little boats. Our cruising comfort is a small problem compared with the wrecked houses around me on Man-O-War Cay—that’s life and death, while cruising is a pursuit that thousands of us enjoy afloat. Still, amid these new conditions, sailors do have an intimate relationship to the forces of sea and sky, and it is this closeness that brings me back to the Greek gods. 

The ancient Greeks personified their gods into imperfect, fascinating beings who got jealous and frustrated and played favorites. Start with Poseidon, of course. The Greeks gave him the sea, while Zeus got the sky. Poseidon figures prominently in the Homer’s Odyssey because Odysseus angers him. The angry sea god wrecks Odysseus’ ship, drowns his companions, and leaves him a castaway for 10 years before washing him ashore. Not a kind and gentle god, Poseidon. Amphitrite is Poseidon’s wife, and to chasten you sailors, she controls huge waves and sea monsters; while to delight you, she made seals and dolphins. Their son, Triton, lives at the bottom of the sea, and he can blow a conch shell to raise or lower the waves that break into your cockpit if you’re not careful. It’s a double-edged sword with pagan deities: When they’re happy, they send you a friendly current or lift you around a cape, but when they feel slighted, these old gods will ruin your day. 

Philosopher Glenn Albrecht calls climate change “the new abnormal,” and he writes, “We have nothing in our culture that enables us to come to grips with the changes that have occurred since the Industrial Revolution.” Albrecht is looking back two centuries; cruising sailors see harsher weather in the past two decades. Here in the resilient-but-battered Abacos, it’s blowing 30 again. The rigging drums on the mast, and I ­wonder if revisiting the old gods can bring me to a better grip on this new abnormal climate. The distant abstractions of climate science don’t register with me as directly as the eccentric, recognizable deities of the pagan ocean.

By reminding myself who these gods are, I know who to talk to when the going gets tough. I also know who to thank for the good times. For instance, the gods smiled on us rounding Cape Hatteras. We sailed toward Diamond Shoals in clouds so dark, the whitecaps seemed bright and the bow was blind to the stern. The forecast was for light winds when we motorsailed out of Cape Charles at sunrise, but sunset gave us 20 knots of breeze, midnight gave us 30, and at 0115, I was on deck checking the preventer on our reefed main. Should I be worried? Mist hid the lighthouse and the buoys, but as we approached the crux, a favorable current grabbed Gusto, eased the seas before us, and swept us between the shoals and the abandoned Texas Tower at 9 knots. It was like old Poseidon smiling when we touched 10 knots rounding that fierce cape, a speck of bubbling buoyancy amid grand forces.

It wasn’t all smiles, though. Two days later, we were anchored in Beaufort, North Carolina, and the forecast northeaster built into a gale with lightning strikes. The current held us sideways to 50-knot gusts that dipped our rail like a ladle—the keeper of the winds, Aeolus, demanding attention. Around us, two boats dragged and one went ashore in a slow-motion funeral, while our dinghy flew like a kite from Gusto’s stern. Poseidon? The god of thunder was on the prowl too, and our hair stood up and the backstay crackled with close strikes. When Zeus blasts close enough to smell the ozone, it’s time to pay attention. 

So, I wonder, have we sailors done anything to insult the natural world? Have we behaved recklessly or selfishly toward Poseidon’s domain? The warming climate is giving us all a harsher climate to navigate. The US Navy is planning accordingly for climate-change impacts, and so should the rest of us.

 Think of the 2020 hurricane season: Sailors watched with surprise as the names ticked deep into the alphabet—from Arthur and Bertha to Isaias and Josephine, and then Teddy and Vicky before we found ourselves in a fraternity party of Greek names Delta and Epsilon, Theta and Iota. There’s so much heat and energy out in the Atlantic these days that cruising sailors need new ways to make sense of this new abnormal. These ancient gods and this weather combine to make climate change comprehensible when my direct experience of it is either too anecdotal to trust or too scientific to make human. On our trip south, we sailed in 30-plus knots more than 20 times. Hell, it’s blowing 30 in the anchorage as I write this! If the forecast gets overwhelmed once or twice, that’s happenstance, but if it gets overwhelmed a dozen times? The gods are telling you something.

The unsympathetic will tell cruisers to “work around it” or “change your plans,” and that’s fair, but the window for passages is already tight. Think of the Bermuda race in early June, and the need to leave New England warm enough to feel your hands, but then turn around and get back ahead of the hurricanes in July. The reverse issue applies in the fall when New England cruisers (and their insurance companies!) wait for the end of hurricane danger but need to get south before cold winter gales batter them. We pushed off the last dock afloat in Falmouth, Maine, on October 18, with sleet in the air. All down the New England coast, mooring balls were out and docks were stored. We spent Halloween watching a snowstorm tear leaves from Connecticut oaks and strain our ground tackle. In short, a longer hurricane season brings cruisers a tight calendar for springtime passages, and then, come October, that same long hurricane season pushes cruisers to the doorway of unruly fall weather and winter. Most everyone we met in Florida talked about the year’s harsh conditions. 

How are we to understand the changes that leave us precious little space to take our small boats and small crews on big passages? Well, Greek mythology is one approach, and I suggest it with a wry smile. Obviously, NOAA is a better resource for planning a passage than your Western Civilization textbook. But pulling back for the longer view, maybe there’s something useful in personifying the sea into a family of interests that I should conciliate instead of provoke. Maybe this climate-­change crisis needs us to make it personal? A little less carbon, a little more green energy, a little less fast food and a little more gardening? Gusto’s cruise south warned me that our Atlantic sailing season is changing, and that sailors will need to adapt to a rowdier reality afloat, with bigger systems, hotter growth zones, tighter windows and pricier insurance. All these can be graphed and detailed, but the direct experience as waves crash over your foredeck is more visceral. To me, that physical connection with the elements is better captured by Poseidon and Triton than by climate science because those humanized gods tell me to take the new abnormal personally—it’s my fault and it’s my problem. So, when the wind moans in the rigging and the waves pile high above the transom, it’s the sea gods who seem angry, and the sea gods make it personal.

Jeffrey McCarthy is a professor at the University of Utah, where he is director of the Environmental Humanities graduate program. He sails Gusto out of Belfast, Maine.

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A small miracle happened to me recently. It was a message from the past, and so many memories flashed through my mind. It’s not often that one small thing can bring so much joy. But this unexpected phone call certainly did. 

First, a little backstory. Many years ago, in 1966, there was a young Australian bloke who built a small wooden boat he hoped to sail around the world. This young man of 24 was Andy Wall. He lived in Avalon, Australia, just north of Sydney. The boat design was called a Carmen Class. It was 30 feet long, with 27 inches of freeboard aft, blue gum timber frames and a flush deck, with a tiny dodgerlike doghouse covering the cabin hatch. Andy named his boat Carronade, after the small but powerful cannons used on the British warships of yore.

From the moment construction began, Andy knew that this small boat would be his home and his conveyance to grand adventure. When construction was complete, Andy and his two mates, Des Kearns and Ken Mills, set off from Pittwater, Australia.

To go below deck, one had to bend at the waist and crawl through the small hatch. Once below, there was a mere 5 feet of headroom. Carronade had no toilet, just a sturdy black bucket. She had a small kerosene stove and a tiny 1-cylinder Volvo that had to be hand-cranked to start. She had a pipe berth in the forepeak where all the sails were stowed, a small settee bunk, and a cramped chart table—that was it. There were no tanks, just jerry cans for water and fuel, and a tiller for hand steering. 

In the cockpit, there was a beautiful Sestrel binnacle compass with an artistic fleur-de-lis pointing north. Andy had no clue how to celestial navigate, but he had the good sense to get all the proper equipment: his grandfather’s sextant, a Walker log for dead reckoning, a Zenith Trans-Oceanic radio, a nautical almanac, and the tables and paper charts needed to navigate. Most importantly, he had a little book by Mary Blewitt, Celestial Navigation for Yachtsmen.

Anyone who has tried celestial navigation knows that it ain’t easy. As Carronade and her crew made their way across the rough and rugged Tasman Sea, Andy was not at all sure his sights and novice calculations were accurate. Luckily, the weekly seaplane delivering supplies from Sydney to Lord Howe Island flew overhead just as Andy was second-guessing his exact position. Andy took a quick compass bearing of the plane’s course using the Sestrel compass. Following that course, the boat and crew made their first landfall. Andy had become pretty proficient in his celestial navigation, but it was that plane and that little compass that got them safely to their first landfall. 

Carronade’s route across the Pacific followed a zigzag of islands beckoning to these three lads. From Lord Howe Island to New Zealand, to the Austral Islands south of Tahiti, then French Polynesia (where Ken Mills flew back to Australia and Bob Nance came aboard). Next, Hawaii, San Francisco, the Marquesas, and back to Tahiti again. Their longest passage was from Papeete nonstop to Cape Horn. From there, they headed up the east coast of South America, and then on to the West Indies, the Bahamas and finally to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where I met Andy. 

That little compass saw it all! Andy and I had our honeymoon sailing little Carronade across the Atlantic, stopping in Bermuda and the Azores, and making landfall in Falmouth, England. We spent two years—1972 and 1973—cruising England, Holland and Belgium, and then back home across the Atlantic via Spain and the Canary Islands. 

When Andy and I arrived in Fort Lauderdale, Billy Nance (the brother of Andy’s crew Bob Nance) was standing on our dock waiting to take our lines. He offered to buy Carronade and suggested we build a bigger boat. “I know an Australian who has made a mold of the three-time winner of the Sydney to Hobart Race, Freya. Why don’t you build a bigger boat, start a family, and I will take Carronade back to sea?” 

RELATED: Navigation Apps You Can Take for a Sail

And so began the story of Kandarik, our Freya 39, which now sits alongside my dock, full of tales of her own. But, back to the story of our compass. Sadly, after six crossings of the Atlantic, Andy died suddenly in 2008. Twelve years later, in summer 2020, I received a phone call from Skip Granger. He had owned Carronade after Billy Nance, and eventually sold her. I had lost touch with Skip until he called me out of the blue.

“Pam, it’s Skip here. I have Carronade’s original compass in my garage. Would you like it?” 

Would I like it? Yes! That amazing compass guided Andy, his crew, and myself through many adventures and around the globe. I rushed over to Skip’s house, and put the battered, old and weary compass in my car. The binnacle and compass desperately needed refurbishing— I replaced the liquid in the compass, and my friend Cathy put a new coat of paint on the pedestal, varnished the teak spacer, and polished the binnacle back to its original shine.

I don’t know why Skip had the compass after selling Carronade, but I guess he can explain that someday. The important thing is that my son, Jamie, now has this precious legacy of his father.

Pam Wall and her family circumnavigated aboard their 39-foot Freya sloop, Kandarik. Wall is a sailing consultant and speaker who loves teaching and encouraging cruisers. For more, visit pamwall.com.

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