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In our June/July issue, we looked at optional bonding systems, which are typically associated with corrosion prevention. Closely related to bonding systems are mandatory alternating current safety grounds. If your vessel has an AC power system—supplied by shore power, a genset or inverter—then the safety ground is critically important.  

The terms “ground,” “bond” and, to some extent, “DC negative” are often used interchangeably. While they are related, they each have a different mission.

In marine electrical systems, a ­grounded conductor is always common with ground. This would apply to the ­neutral or white wire in a 120-volt, alternating current (VAC) system. The conductor must always be common with the ground at its source, which includes a dockside utility transformer, onboard ­generator or inverter, or onboard transformer. The conductor can also include objects that are permanently connected to the grounding system, thereby making them grounded at all times.

A grounding conductor provides a path to a power source only in the event of a fault. It does not carry current or amperage under normal conditions. Grounding conductors are typically green, and they are, or should be, part of every onboard alternating current electrical system. All ungrounded, or “hot,” AC conductors must be run with a grounding conductor alongside them in the same sheath or bundle.

Contrary to popular belief, electricity does not seek ground. In fact, it seeks to return to its source, which often is grounded. In the case of an onboard AC system, this means that a fault will attempt to return to a dockside utility transformer, where the ground and neutral are bonded. If the boat is away from the dock, the electricity will seek to return to one of the other aforementioned sources: the generator or inverter.  

The most common type of AC ­electrical fault involves an energized, hot or ungrounded conductor coming into contact with a metallic object. This object could include an electrical enclosure such as an inverter chassis; the outer portion of a galley appliance, such as a refrigerator, toaster or coffee maker; or engine blocks and tanks. If these objects are not grounded, then they will become energized by the fault.

In a scenario I experienced personally, an energized conductor chafed against a fastener securing a sail track. The vessel was hauled. I leaned an aluminum ladder against the rail on a rainy day. When the ladder made contact with the rail, a return path was completed via the utility company’s grounded transformer, and via my hands and feet. I received an electric shock.

Probably thanks to my heavy-soled boots, this shock was uncomfortable but not life-threatening. If I’d been barefoot, you likely would not be reading this column now.

The reason this near-catastrophic scenario occurred was because the sail track was not grounded. Here’s where bonding and AC safety grounds intersect. These two systems should be common for this very reason. Had the sail track been bonded when the wire chafed through to it, the fault current would have been able to return to its source, thereby tripping a circuit breaker.  

Some builders, in an attempt to mitigate corrosion, opt to isolate bonding and AC safety ground systems. The scenario I experienced is precisely why that approach is undesirable. Ultimately, for the greatest degree of safety, all grounding, bonding, DC negative and lightning-protection systems should be common; electrocution protection should trump real or perceived corrosion mitigation.

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

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When Kirsten Neuschäfer decided to compete in the 2022-23 Golden Globe Race, she searched for a fast, safe and stable boat. She studied designs with a good ballast-to-weight ratio, and sought out a hull and rig that could withstand a hard beat to windward. 

She found Minnehaha in Newfoundland and knew that the tough, sturdy Cape George 36 was the one. The quick cutter with a generous sail plan met all of the official requirements—a production boat with a full keel, less than 36 feet long, designed before 1988—and a few requirements she had set for herself. 

“I wanted a super-secure boat for the Southern Ocean, which was fast as well,” Neuschäfer says. “Minnehaha suffers a little in light airs, but I knew I had a good chance of surviving. It was clear to me that the GGR was a bit of a race of attrition.”

Her instincts, along with detailed preparation, hard work and a bit of luck, served her well. Eight months after 16 skippers set out from the west coast of France to race solo 30,000 miles eastbound around a Southern Ocean course, Neuschäfer and Minnehaha caught one last whisper of wind off Les Sables d’Olonne, ghosted over the line, and sailed into history.

“I didn’t actually know that I’d won until the boats came out to meet me,” the South African sailor said of her historic finish. “I knew I was very close to Abhilash, so I was pushing hard. I knew we were very close.”

Indian skipper Abhilash Tomy battled the same light airs that Neuschäfer faced near the end of the race and arrived a day after, taking second place. Austrian Michael Guggenberger finished third, as the final skipper to complete the race in the racing class.

The Golden Globe Race is a nonstop, solo, unassisted round-the-world race with the start and finish line in Les Sables d’Olonne. Competitors are required to sail small boats using paper charts, VHF radio, sextants and celestial navigation. No modern weather-routing software is allowed, nor satellite communication, electronic instruments and autopilots. 

The route takes the sailors south through the Atlantic before heading east to Cape Town, South Africa, and around the Cape of Good Hope. After crossing the Indian Ocean and keeping Tasmania to port, sailors traverse the storm-plagued Southern Ocean and round Cape Horn. The ­final stretch leads north through the Atlantic and back to Les Sables d’Olonne.

Of the 16 skippers who started the 2022-23 race, 11 retired and two others made a single stop, moving them out of competition and into the Chichester Class. Neuschäfer’s victory made her one of only three people to win the race—and the first woman ever to win a solo circumnavigation yacht race.

“Minnehaha suffers in light airs, but I knew I had a good chance of surviving. The GGR is a race of attrition.”

The race is based on the 1968-69 Sunday Times Golden Globe Race, won by Sir Robin Knox-Johnston aboard his 32-foot Bermudan ketch, Suhaili. Knox-Johnston was the only skipper to finish; in doing so, he became the first person to solo-circumnavigate the globe nonstop. Nine others retired, one was dismasted, and one committed suicide. The race was run once more in 2018, on the 50th anniversary of the original race. Eighteen sailors set out, and five ­finished. French sailor Jean-Luc Van Den Heede won the 2018 edition. 

More people have gone into space than have sailed singlehanded around the world. The small nature of the club means that the sailors, while competing, still look out for one another’s health and safety.

During the first dash south down the Atlantic in the 2022-23 race, Neuschäfer relayed to the race committee the VHF-radio mayday call of fellow sailor Guy DeBoer, who’d hit rocks near the Canary Islands. After a night spent grinding over the rocks, DeBoer abandoned his boat the next morning with the help of a local rescue team.

Two months later, 450 miles southeast of Port Elizabeth, South Africa, Tapio Lehtinen’s Gaia 36, Asteria, flooded after taking on water from astern, and sank in less than 20 minutes. Lehtinen had just enough time to activate his EPIRB, put on his survival suit, and swim to his drifting life raft. “I gave Asteria a last standing salute as she went down,” the Finnish skipper said. Neuschäfer, the closet sailor to his position, altered course and hand-steered through the night to assist in his rescue. 

“The emergency handheld GPS showed Tapio’s coordinates,” Neuschäfer says. “I followed the track, but it was very difficult to spot a small, orange life raft. I was able to reach him on the VHF, but the early morning light was behind him, and I couldn’t see him. He fired off a flare, and I approached him on a beam reach. He’d been waiting 24 hours and was ready. He threw me a line, and I caught it on the first try, pulled him in, tied the life raft to Minnehaha, and helped him aboard.”

The two sailors shared a glass of rum. An hour later, Neuschäfer managed Lehtinen’s dangerous transfer from Minnehaha to bulk carrier Darya Gayatri, a freighter that had responded to the emergency call as well. “When I saw he was on board, I was just relieved for him,” she says.

Neuschäfer’s own heavy-weather plan focused on mitigating risks and staying true to strategies she’d set. When a low-pressure system approached on her way south to Cape Horn, she set a warp off her stern and held on for 12 hours until the storm blew over. In strong winds north of the Falklands, she hove-to, knowing that beating to windward in the extreme conditions risked damage to her boat. 

By this time in her life, she was no stranger to adventure. Neuschäfer’s early years had led her from South Africa to a set of jobs in Europe, followed by a solo trans-Africa biking trip, where she pedaled the continent north to south in her 20s. Her later experience working for Skip Novak on his Pelagic Expeditions exposed her to the wind and weather systems of the Antarctic Peninsula, Patagonia and the Falklands, and built her familiarity with the Southern Ocean.

“You need a great deal of self-sufficiency on these expeditions,” she says. “You need to know which tools and spares to bring. You need to be able to do all kinds of troubleshooting, refit the boats, change out a propeller, or fix a rig under difficult weather conditions.”

Neuschäfer had also done several long-distance ­deliveries, including taking a Leopard catamaran from the South Africa factory to Australia, and completing a singlehanded delivery from Portugal to South Africa on what she calls a labor-intensive boat. “This, that and the next thing needed to be done, and I discovered that I can solve problems out at sea,” she says.

As she followed the 2018 Golden Globe Race, she liked its spirit of adventure. “There are a lot of reasons to decide not to do something,” she says. “Having succeeded and followed my heart in other decisions, I knew that the GGR was something I should do.”

Her plans were nearly derailed early when she left her boat in Newfoundland and flew to South Africa, and then COVID-19 restrictions kept her from returning to Canada. She was eventually able to get back to Newfoundland and sail to Prince Edward Island, where she spent a year preparing for the race. She fell in love with the people there and made lifelong friends. Several were present at the Golden Globe Race finish line in Les Sables d’Olonne.

For her part, Neuschäfer makes light of the fact that the race dubbed a “Voyage for Madmen” was won by a woman. “I entered as a sailor,” she says. “I competed as a sailor and won as a sailor. On the same token, it’s a male-dominated race. If what I did inspires someone, then good will come of it, and I’m happy for that.”

Neuschäfer clearly has inspired the sailing world. On the final night of her race, as Minnehaha made its way up Les Sables d’Olonne channel, thousands of supporters lined the harbor walls, cheering and waving flares. Neuschäfer’s smile lit up the night. When she reached the dock, a friend handed her a bottle of champagne, which she sprayed into the air. Dressed in her sailing bibs and bare feet, she stepped off her boat and onto dry land for the first time in 235 days, and hugged her mother. 

Theresa Nicholson is CW’s senior editor.

The post Solo Act: Kirsten Neuschäfer Wins the Golden Globe Race appeared first on Cruising World.

On your next (or perhaps first) sailing vacation, are you looking for history-steeped villages and afternoon sea breezes? Croatia’s got those. Or maybe big wind is your thing? Greece and Turkey in the summertime are known for their blustery meltemis. Then again, if a midwinter tropical escape would better fit your plans, Navigare Yachting can help you there too, with bases in the Bahamas and both the US and British Virgin Islands. 

Launched two decades ago with a single charter location in Greece, Navigare today operates in 9 countries—with more on the way—and it offers sailors a fleet of more than 300 sailboats, including monohulls from builders such as Arcona, Beneteau, Dufour, and Jeanneau, and sailing catamarans from brands that include Lagoon, Bali, Excess, and Fountaine-Pajot. Recently the company has added Aquila power cats to its lineup, and coming next year, it plans to offer all-electric Island Spirit Catamarans for charter. The plan is for the 52-foot sailing E-cat to make its debut at the Miami International Boat Show in 2024. Check out all of these options on Navigare’s Charter Page.

The vast majority of Navigare’s charter yachts are privately owned and managed by the company. Early on, the fleet was made up entirely of monohulls, but today, roughly two-thirds of the boats are catamarans. On the sales side, nearly 90 percent of the vessels Navigare delivers to owners are cats, and the company estimates that eventually multihulls will make up 80 percent of the fleet worldwide.

Coming from Scandinavia, Navigare founder and CEO Jesper Rönngard says that he always thought of the Mediterranean as the warm place for sailors. About 10 years ago, though, the company expanded first to Thailand and then to the BVI. Tortola, he says, is the most popular destination with American sailors. Today, the company does about half its business in the Med, and the remainder elsewhere in the world, including the Virgin Islands, the Seychelles and Sweden. The Bahamas, he notes, is also an extremely popular destination and earns nothing but five-star reviews with charterers. In 2024, the company plans to add St. Maarten and Tahiti to its list of destinations.

All About the Boats

With Navigare, no matter where or what you choose for your charter, the common denominator across the company is the keen attention the staff pays to maintaining the fleet, Rönngard says. 

“We really try to take care of the boats,” Rönngard says. “And by taking care of the boats, we take care of the boat owners and make sure the boat owners are happy. And that way, kind of as a bonus, the charterers are really happy with the boats. That’s been our idea from the get-go. When we started the company, it was always about maintaining the boats, giving them proper service. This way, we knew that we would grow, just by word of mouth.”

That’s not to say that every boat and every vacation is trouble-free—they’re boats, after all. But having the ability to respond quickly with a chase boat to make needed repairs is also something the staff does well, he adds.

Options for Charterers, Choices for Owners

There are a number of ways to charter with Navigare, the most common of which is a bareboat vacation of a week or longer, where you get the boat to use with family and friends as you wish. Other options include skipper and luxury crewed trips, by-the-cabin charters, and flotillas, where a local guide leads a number of boats that share an itinerary that can include both free time and group events. 

Navigare also offers sailing instruction so that guests can learn to skipper their own bareboat yachts. The two-week course is taught from the company’s base in Seget, Croatia, and uses a curriculum developed by the International Yacht Training Organization. It allows students to earn an IYT Bareboat Skipper Certificate. Details can be found at Navigare Yachting .

Yacht sales are another important part of Navigare’s business plan. Its brokerage office is based in St. Petersburg, Florida, and the company offers three programs for buyers, ranging from a fixed monthly income plan to one that gives an owner lots more flexibility in terms of risk and revenue. 

Details of the ownership plans are spelled out on the Navigare Yachting website, which is chock-full of other information about locations, itineraries, charter options, and the sailing school. There’s even an app you can download, so you can dream about and plan your next vacation on the fly. 

So where do you want to sail next? Navigare has you covered.

The post Ready To Go Sailing? A Global Charter Company Gives You Options appeared first on Cruising World.

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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!

The post  Do We Need Paper Charts on a Cruising Yacht? appeared first on Cruising World.

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I came to Lahaina from the south. After 13 days on an unleashed reach out of French Polynesia, I clung to the mast top, my legs wrapped in a death grip. We swung west into Alenuihaha Channel, known to Hawaiians as the river of laughing waters. The sun blazed and the trades howled as 20-foot rollers raced up our stern and frothed over the rails. Flying our heaviest chute was risky, as the channel boiled with towering whitecaps, but the Beach Boys blared from the deck speakers, and Maui loomed ahead in all its verdant glory. Cobalt-blue waves cascaded on the approaching lava rocks of Kaupo. Hana stood lush to the east, with the Big Island’s Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea silhouetted to the south.

I hadn’t been back to America in years, and I now charged full-tilt—unvanquished from the south seas under a swollen spinnaker, drunk on Brian Wilson.

It was gnarly up the mast. The horizon was a sweep of white water wrapped along the Maui shore, with roller after roller that threatened to bury us in the troughs. We broached, like a dog shaking a rat on a rope, and I slammed hard onto the deck with the bosun’s chair tangled around my legs. Our keel broke the surface as we buried the spreaders and spun out of control. All of us hung white-knuckled until the boat shuddered violently and tried to stand. We were a seasoned crew, baked brown and stringy by the sun. We hadn’t dropped the chute in 2,000 miles since leaving Tahiti. The closer Maui inched, the more we felt invincible. Landfall does that. After days at sea, every south sea island is an intoxicating rebirth of the senses, a virginal stirring of the heart. Lahaina was all of that. We had the boat tidied by the time we slipped past Kaho’olawe, into the lee of west Maui and the tranquil, humpback-strewn waters between Lahaina and Lanai.

Among cruisers around beach fires back in the South Pacific, Lahaina’s reputation was as a dusty, one-horse whaling town. I was on the beach in Huahine, set to hitch a berth to New Zealand, when “Hurricane Annie” Musselman, a striking female sailor fresh ashore after a 20-day sail from Maui, convinced me of the fun awaiting me in Hawaii, where I could then catch a boat to New Zealand next season.

In Hawaii, an endless arrival of passagemakers and wannabe sailors from the mainland made Lahaina their first stop. Those flying over never felt the same passion for the place; landfall was the only way to fathom the prize of Lahaina. From the sailor’s eye after days on the open ocean, Lahaina offered seduction like no other, bathed in the late-afternoon sunset sweetened by the fragrance of tuberose and mango that wafted miles offshore.

It wasn’t the thought of endless lilikoi cocktails, or the fantasy of tropically toned women exuberant with song and dance, their hair pinned with red hibiscus flowers and with plumeria leis around their necks. Beyond the fertile earth, fresh fruits, waterfalls, perfect surf, and harbor life of ocean sailors was the stunning Hawaiian backdrop and a celebratory welcome for sailors fresh from the sea, dues paid. Welcome to the land of earthly delights.

Lahaina’s harbor, first seen as mast tops peering over a small breakwall, was packed with working and provisioning yachts. At the entrance lay a weary 19th-century whaling ship, long in the rigging, and over its shoulder was an old missionary plantation home and museum adorned with whaling artifacts and reminders of the invasion of the Hawaiian Kingdom centuries ago.

The waterfront public library next door was the best place to watch the sunset through the palms, and next to that loomed the colonial, columned veranda of the Pioneer Inn, with its red roof, green sides, creaking wainscoting, whirring ceiling fans, open-air everything, and swinging saloon doors with a carved figurehead standing guard. The sound of a honky-tonk piano player pounding the ivories and wailing rousing tunes drifted from the saloon and across the anchorage, serenading us. Just beyond reach of the saloon was the canopy of an enormous banyan tree spreading a hundred yards in every direction. A missionary gift, it had been planted in 1873 by the widow of King Kamehameha. Lahaina, the capital of the Kingdom of Hawaii, which Kamehameha violently united, became the whaling capital of the world and commanded respect.

Even with its tin-pan serenades drifting across the water and its promises of revelry ashore, Lahaina was a sacred destination for those crossing the Pacific. Its backdrop was a riotous splash of color—a transformative sight after weeks at sea. Lush green cane fields rose up the slopes behind town, waving in the trade winds like a frozen sea. Red earthen foothills, ascending steep slopes to the majestic cloud-shrouded tops of the West Maui Mountains. Lahaina’s low-slung waterfront foreground bustled with green, shanty-style houses and humble shops all the way to the sugar cane mill, where every so often the sweet bouquet of molasses would blanket the town. Most harbor regulars nursed dreams of sailing to the South Pacific and were stopping just long enough to find a berth on a yacht heading south. Bikini-clad gals hawked sailing charters while gruff, unshaven sport-fishermen pitched billfish hunts. Sunset-cocktail-excursion captains, in bright-white uniforms with golden epaulets, recruited passengers. Sport divers in wetsuits hauling scuba tanks joined in the shouts amid the beer-drinking revelries of black coral hunters, stewed in their constant highs from too many daily 300-foot dives.  

Lording over it all, doling out privileges and access like a pirate king, was the leather-skinned, gray-bearded harbormaster. The rest of the town was second fiddle to the workings of that tiny harbor, the heartbeat of the town. Inebriated or not, the harbormaster could make or break sailing futures in this part of the Pacific. Flippant declarations boomed from the breakwall as he stalked the docks, banishing boats from the harbor, relegating them to endless hobbyhorsing at anchor, scheduling impossible departure times, and controlling the pace of work and supplies to replenish desperate sailors amid bribes, favors, and hard-luck tales.

A steady stream of entrepreneurs, street hustlers, harbor alcoholics, and starry-eyed youthful adventurers were always coming and going, convinced that they were at a pitstop en route to the South Pacific. Seemingly every waiter and waitress had dreams of being discovered, landing a berth on a boat heading south.

For many other locals, content with their hospitality and construction jobs, Lahaina was just home. Several hundred one-story houses of all shapes and tropical colors led from the water’s edge to the hillsides by the mill, sprawling neighborly toward the Kaanapali beaches to the north and the Olowalu beaches to the south.

Kaanapali, with its stretch of high-rise beachfront resorts, kept a good distance, about 4 miles from the hum of Lahaina, so their pampered guests could join the tourist hordes swarming town and then return to the civilized world of luxury Hawaiian resorts.

By contrast, many of Lahaina’s simply constructed neighborhood homes had basic tin roofs and green plywood sides, and were smart with a humble pride of ownership. Most houses had flourishing window boxes, and were peppered with hibiscus and plumeria hedges under the shade of towering mango and avocado trees with sweet gardenias, all thriving with minimal care. There was no need for heat or air conditioning, or even screens, in these homes. The streets were alive with locals and young folk making ends meet in town. Dogs barked, kids played, barbecues were everywhere, and bicycles were fine for getting around.

Kids wearing flip-flops and swimsuits skateboarded by the park or pedaled banana-seat bikes through town to the harbor break with surfboards under their arms. Pickups were the vehicle of choice, practical work vehicles suited to racing though cane fields. They’d cruise through town, tunes blasting with surfboards piled high, heading to the beach. Older locals surrounded by their broods of kids and grandkids hosted hula dances and strummed ukuleles beneath the banyan tree, or at the beach or grassy town parks, picnicking to beat the heat.

Lahaina was a tropical mecca of American pizzazz, where mainlanders swapped tales of the South Pacific. With the romance of the south seas under my belt, I was in no hurry to go back to sea, so I ran sailboat charters from here on a handful of yachts from 40 to 65 feet long that swept tourists off the beach for a heart-stopping sprint out to the Pailolo Channel wind line. We got a charge exciting the passengers, shifting without warning from a gentle, drink-sipping 7-knot drift to a rollicking, heeled-over, mai-tai-be-damned 15-knot dash into the teeth of the trades. If the passengers did not seem like they could handle the wind line’s excitement, we sailed calmly to Lanai’s Manele Bay, stopping halfway for a swim with the whales.

The real charter yachts were too big and too busy to handle the daily traffic in and out of Lahaina Harbor, so we sat on moorings off the resort hotels. There was Johnny Weismueller’s 60-foot 1929 schooner, Allure; Barry Hilton’s Alden 57, Teragram; the 54-foot aluminum ketch Minset; the Hermaphrodite schooner Rendezvous; and a handful of performance catamarans, which had the best layouts to accommodate hordes of tourist passengers, complete with midship bars, and could be rammed right onto the sand for loading and offloading. And the charter fleet wasn’t the only thing humming with intensity and tourists: Lahaina’s Front Street, the town’s waterfront artery, was the place to be. You could grab a drink at the Blue Max—a tiny, second-deck bar overlooking the seawall—and discover Elton John playing a surprise session on the piano. Jim Messina might drop in to perform at Kula’s Silversword Inn; Taj Mahal could be seen playing the congas to an empty beach at sunset; and Stephen Stills and David Crosby were regularly jamming aboard their boats at anchor. I recall Peter Fonda’s 73-foot sloop, Tatoosh, returning from the Marquesas, where I had recently shared trails with its crew while hiking the Nuku Hiva jungle. There were celebrities everywhere on Maui, a place where they could enjoy themselves without facing fandom.

One weekend, we filed aboard the square-rigged Rendezvous with friends and sailed to Oahu to hear the Eagles play Diamond Head crater. Days later, we rounded up our festival-weary crew for a quiet sail back to Maui. Getting around the islands was as easy as going down to the harbor and sticking out your thumb. One friend stood at the harbor entrance and hitched a ride on a sport-fishing boat heading to Oahu. He planted himself in the fighting chair and opened his paperback, ready for a nice read. Next thing he knew, the crew had hooked into something. They grabbed his book, strapped him in, and handed over a live rod. He spent the next four hours landing a 750-pound marlin for the first-ever fish thrill of his life.

Most of the Maui charter boats dragged lines just in case. They often landed ono, mahi, ahi and billfish. Once ashore, they would sprint to the best seafood restaurant in town and pocket a few hundred extra dollars for the crew. I recall a wedding sailing charter aboard Minset around Molokai’s Mokuhooniki Rock that double-hooked two big ono. After the wedding party fought and landed both fish, they returned to the dock bloodied, drunk and still smiling, with rave reviews.

The break at the harbor entrance was sweet enough to lure sunrise surfers from upcountry, a 30-minute drive from the volcanic slopes of Haleakala. As thick as tourists were in town, Lahaina’s waterfront shops had to cater to them. Along with its bounty of missionary folklore and whaling nostalgia, open-air bars, dive shops and salad bars, Lahaina sold trinkets, T-shirts, ice cream, Hawaiian-style jewelry, and the sort of faster food that tourists craving the hotel pool could quickly sample.

Around it all were the locals, living a life in the seams of tourist traffic, enjoying a shady beachfront tuft of palms and greenery, sitting with relatives on the sand, eating fish packets and coconut rice on the seawall. The proprietary goods that they depended on were relegated to tired one-story shopping centers on the periphery of town. The tourists came and went; it wasn’t difficult for residents to still feel a sense of steadfastness to Lahaina town. They tolerated the young people who moved in to take their hotel and tourism jobs. Compared with the relentless tide of visitors who abandoned their sensibilities when they became tourists, sailors often arrived with purpose and were commonly the most welcome of outsiders.

The famed Lahaina Yacht Club, host of the Victoria to Maui race and open to all visiting yachtsmen, was as unpretentious as there ever was a yacht club. It hosted none of the functions that typical yacht clubs host; it had no docks, no sweeping nautical lobby. Accessed through an insignificant Front Street doorway, the private club was disguised so well along retail row that visitors rarely found it on their first attempt. Inside, the dark, narrow hallway was decorated with photographs of classic sailboats finishing the Transpac and Victoria-Maui races, and framed letters from appreciative yachtsmen. A basic waterfront bar hung over the water with an intimate collection of tables. Dangling from the ceiling were burgees from visiting yachts from all around the world; upstairs, the loft had a few tables and backgammon boards. I participated in a couple of the Victoria-Maui races, as well as the dockside parties afterward. The bright-eyed patrons greeted us at all hours like heroes returning from the sea, offering flowered leis for each sailor, champagne, and lots of fresh fruit and pupus.

It’s an ecstatic moment for racing sailors, but cruising sailors wear their hearts on their sleeves and their first landfall is like a first kiss that can never be repeated. It’s a taste of wonder and redemption, almost salvation from any miscues of the passage, and a gratitude for an ocean’s drop of grace. In racing, the motivation is victory, the mission is speed, and glory the reward. While that’s a thrill worth seeking, in cruising, the promise of landfall is all heart.

The aching loss for this breathtaking Pacific landfall is that it will never be the same in Lahaina. The sailors will still come, but the landscape and the romantic legacy of a town that was an authentic kingdom’s home, a whaling mecca, a missionary post, and a working blend of tourism and local ohana is gone. What now remains of this legendary alluring paradise is but a barren gray stretch of ashen slabs and ghosts.

The town will be rebuilt and redefined by developers, legal setbacks and the buying power of realtors, but the soul of this Pacific pit stop and the prevailing Hawaiian spirit is at risk. The magic of this mythical landfall will never be quite the same.

Neil Rabinowitz is a longtime and frequent contributor to Cruising World as both a photographer and a writer. His work has appeared in Men’s Journal, Sports Illustrated, National Geographic, Outside, and The New York Times to name a few, and just about every marine publication. He has completed numerous ocean passages on both racing and cruising yachts and often finds inspiration recalling the romance of his first south seas landfall. He lives on a sunny farm on Bainbridge Island in the Pacific Northwest. 

The post An Ode to Lahaina appeared first on Cruising World.

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Set amid the azure waters of the Caribbean, the British Virgin Islands has long been a coveted destination for sun-seeking adventurers. With its vibrant coral reefs, quiet coves, and lively beach bars, the BVI is synonymous with relaxation and indulgence. 

The BVI is also renowned for its tourist attractions and well-­trodden paths, which is why, on a recent charter, our group of experienced charterers intentionally strayed from the familiar hotspots. In doing so, we found a side of the BVI that produced memories and stories anew. These newfound (to us) destinations offered a fresh glimpse into the singular charm of the BVI, which are just waiting to be discovered by intrepid souls who dare to look a little farther.

Sandy Spit

As the waves gently caressed the sides of our dinghy, I took a deep breath and gazed ahead at Sandy Spit, a tiny gem nestled in the heart of the British Virgin Islands. The sun painted a golden path on the water, as if guiding my wife and me toward a paradise we’d long dreamed of.

As the dinghy kissed the ­beachline, I leaped onto the ­pristine sands with anticipation and wonder, feeling the warmth radiating through my toes. Our friends had dropped us off for a few hours, promising to return later to whisk us away to the next destination on the itinerary. But for now, Sandy Spit was ours alone.

The island, barely more than a sandbar, stretched out in all directions, adorned with only a few swaying palm trees and a blanket of powdery white sand. The sand was cool and velvety, a luxurious carpet leading toward our own private sanctuary. We knew in a moment that this tiny island ­epitomized paradise in its purest form. It was a rare gift, a slice of heaven carved out just for us.

A simple isle merits simple pleasures, which, for us, included a charming picnic of tropical fruits, and the discovery of seashells and treasures that had washed up on the shore. Surrounded on all sides by majestic blue water and the beautifully jagged landscape of the BVI beyond it, it felt like we were all alone in the world’s most storied charter playground. Even today, when stress starts to get the better of me, I close my eyes and return to that perfect day on that tiny isle where time stood still.

Salt Island

A tiny droplet of moisture traced a path down my forehead while I leaned over the front of the RIB, maneuvering the painter to secure the dinghy to the mooring line near Black Rock Point on Salt Island. Submerged in the clear, shimmering water below were the remnants of the Rhone, a majestic steamship once belonging to the Royal Mail service. Its demise occurred during a hurricane back in 1867. 

With the dinghy secured and dive flag deployed, I glanced behind me for lurking jellyfish and then rolled backward off the dink, plunging into the bathlike water. An extraordinary world revealed itself: the vibrant dance of skittish reef fish, the kaleidoscope of corals in full bloom, and the whimsical sea turtle that was blissfully unaware of the concept of ­personal space. I swear that I almost heard the whispers of the 123 lost souls, as if they were keenly observing my every movement. It was ­haunting as each kick drove me deeper into the unknown, extending the boundaries of my comfort zone. 

While the Rhone is one of the most-sought-after diving destinations in the BVI, few charterers take the time to explore adjacent Salt Island, a place steeped in history and shrouded in mystery. Walking along the deserted shores, I felt a sense of awe as I discovered the remnants of salt pans that once served as the island’s lifeblood. I imagined the toil and perseverance of the salt miners of old. The weight of their stories added a layer of depth to the experience. 

History enthusiasts can learn a lot here about cultural heritage and the significance of salt production in shaping the region’s economy—not to mention escape from the crowds while reveling in the island’s seldom-touched beauty.

Fallen Jerusalem

As tourists flocked to the iconic giant boulders of the Baths on Virgin Gorda, I sought a quieter and more intimate experience. I’d heard whispers of a secluded cove nearby named Fallen Jerusalem, so we sailed across the channel toward it, accompanied by playful dolphins that danced in our wake. 

Approaching the shore, we were greeted not by other charterers, but instead by towering cliffs draped with vibrant greenery, framing a pristine beach. A leisurely stroll along the shoreline revealed hidden tide pools teeming with vibrant marine life. These natural pools, like tiny windows into an underwater world, offered a unique opportunity to observe colorful fish and delicate coral formations up close. 

Fallen Jerusalem has captivating underwater caves and grottoes that ­snorkelers and divers can explore under a cloak of solitude. The surrounding waters are protected as a marine sanctuary, ensuring the preservation of the island’s underwater ecosystem and contributing to ­sustainable tourism practices. 

Spring Bay

Spring Bay is a frequently overlooked beachcomber’s paradise. Sprinkled (although less liberally) with the same awe-inspiring granite boulders as its famous neighbor, the Baths, Spring Bay’s sprawling beachline offers a sense of peaceful grandeur. The soft white sands, calm waters, and swaying palm trees make it an idyllic spot to unwind with a Painkiller cocktail in hand and without the distractions of crowds.  

We had heard rumors of the great beaches surrounding the Baths, but nothing could have prepared us for the expanse of powdery white sand that ­greeted us like a welcoming carpet, nestled perfectly in the island’s lee. Turquoise waters lapped gently against the shore, inviting us to dip our toes and settle into a lovely, lazy beach day. We set up camp beneath the shade of a towering palm tree and spread out our beach towels to enjoy a picnic lunch and some tasty libations from our own galley, which was on the hook about a hundred feet off the shoreline. We reveled in the warm embrace of the ocean, our laughter echoing off the rocks as we played in the cove like carefree children. Donning snorkeling gear, we were instantly transported to a world teeming with schools of fish darting around us, and delicate coral formations posing as intricate sculptures. 

After a few carefree hours, Spring Bay became more than a beach to us; it was a cherished memory. Later, basking in the warm afterglow of a day well spent, we recalled how boat after boat had cruised right on by this picture-perfect setting on final approach to the Baths, without so much as a glance. Ah, their loss. 

Anegada’s North Shore

To go or not to go? That is always the question about Anegada, especially if it involves motorsailing for several hours head-to-wind. Weather permitting, I say go, but not just for the food. It’s easy to become captivated by the island’s succulent lobster and breathtaking beaches, however, the hidden gems along the north shore truly make this stopover a must-do. 

First off, because the lengthy offshore trek to get there isn’t for everyone, Anegada allows you to escape the crowds. The beaches are the epitome of ­untouched beauty, with fine white sands that stretch for miles and gin-clear waters that seem to merge with the sky. But the crown jewels of the north shore are its thriving coral reefs. Snorkeling or diving in these waters offers a glimpse into an underwater wonderland where colorful fish dance amid massive, shallow coral formations. The ­abundance and ­diversity of marine life will leave you in awe, making for an ­unforgettable adventure.

Anegada is a relatively small island, so getting around is straightforward. To reach the north shore, rent a moped or an RV. Driving along the quiet roads allows you to soak it all in at your own pace, and you’ll have the freedom to explore the hidden coves and secluded beaches that dot the coastline. Make sure to visit Cow Wreck Beach and Loblolly Bay, two secluded stretches of pristine shoreline with world-class reefs for snorkeling. As the sun begins to set, make your way to Flamingo Pond Lookout to witness majestic flamingos in their natural habitat. 

After a day on Anegada, you’ll probably have worked up a healthy appetite for the legendary lobster. To the victors belong the spoils. 

The post Make Memories in the British Virgin Islands’ Channels Less Traveled appeared first on Cruising World.

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For years, I’ve been touting the advantages of 24-volt DC systems on boats. Higher voltage equates to lower current and less electrical resistive loss in an onboard electrical system. Boatbuilders say that the primary reason they have not adopted 24 or higher voltages is a lack of available components. Well, rest assured, that is rapidly changing.

As with many marine systems, much of what we see on boats gets its start in much larger industry sectors, primarily automotive and recreational vehicles. In this case, the movement to all-electric or hybrid-electric propulsion systems in cars and light trucks is a primary driving force. Consumer demand for onboard equipment with functionality similar to a new Audi or Tesla plays a part as well. So, with that said, let’s look at where we are today, and at how to think about upgrades on an older boat or accessory choices on a new one. 

Electrical Fundamentals

One big worry about cruising boats and their wiring has to do with voltage drop, where battery-level voltage doesn’t actually reach the appliance the battery is supplying. Boats will often have longer wire runs than automotive applications. All wire has some inherent electrical resistance that will lower the voltage at the appliance. This is acceptable, to a point. 

The American Boat and Yacht Council and the International Standards Organization identify two levels of acceptable voltage drop for battery-powered direct current (DC) systems: 3 percent and 10 percent. The bigger the wire diameter, the less inherent resistance it will have. As for voltage, higher voltages mean that lower amperage is required to achieve the same level of power (watts). 

The math here is simple. Wattage (power) is equal to volts times amps. (I’m talking about DC applications here.) Things like power factor come into play with alternating current (AC) equipment. So, by using higher voltages, designers can generate higher power to run more electrically demanding DC equipment. And there is no question that modern cruising boats have considerably more gear on board than boats built 10 or 20 years ago.

Equipment Changes

Cruising boats have been working with 12 volts for decades. When I was cruising back in the late 1970s and ’80s, our boat was equipped with 12-volt battery power to run our VHF radio, loran-C, depth and speed gauges, an AM/FM stereo, and ­incandescent cabin and navigation lighting. 

We didn’t have shore power because we had no need for it. The alternator on the engine recharged the batteries. We read at night using oil lamps that essentially eliminated the need for electric cabin lights. We cooked with LPG. We used sun showers to heat our water, and our head was completely manual. We had manually operated and electric bilge pumps. Our wind instruments consisted of telltales in the rigging, a masthead indicator and a handheld velocity meter. Life was good and, by today’s standards, quite simple. Today, you’d be hard-pressed to buy a new boat without air conditioning, extensive refrigeration, a water heater, and an array of electronic equipment including radar, autopilot, television and LED lighting. 

Additionally, unlike my old cruiser with a fully mechanical diesel fuel-injection system, a modern cruiser is likely to have a fully electronic fuel-injection system, again requiring more electrical power. 

Oh, and let’s not forget the bow thruster, anchor windlass and electric winches for sailhandling. 

The bottom line is that electrical power demands on a new boat have continued to increase. Even though additions such as LED lighting draw a minuscule amount of current (amperes) compared with incandescent options, the sheer amount of equipment that modern boat buyers expect to have on board is considerable. 

48 Volts and New ­Technology

In the automotive and marine markets, there is still a vast amount of 12-volt electrical equipment in use and available. Interestingly, we seem to be jumping past the 24-volt options in many cases and going right into the 48-volt world. 

Generally speaking, 24-volt systems have been used for large diesel-engine starter motors and some high-current gear, such as bow thrusters and anchor windlasses, but have never caught on in a wholesale fashion, at least here in the US. Historically, some American builders embraced 32-volt systems, but those systems have largely been replaced as boats aged and equipment became nearly impossible to find. Today, you are likely to see a boat with a mix of 12-, 24- and 48-volt gear installed. 

The advantages to higher voltage include a significant weight savings in the wiring. Heavy-gauge wire cabling is just that: heavy. It’s also quite expensive. One cruising catamaran builder told me that by switching to a primarily 24-volt system, he was able to save approximately 1,000 pounds just in wire. 

Now that we are beginning to see lithium-battery technology taking over in the marine world, additional and rather significant weight savings are also coming into play. While 48-volt lithium-battery systems are now mainstream, 48-volt alternators are also becoming readily available. Lithium batteries weigh approximately one-third less than their lead-acid counterparts, and typically offer about 50 percent more usable energy. Companies such as Vetus, Kenyon, Victron and Mastervolt, as well as the RV and automotive sectors, are introducing 48-volt equipment at a noticeably increased rate. 

Even with this increase in equipment production, it’s still going to be a while ­before 12-volt gear is long forgotten. So, the question becomes how to mix and match voltages required on a new boat. 

Enter the DC-to-DC voltage converter. With these electronic marvels, we can step down voltages electronically from 48 to 12 or 24 volts, or step them up from 12 to 24 or 48 volts. Most modern cruising boats have at least one, and often several, of these converters. Expect to see more of these mixed systems as equipment manufacturers evolve and old inventory gets used up. 

Summing It All Up

I see no letup in the development of hybrid and fully electric power systems in the automotive world, and I believe that this reality will continue the drive toward higher DC voltage systems across the board. 

Marine industry standards ­development is currently underway to address things such as wire sizing and safe lithium-­battery installations, as well as electric propulsion for recreational boats. This fact is a true indicator that these changes to boats are imminent. Standards-writing bodies can’t afford to invest time without a clear signal of need from the industry. 

Consumer demand will continue to be a driver too, and I don’t see much interest in going back to sun showers and oil lamps on board.  

The post Making Onboard Adjustments for a Mix of 12, 24 and 48 Volts appeared first on Cruising World.

The daydreams are real: You’re moored in an exotic anchorage, savoring a gourmet meal on the aft deck with family and friends; you’re welcoming your business associates aboard your beautiful yacht for cocktails and networking; you’re sailing into the sunset in the BVI at the helm of your catamaran…. Until the realities of cleaning, dockage, maintenance, insurance and, oh yes, the overall cost of a yacht itself interrupt your yacht-ownership daydream in record-scratching fashion.

Thanks to a new and improved fractional program through Dream Yacht Sales & Ownership, your sailing-yacht-ownership daydream can now become a hassle-free reality.

What is Fractional Yacht Ownership?

A fractional-ownership program allows you and other like-minded individuals to purchase a share (or more) of a yacht in exchange for an allocated number of weeks of use per year. It offers an attractive buy-in price and shared usage costs that allow you to enjoy the benefits of yacht ownership without the prohibitive costs of full ownership. While some fractional programs have seen success, others have stumbled when it comes to the allocation of popular holiday weeks, destinations available, upkeep of the yacht, and return on investment. 

Dream Yacht Sales & Ownership has addressed these limitations with Dream Fractional, its unique fractional program, which immediately distinguishes itself from other programs with a low buy-in rate, legal titled ownership, reciprocal usage of other yachts in the program, and percentage payout of charter income from the owned yacht.

How Does Dream Fractional Work?

Dream Fractional offers ownership of one of five shares in a participating sailing monohull or catamaran. Dream Yacht retains one share of ownership, thereby affording owners a low 20 percent buy-in rate with shared usage across four owners instead of five. Each owner receives legal titled ownership per share purchased (unlike timeshares that provide members only a leased interest in the asset), with operating expenses managed by Dream Fractional and split among the co-owners.

Each Dream Fractional owner will enjoy five weeks of use aboard their shared yacht with reciprocal usage rights to any of the Dream Fractional yachts worldwide. As part of the Dream Yacht Group, which oversees one of the world’s largest fleets of sailing monohulls, catamarans and power catamarans in 50 destinations worldwide, Dream Fractional owners will enjoy concierge booking service and complete management of financials, insurance, cleaning, maintenance, and charter bookings through Dream Yacht’s experienced management network.

What Yachts Participate in the Dream Fractional Program?

Perhaps the most attractive aspect of the Dream Fractional program is the selection of yachts offered. Dream Yachts works with the world’s leading boat manufacturers such as Fountaine-Pajot, Beneteau, Jeanneau, Bali, Dufour, Lagoon and Excess. Whether it’s a 46-foot Lagoon based in the BVI or a 42-foot Bali based in St. Martin, Dream Yachts offers a curated selection of its most popular charter yachts for fractional ownership, which allows the yacht to be chartered out when not in use by an owner. In turn, a one-quarter share of 65 percent of any charter income is paid to each owner quarterly.

This feature is particularly enticing to frequent charter clients who will appreciate the investment opportunity as well as the ability to select from a variety of yachts based in destinations around the globe. Owners are not limited to one share and can purchase more than one to increase their boat usage to 10 weeks per year.

What’s My Return on Investment?

The Dream Fractional program offers the benefits of full yacht ownership management at a fraction of the cost, with the flexibility of reciprocal usage across a select group of well-managed yachts worldwide. Current participating yachts in the program range from a 39 foot Bali Catsmart in Grenada to a 46 foot Lagoon catamaran in the British Virgin Islands.

As a legal, titled co-owner of a popular charter yacht with an established charter program, Dream Fractional clients will enjoy a quarterly payout share of 65 percent of charter revenue, which further offsets the shared operating expenses. 

Yachts are kept in the program for 66 months (five-and-a-half years). At the end of the program, Dream Yacht Sales & Ownership fully manages the resale process, which includes finding buyers and coordinating offers—with fractional owners given the priority to purchase the yacht themselves. After the sale, each owner then recovers his or her share of the final selling price.

“Between the initial purchase-price savings realized by utilizing a yacht-sharing model, and the quarterly charter-revenue income, Dream Fractional makes owning a yacht much more attainable,” says Dan Lockyer, Dream Yacht’s Chief Revenue Officer. “Add to this equation the boat’s sale at the end of the program at an average of 50 to 55 percent of the original price, and the numbers become very attractive. For those who enjoy charter vacations, the reciprocal sailing in amazing destinations around the world makes it an easy decision.”

In tandem with the Dream Yacht Group’s overarching aim to make sailing accessible to all, the Dream Fractional program is designed specifically to make yacht ownership easy and more accessible. By testing the waters of yacht ownership without the limitations of high costs or overwhelming responsibilities, you can now turn that daydream into the realization of the big dream. So, go ahead—it’s time to buy the yacht.

For more information on Dream Yacht Sales & Ownership Dream Fractional program, please visit https://landings.dreamyachtsales.com/dream_fractional.

More Dream Yacht ownership programs can be found at dreamyachtsales.com.

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There is an old saying in the Abacos: “Some people, most mules and all dinghies are nothin’ but trouble.” I learned to believe in this saying during one of my early charters in the British Virgin Islands. We were towing a hard-bottom dinghy from Tortola to Norman Island. Everything was fine until someone asked, “Hey, where’s the dinghy?”

The tender had been at the end of a long painter made of yellow braided polypropylene, which the charter company used because it supposedly floats, making it harder for bareboaters to wrap it around their props. The fact is that this material is also one of nature’s slipperiest substances. As we slapped and splashed along, it was slipping off the cleat until it was gone.

Luckily, we were able to sail back and find the tender before it became an embarrassingly expensive addition to our charter bill. But here’s the thing I particularly remember: Once we had the retrieved tender in tow, it tried to get away again. We put that yellow poly line on the stern cleat, but, as I watched it, it would slip out an inch at a time. I ended up throwing a bowline in the extra line around a stanchion, just to make sure it didn’t get away.  

The most dangerous moments on your bareboat charter are not going to be tiptoeing through a shallow harbor entrance or dealing with a passing squall. They’re going to be with your tender: getting in or out, beaching it, hoisting it out of the water. 

Here’s a look at some ­hard-won wisdom about dealing with tenders.

At Your Charter Checkout

If you have a choice, always ask for a RIB. This type of boat combines the best of ­inflatables and hard-bottom tenders: a solid bottom for beaching and a soft side to protect your hull. 

Always—always—start the outboard before leaving the charter base, and make sure the motor is spitting out water. Ask the checkout person if there are any idiosyncrasies with the engine: Employees know this stuff and can save you grief later. Ask about the proper fuel mix too. Some outboards need an oil/fuel mixture. And make sure the fuel tank is full.

Other gear you should have in your tender includes a painter long enough for towing, an anchor (probably a folding grapnel style), oars or paddles, a bailer, a safety kill switch for the outboard that you hook to your wrist or jacket, and a dive flag to alert other boats that you are snorkeling.

Launching the Tender

Modern charter boats often have sophisticated systems that let you launch and retrieve a tender with the touch of a button. Still, always hang on to the painter when launching, or have it secured to the boat. Once you remove the hoisting clips, the tender can skitter away very quickly. And, once you’ve removed the lines from the hoisting system, clip them someplace secure. Otherwise (and I guarantee this), they’ll bang you hard on the forehead when you aren’t watching.

Boarding the ­Tender

The first order of business is to secure the tender solidly, which means using bow and stern lines to keep it at the mothership’s stern. Trying to step into a tender, even from a water-level platform, is asking for trouble. Leave your ego for somewhere else: squat, scoot, kneel, crawl or find a way to slither aboard safely. Graceful? No. Dry and safe? Yes.

Using the Tender

Too many people get aboard, cast off, and start the outboard—in that order. They are the ones often paddling upwind to get back to the boat when the outboard doesn’t start. Start the outboard first, then cast off.

One absolute rule for using your tender: Don’t drink and dink. Tenders are squirrelly enough without you adding to the silliness. 

Before you leave your bareboat, always make sure the engine clamps are tight, because an afternoon of being towed can cause them to loosen. Make sure you have the oars or paddles aboard, check the fuel level, and, if you’re going to a beach, have the outboard ready to tilt up. Some outboards have complicated (and finger-pinching) tilt locks that you don’t want to leave until the last moment.

Tender Sense

Before you leave your bareboat, even if you think it’s only for a quick trip, turn on some lights. This will make finding your mothership easier on a dark night. I know one crew who ended up sleeping on the beach because they couldn’t find their boat. I always take a handheld VHF radio on my bareboat charters, just for use in the tender. If the outboard dies, you can call for help. And, if you’re letting the kids take the tender, they can check in with you on a regular basis.

Nonswimmers, or anyone nervous, should always wear a life jacket. Even if you’re not wearing them, they still have to be aboard. You don’t want to receive an expensive citation for failing to have PFDs. 

Never start the outboard unless you have the safety kill switch firmly around your wrist or snapped to your jacket. Don’t even think about what a turning prop can do to someone in the water. Wear the lanyard.

Beaching

Getting your tender onto a beach safely is a test of your seamanship. If there are ­breakers, find another way. You may be Surfer Joe, but a tender is a lot more unwieldy than any surfboard. Find a quiet cove, or anchor offshore and swim ashore.  

Forget about staying dry. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve arrived on shore bone-dry. There are two popular ways to get the tender ashore. One is to make a run at the shore and, as you get close, tilt the outboard up to protect the prop. With the bow high (passengers leaning aft), you’ll slide onto the beach, and someone at the bow can jump out to hold the boat. The other way is to get close, shut off the engine, step into knee-deep water, and slide the tender onto the beach.  

Either way, don’t let ­anyone get between tender and beach. A sudden swell can send the tender into their legs, knocking them down and even breaking bones. Until you get the tender solidly on dry sand, treat it like a wild animal that might turn on you.

And once you’re at the beach? Tie your tender to something solid. If there isn’t a big rock or a tree nearby, use your anchor and set it solidly. There is this thing called “tide.” When it comes in, it loves to take tenders away.  

Towing

Aside from the warning about slippery yellow lines, towing should be straightforward. First, remove all the gear (snorkels, masks, etc.) from the tender. Then, let out the tender to a point where it is riding comfortably behind the mothership.  

When you are starting to maneuver, such as dropping anchor or picking up a mooring buoy, assign one person to do nothing but be the Tender Tender. Take in the painter so that you won’t suck it into the props. The Tender Tender can move it from side to side if you’re docking.  

Putting the Tender to Bed

Tenders can be like friendly pets in the middle of the night: They like to nuzzle their master, usually on the hull right next to where you’re sleeping. 

One solution is to tie a ­bucket off the stern of the tender, to encourage it to keep its distance. Another option, if there is room, is to tie the ­tender to your mooring buoy and then drop back for separation.

Tenders: We can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em. Common sense and some precautions make them a lot easier to have around. 

Award-winning journalist Chris Caswell is editor and publisher of chartersavvy.com. He has been bareboat chartering for more than five decades. 

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If you’d like to buy a ­cruising vessel, I ­recommend the classic five-step approach.

Step One: Decide what type of cruising you’re interested in.
Step Two: Research the market for suitable vessels.
Step Three: Talk to owners of those specific vessels for a reality check and, with the help of…
Step Four: a broker, and Step Five: a surveyor, sign on the dotted line. 

That’s my advice. 

However, I’d be disingenuous if I said that’s how I do it. I look for a worthless boat with a major problem and a ticking clock, and then assist the owner in getting on with his life by taking the vessel off his hands for a token, face-saving payment. 

How to find a worthless boat is easy. It is one that hasn’t sold for a year or three. Just look at two-year-old ads for boats that you’d like to own, and see if the boats are still for sale. If so, they’re worthless. 

Worthless boats are worthless for a reason. Most have a major problem. My double-ender Corina lacked an engine and rig, and had been used as a hangout for illiterates. How do I know? They spray-painted the word “fock” inside the vessel. And they burned parts of the interior to stay warm. As a parting gesture, they defecated in the bilges. Best of all, the vessel was illegally tied up behind a factory on the north fork of the Chicago River and had to be moved ASAP. 

Perfect. I paid $200 for the boat, lived aboard for four years, and extensively cruised the Great Lakes, Mississippi River and Gulf of Mexico. I eventually sold that boat for eight times what I paid for it.

Wild Card, a Hurricane Hugo wreck, was awash on the beach at Leinster Bay, St. John, in the US Virgin Islands, with tropical fish swimming through the cracked hull. The National Park Service was demanding that the boat be immediately removed or they’d do it and bill the owner, an alcoholic ex-stockbroker who’d already fled to Vietnam.

Perfect. I paid him $3,000, smeared the hole in the port side with dried snot (aka fiberglass), and sailed the boat twice around the world over the course of 23 years (at an initial cost of 3 cents a mile). I then sold the boat for 10 times what I’d paid. The buyer was a male stripper who paid with sticky cash straight from his jockstrap.

My current vessel, a 43-foot Wauquiez named Ganesh, was originally listed for $140,000—which, once upon a time, it had been worth. However, over the course of four years, a hurricane had heeled this boat over in a storm trench, a tree had grown between the mast and forestay, the engine had frozen, and no one had bid a single penny toward a purchase for two solid years. And, within 30 days, the boat’s $6,000 annual yard bill and almost-as-expensive annual insurance were due. 

Not perfect, but almost. I offered $40,000, saying, “Only one digit off, right?” We settled for $56,000 and left within the year for our third circumnavigation. 

Amazing? Not really. I just found a worthless boat with a major problem and a ticking clock—and offered the desperate owner a last chance to get out from under its ­maintenance costs.  

Why didn’t I mention my beloved 36-foot ketch Carlotta? Because I built that boat from scratch. The bare hull cost me only $600 in materials, back in 1971. 

Anyone can do this if they’re handy, crazy, tenacious, and married to a masochist who finds fiberglass dust oddly pleasing.

Did I know how to rebuild a marine engine or design a rig or patch a hole with dried snot? Or shape a plank or caulk a garboard seam? Or replace a section of deadwood? Or calculate the crown of a deck beam? Or loft a life-size yacht?

No, of course not. But I searched out people who did know of such things, and I hugged them until they opened their hearts and told me their innermost ­construction secrets.

I simply refused to take no for an answer. When I couldn’t afford to rent a small garage to build my Ibold-designed Endurance 36, Carlotta, I formed a commune. We built six boats in a giant warehouse in Boston. Unable to afford to transport my 20,000-pound vessel, I (and a fella named Momo) built a flatbed ­trailer from scrounged scrap iron—which still might be ­transporting yachts around New England, for all I know. 

At the time, the largest steam crane north of New York City was operated by a cigar-chomping guy who hated hippies—a fellow I had to set straight almost immediately upon meeting him. He said: “Don’t be silly. It costs over $20,000 for me to push the start button. Just the insurance rider alone costs…” 

“You misunderstand me,” I shot back. “I have no money. I’m not here to hire you. I need you to launch me for free.”

You should have seen the look of disbelief and revulsion on his grizzled face. I went back every day for a week, every week for a month, and every month for a year—­always with six-pack of beer, an herbally enhanced smile, and enough Zen to endure endless tirades against hippies, longhairs, and various other social parasites. 

Finally, one day, he called me and barked: “Listen, you little turd. I’ve got a contract in Maine. After I go through the Fort Point Channel Bridge, I’m gonna have a problem with one of the engine gauges. Just to be on the safe side, I’m gonna put down my spuds to check it out. I’m only gonna be there for five or six minutes—so you’d best have your goofy Titanic all set to go along the seawall. Damn, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

It’s amazing what you can do if you’re tenacious and stupid enough to ignore being told no a few thousand times. 

A friend of mine named Eric lost the roof of his house and his Cape Dory Typhoon during Hurricane Hugo in 1989. His wife was hospitalized with stress. I felt bad for him. He was a good guy. 

So, my wife Carolyn and I went around to all the restaurants on St. John and collected empty milk and water jugs—or, as I thought of them, micro lift bags. Next, I collected all the PFD devices on the island, plus all the yacht fenders for good measure. St. John has a lot of yachts, and the logistics of all this gear was pretty daunting. 

I then purchased a can of fruit juice and a bottle of rum, and I announced a swim day in Cruz Bay. Dozens of folks showed up and swam with the empty jugs, as well as all the PFDs, down into the Cape Dory’s cabin. I encouraged them while lashing fenders from a loop of line encircling the keel. A dozen dinghies towed the awash vessel to the beach—where, at high tide, we hooked it to a Jeep and towed it into shallow water. When the tide dropped, we gravity-­siphoned that boat, and then we hand-bailed the rest. 

By nightfall, the boat was back on its mooring. Half the boats on St. John ended up with the wrong fenders afterward, but hey, that’s what happens when you mix good deeds and rum in the Caribbean. 

Why relate this story? Because you can’t make sizable withdrawals without making massive deposits in the karma bank.

I learned this, and more, from my father. He was the type of sailor who, if you gave him a Popsicle stick and a Swiss Army knife, could whittle you up a handy little vessel in no time. His first boat cost $10. He paid $5 for the boat and $5 for the team of horses to haul it to his yard. 

After coming back from World War II, he lusted after a lovely gold-plater that had just returned from a podium finish in the Newport Bermuda Race. It was a graceful, ­well-found John G. Alden (design No. 213, launched in 1924, ­sistership to Yvonne) schooner named Elizabeth. One day, the boat had a small fire in the gasoline-­powered engine room and sank. Instead of shedding a tear at the demise of another classic American racing yacht, my father tossed a $100 bill in the air and dived into the muddy water of Illinois’ Calumet River. 

Do you know what he said when he surfaced and called for the lift bags in the trunk of his car?

“Perfect.” 

Fatty and Carolyn Goodlander are holed up at the Changi Sailing Club in Singapore, slowly replacing all their running rigging from their favorite international chandlery, Dumpster Marine. Their book How to Inexpensively and Safely Buy, Outfit & Sail a Small Vessel Around the World continues to make readers giggle. 

The post On Watch: Fatty Goodlander’s Adventures in Boat Buying appeared first on Cruising World.