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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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In the realm of extraordinary adventures, the thrill of a circumnavigation stands tall, offering an unparalleled opportunity to experience by boat some of the most mesmerizing places on the planet. It is a voyage that redefines the boundaries of exploration and leaves an indelible mark on the hearts and minds of all who undertake this amazing odyssey. Combine the allure of such a voyage with the comforts of cruising in a group of like-minded sailors, and you have the Oyster World Rally. Over the course of nearly 16 months, 25 Oyster yachts’ owners and guests traversed ­approximately 27,000 nautical miles, ­visiting awe-inspiring destinations, creating cherished memories along the way, and forging bonds to last a lifetime through shared experiences, laughter, and the pursuit of a common dream. From the vibrant shores of the Caribbean to the secluded islands of the South Pacific and beyond, participants witnessed firsthand the sheer diversity and beauty of our planet, all with the assurance of safety and comfort, knowing that fellow participants were nearby to lend a helping hand or share in the joy of discovering ­remarkable locations. In the pages that follow, we invite you to join us on the ­voyage of a lifetime, as Oyster World Rally participants share the magnificence of sailing and exploration that can be experienced only in a ­circumnavigation.

These were among the most ­beautiful places we have visited, completely remote and untouched by tourism. 

There were so many highlights on this trip ahead of us, but it was the prospect of adventure we were most looking forward to.

One of the magical things about sailing around the world is that you can reach places other people can’t in cruise ships; places that are tiny, with no infrastructure, and you get to experience these things that others simply cannot. 

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We’ve crossed major milestones in Totem’s refit, and I’ve included the highlights here. But first, a shout-out to the guy making it happen. Jamie is at the boatyard seven days a week, virtually without fail. Refit realities don’t make for sexy social media posts. What is sexy, though, 

is the commitment of this guy to getting the job done, and done right, as we bring Totem into the 21st century.

The work is hard on his body. It’s repetitive. It’s not fun. It’s emotionally wearing. We’ve passed major milestones, but there are days that forward progress feels thwarted. There seems to be a natural law about boat projects taking more than the expected time—at more than the expected cost—and we are internalizing it with our slow progress. Yet, ultimately, there is progress, and it is awesome to see. I’m excited to share the updates. But first, I want to tell you about one of our favorite roles on board.

The Happiness Engineer

Who is your “happiness engineer?” At some point, every boat needs one. Typically, we use this moniker during the transition from land to living aboard to describe the person for whom cruising was “the dream,” and upon whom it is incumbent to ensure that their partner has a positive reality. Right now, the happiness engineer is a role I take on to make sure that Jamie’s laser focus on finishing the refit includes breaks to enjoy life, heal his body and soul, and stave off burnout. Sure, I’m working hard, too—long hours in other roles. But it’s easier to be a keyboard warrior. Recently, I stole Jamie away from the yard for a three-day trip out of town so we could remember what it’s like to be living as travelers instead of refit grunts. 

Getting away was more than a break from work. It was reconnecting to an important way we find our joy in cruising: by engaging with, and learning from, the different cultures we intersect with. The best of those experiences are what I refer to as “walking on the moon,” because they transport you so thoroughly into another world that sharing the experience defies explanation. (How can you effectively explain to someone what it was like to walk on the moon?)

An Indigenous New Year 

A few weeks ago, I had learned from a friend that the Comcáac (first nations people from the northeast coast of the Sea of Cortez—also referred to as Sierra Seri) New Year was in the last days of June. Our friend, Ruben, organizes small-group trips. He planned a trip for us all to witness and participate in the New Year ceremonies, bringing along an indigenous guide to help us understand. We went, and we walked on the moon. From the moment we arrived, we were enveloped by reminders of a very different way of life. Pressed by adversity, Comcáac people have held tightly to traditions and language, and we had much to learn. 

At the ceremony, red, white and blue ribbons, the color of the Comcáac flag, fluttered from bent cactus armatures on the beach. The chanting of elders was carried over loudspeakers, accompanied by the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. 

Blazing sun and temperatures in the triple digits beat down upon the women and girls who wore vibrant, ankle-length skirts and flounced, long-sleeved blouses. After crossing the channel to the sacred Isla Tiburón, a Comcáac shaman included us in the traditional face painting and spiritual cleansing. It was some marvelous moonwalking.

We returned to the mainland to join in the feast and enjoy the music. As sunset turned the sky from gold to purple and then black, the beat of gourd drums, the rattle of shell cuffs on the legs of the dancers, and the jingle of bells hanging from their belts filled the air. We watched the dancers’ movements mimic the deer they represented, while mounted deer heads were strapped to the heads of the Yoreme brothers who were invited to join the event.  

Deep in this moonwalk, fresh artists soon stepped in and worlds shifted. The crash of modern rock music wasn’t that jarring, but what seemed at first like a collision of cultures leveled up into something mind-blowing. The musical was familiar, but the lyrics were being belted out in Cmiique iitom, the Comcáac language. Those same women and girls in head-to-toe jewel tones now jumped up and down, singing along, screaming song requests and Comcáac of all ages and genders threw themselves enthusiastically into the celebrations. 

It was spectacular.

The music capped off a day steeped in tradition, and it demonstrated how Comcáac are finding ways to bring their cultural roots forward into the modern world. Hamac Caziim, the rock band, was founded on the belief that rock music will to help foster an interest in retaining the indigenous language. To our experience, I’d say that they have been wildly successful in engaging more than just the younger generation.

Back to Totem: Interior Finishes

Back in Puerto Peñasco, Totem’s interior work has reached major milestones. We didn’t start this refit thinking we’d resurface the whole interior. We just knew that the cabin sole was suffering in a few areas, that some bulkhead rot needed to be addressed, and that the Formica in parts of the galley had worn through to particle board. Those tasks were addressed, and they made it easier to add on some voluntary cosmetic work. 

We realized that the dinged-up, 41-year-old veneer, the junky headliner, and horizontal surfaces such as the table and countertops would all need replacement. Jamie crafted a simple, elegant solution for the headliner from insulation, thin plywood and alder battens—oh, and a lot of epoxy! We replaced the horizontal surfaces, originally wood veneer, by bamboo, which seems to glow from within, restoring some natural warmth to the cabin.

Suddenly, the huge undertaking to look nice, stay more comfortable and be ready for faraway cruising feels like it’s coming together.

We’ve learned so much along the way. When Jamie first rebuilt a bulkhead on Dogwatch, his 22-foot S&S Sailmaster, around 1984, it felt significant. Now he’s rebuilt entire cabins. He’s learned about fillers, materials and how to apply accumulated years of knowledge about Totem along the way, making her our long-term home, and now hopefully easier to maintain—at least as much as any boat can be.

Want to learn more about Comcáac?

• NY Times: An Intimate Look at Mexico’s Indigenous Seri People
• Video: Seri turtle songs of survival (Spanish with subtitles: Comcáac history in <15 min)
• Video: Hamac Cazíim | an indigenous punk documentary (29 min: the Comcáac rock band we heard)
• Creative Pinellas: Seri Tribe (konkaak / comca’ac) of Sonora Mexico
• Sonora tourism: indigenous people of Sonora
• Mexico Escultura: Seri New Year 

Totem Talks

Our free, monthly livestreamed talks cover topics of interest pertinent to cruisers. Coming up this month: Tools and Spares. It’s tempting to bring everything you might need. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to bring everything you will need. How do you decide what’s essential to have on board for tools and spares? Register here to join the session. Other recent topics include getting sails for your boat. How do you know when it’s time to replace your sails? What is the process like? What should boat owners know about evaluating options? Also, don’t miss our adventures while anchoring. This talk covers key anchoring techniques and discusses how to figure out where you can anchor and how to deal with anchorage politics.

The post State of Our Totem appeared first on Cruising World.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So how did they fare? 

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

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor-at-large.

Charter Racing

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

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We were cruising down the Tennessee-Tombigbee Waterway, the canal that links Pickwick Lake in Mississippi with Mobile Bay in Alabama. It was November. The sky was gray, and some of the raindrops were starting to resemble snow flurries. The captain was dressed head to heel in gray wool. I was in pink, equally bundled. We stood in the open cockpit of our Nor’Sea 27, insulated mugs of coffee in hand, and sang sea shanties while the captain steered by tiller.

We’d taught our kids these songs on a weekend trip through the desert when they were little. We had sung “Farewell Nova Scotia” as we pulled away from Hovenweep National Monument, chanted “Cape Cod Girls” as we passed through Monument Valley, and learned every line to “All for Me Grog” as we gazed at the red rocks of Moab, Utah. At that time, my husband was a newly obsessed sailor, and we kept our first sailboat on the Great Salt Lake.

Thirteen boats passed us that day on the Tenn-Tom, but we were the only sailboat. The rest were trawlers and motoryachts, all of their captains steering from enclosed and heated flybridges. We were all flying the swallow-tailed burgee of the America’s Great Loop Cruisers’ Association, and we were all going to spend the next year or so on the Great Loop, a 6,000-mile route around the eastern United States. 

That is where the similarities ended. Ours was not the kind of boat—an open-cockpit sailboat with its mast up—that most people expected to see on the route. Most Loopers didn’t know what to think of us, and most other sailors were headed to the Bahamas, not to Chicago the long way around via the Intracoastal Waterway and the Erie Canal.

But Sonny got it. He waved and honked from the enclosed flybridge of his Mainship 40 trawler as he passed. Later, when we met on the docks in Columbus, Mississippi, he told us how happy he had been to see us. 

“My wife was worried about you two,” he said. “She told me, ‘Sonny, don’t you think they’re cold?’ I said, ‘Phyllis, they don’t even know they’re cold. They’re having the time of their lives.’”

Everyone who travels the Great Loop has the time of their lives, but most Loopers choose trawlers and motoryachts in the 40- to 50-foot range. These boats make sense for the route. They provide all the comforts of home for those who cruise on mostly flat water. They’re air-conditioned and heated, with multiple staterooms, large galleys, washers and dryers, multiple heads with showers, and sprawling decks full of furniture. As one Looper said, “It’s like boating in a luxury condominium.” 

Our decision to cruise the Loop on a sailboat was a compromise of sorts; not just a compromise between captain and first mate, but also a compromise with life itself.

Guy, the captain, wanted to do a big sailing trip, but he has a small business. He needed a route that would offer predictable Wi-Fi and cell service, and allow him to be in US time zones, give him quick access to airports, and make no requirement for a work visa. I was plenty willing to live aboard and sail, but I needed to ease into the idea of big water and passages. I had sailed only on inland lakes.

Also, we wanted to travel cheap. A small diesel engine would beat any motorboat’s 1-nautical-mile-per-gallon rate, and we’d travel for free under sail. That was a real necessity for people saving for retirement. 

Our boat would need a draft less than 4 feet to anchor out along the shores of the Florida Keys, get through the shallows of the Southern tidal flats, and make countless skinny marina entrances along the route. And we’d have to be able to step the mast for low bridges on the Erie Canal.

All these factors led us to purchase the Nor’Sea 27 we found parked in a gravel driveway in southern Utah, another place where you might be surprised to find yourself humming sea shanties. The boat was designed by Lyle Hess, who created Seraffyn and Taleisin for Lin and Larry Pardey, a little bit of pocket-cruiser royalty. And the boat is trailerable, which was a necessity considering where we found it. The Nor’Sea 27 is also bluewater-capable, a quality that would let us choose big water anytime we had the chance. The 8 hp Yanmar diesel would push us along at 4 knots on motoring days, and would get us 33 miles to the gallon. The sailboat has an on-deck tabernacle that would let us step the 40-foot mast ourselves. 

The sailboat had not been modernized, and we weren’t going to spend our time trying to change that fact. We stowed our cold food in the ice chest, spent our nights in sleeping bags in the V-berth, and scrounged onshore for luxuries such as showers and cold drinks. Cruising on a Nor’Sea 27 would be camping, plain and simple. And we didn’t mind. We christened the boat Jackalope and hired a truck to drive her to a marina on the Tennessee River to start our trip. 

In late fall, we emerged from the ­Tenn-Tom ready to cross Mobile Bay and skirt along the Florida Panhandle to Carrabelle. From there, we would make our first open-water passage. 

The conversation on the Looper chat groups was all about the weather. When would it be calm (preferably glassy) with wind under 5 knots? Tall boats don’t do well in the waves, and most Loopers wanted to make the smoothest and shortest possible crossing across Apalachee Bay from Carrabelle to Steinhatchee.

In contrast, the crew of Jackalope was well-practiced and ready for some wind and a long Gulf passage. We left Carrabelle at sunset and crossed 150 miles to Clearwater—and it was perfect. Nothing but dolphins leaping in the moonlight. We stayed a few weeks in Clearwater Beach so that our kids could meet us for Christmas, then motored down the Intracoastal Waterway to our next jumping-off point.

Rather than follow the ICW from Fort Myers Beach to Marco Island, and then motor the yacht channel along the Everglades to Key Largo, we cut out on the Gulf again. This time, we sailed 90 miles from Fort Myers Beach to Key West. After waiting out a storm on anchor in the “bowling alley” between Fleming Key and Wisteria Island, we sailed out of the Gulf and into the Straits of Florida to take a swim at Alligator Reef Lighthouse.

The captain always felt like sailing, so we sailed—on the outside of the Keys, on the inside, in Florida Bay. Sometimes, when the wind was right, we sailed a mile or so on the Florida ICW. Even when we got to Georgia’s Lowcountry, down in the muddy water between parallel banks of salt-grass marsh, we sailed. A lot of times, that narrow and skinny sailing was done just with the jib, to give the one-lung Yanmar a little oomph, but sometimes the wind was steady and the course was straight enough to put up the main and take a bit of a ride.

After the mud of the Deep South ICW, it was a pleasure to see the blue shores of North Carolina. In Albemarle Sound, we put up the main and jib, and sailed in the wake of the pirate Blackbeard all the way from Oriental to Elizabeth City. 

From Elizabeth City, we motored through the Great Dismal Swamp to Norfolk, Virginia, gateway to the Chesapeake Bay. We’d been looking forward to this since the Tenn-Tom. Back then, in that chilly fall air, we had encouraged each other by talking about it: “We’ll get through this, go all around Florida, through the Carolinas, and then we’re going to sail on the Chesapeake Bay!”

Our first day out of foggy Norfolk cleared into the sunniest skies and the glassiest water imaginable. It was ideal weather for the motor Loopers, but our sails went limp, so we pulled them down, bundled them and sighed. That sigh was not enough breeze to propel us forward, and we had to motor all day. But the wind always comes back, and we ended up with seven days’ worth of sailing on the bay. We zigged and zagged, south to north, past Victorian lighthouses and alongside local crabbing boats. We even nosed into the bakery dock at Smith Island for some of its famous 10-layer cake. 

And then, there was Annapolis, Maryland. It was a thrill, and a little bit intimidating, to arrive in American sailing’s home port. But once we docked, Jackalope got her due. One sailor told us that ours was the prettiest boat on the docks. Another leaned close and said, “That’s a cult boat.” Jackalope blushed at the rare but deserved compliments.

Beyond the Lens

If we were excited to sail on the Chesapeake Bay, the thought of sailing ­into New York Harbor was surreal. And yet, we did it, slightly loopy after an overnight Atlantic passage from Cape May, New Jersey. We were planning to anchor out at Sandy Hook and sleep the afternoon away, but the wind was just right, so I made cups of strong coffee, and we headed toward the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and up the Hudson River.

We tacked east toward Coney Island, west toward Staten Island, east again toward Red Hook, west toward the old Bayonne marsh. Dodging a Norwegian cruise ship, we tacked east toward Brooklyn, and then, in the culminating moment, the captain brought us right up next to the Statue of Liberty—our sails up, her torch held high. He had to manage tour boats, personal watercraft and more, but he did it without the engine or bow thrusters. Just the magic of being hove-to.

We snapped a few pictures of ourselves looking relaxed while we were ­actually keeping an intense watch in every direction, and then sailed off toward Manhattan so we could tack into the marina on the Jersey City side of the Hudson. 

After spending two days in New York City, we aimed ourselves north. By the time we got to Yonkers, New York, the cityscape had mellowed into ­countryside. We anchored out under the Bear Mountain Bridge and, the next day, gave West Point a salute as we floated past. Then it was time to unstep our mast at the town dock in Athens, New York, in preparation for cruising the Erie Canal. When the work was done, we went ashore for beers at the brewery.

The narrow, ­skinny sailing was done with just the jib, but ­sometimes the wind was steady enough to put up the main and take a bit of a ride. 

We put our mast back up after the Erie Canal so we could sail the Great Lakes. Our long journey had prepared us for the challenge. We crossed Lake Erie, skirted up Lake Huron, and rounded the top of the mitten state under Mackinac Bridge. At that point, we were concerned about the changing seasons. Weather windows on Lake Michigan are short, and a lock on the Illinois River was scheduled to close for maintenance soon. We made our way, businesslike, down Michigan’s west coast. From Frankfort, we made an overnight passage to Milwaukee, cutting many miles off the route, then sailed south to Chicago. 

Cruising through downtown Chicago, every building gleaming gold in the sunrise, was the highlight of the trip. We kept saying it: “This is incredible. This is the best part.” Then we headed down the grimy Illinois River, squeezing through the Brandon Road lock just in time. We made our way down the Mississippi with the current, up the Ohio, and finished where we started, on the Tennessee.

The Loop was 10 trips in one. We cruised canals, mastering locks and tying up to town walls. We had access to bars, restaurants and beaches along the ICW. We cruised past a big bunch of American cities and right through the center of Miami and Chicago. And in just one incredible 6,000-mile, 12-month cruising season, we sailed on the Gulf of Mexico, the sound side of the Outer Banks, up the Chesapeake Bay, on the Atlantic, and in three of the Great Lakes—all of it without worry of hurricanes, encroaching winter weather and customs officials. 

A jackalope is an improbable little creature: a mythical combination of jackrabbit and antelope. Sailing the Great Loop was an improbable adventure for an improbable boat. And we had the time of our lives. 

Bianca Dumas and her family spent eight years traveling the US by sailboat, canoe, kayak, bicycle and on foot. She plans to settle down and write about all of it.

The post Sailing America’s Great Loop on a Small Boat appeared first on Cruising World.

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I could smell the forest before I even opened my eyes. It was a sweet, woodsy smell with a heavy fragrance of wet earth. If I kept my eyes closed, I could easily have placed myself on the forest floor, surrounded by the refuse of the trees that were making their way to becoming soil. 

When I did open my eyes, I remembered that I was lying under anchor on board Triteia, my 1965 Alberg 30 sloop, in Kaneohe Bay, on the windward side of the Hawaiian island of Oahu. I climbed out of my berth and started my morning routine: filled the kettle, lit the fire, and loaded up my stainless-steel French press with ground coffee. Out on deck, I looked toward the sea, and then toward land. The boat gently swayed as I made my way forward and took in the scents until I heard the kettle boiling. I poured the hot water over the coffee grounds. This morning was an olfactory bonanza. 

At dawn, Oahu’s Ko’olau Range was bathed in golden light. We were anchored 400 yards from the He’eia loko i’a, a traditional Hawaiian fishpond estimated to be more than 800 years old. These fishponds are used for aquaculture of fish, taro and algae, and were an important part of supplying the Hawaiian people with food. In the late 18th century, they were producing 2 million pounds of fish per year.

That day, Triteia was bound for a new anchorage in a different part of the bay. Our destination was the Kaneohe Sandbar, a popular spot for locals and tourists alike. The sandbar is about a mile wide and 3 miles long, and spends most of its time submerged. The unique shape, with steep underwater faces, allows larger sailboats to anchor mere feet from the shallows. 

After I weighed anchor, I motored Triteia out through a calm mooring field. As far as I could see in the bay, the water was as still as a lake, but the charts showed the bay littered with large, coral bommies. They might as well be landmines sitting just below the surface. Private citizens had installed small, white pipes into the reefs’ outer edges that flank the dredged channel; I kept an eye on my navigation app and located a clear path that would take us to the spot on the sandbar where I planned to anchor for the next three nights. 

A fellow cruising sailor here in Hawaii, Cy Henry, had explained the process of anchoring in this peculiar location: “You will want to motor in very slowly, watching your depths on the depth sounder. When you see the depths dropping rapidly, just wait for the bump as your hull hits the bar. Run forward, let go your anchor, and pay out about 10 feet of chain. Then, back up the boat to slightly set the anchor. Next, pay out more chain, swim ashore, and carry your anchor into the shallows however far you like.”

This is a good time to mention the fact that I am doing all of this alone. Cy said that I might want to use a second anchor to hold the boat in place while moving the primary anchor. This would be necessary only if the trades were blowing. Normally, the windward side of Oahu, which faces east-northeast, ­experiences these winds.

I had planned my visit to coincide with a rare slackening of the trade winds, and I was pleased to see that the forecast was accurate, with only a light offshore breeze. If I were to attempt to anchor with the trade winds blowing, my boat could easily get away from me and blow out into the bay, bound for coral reefs and, eventually, the shore as I stood waving goodbye from the shallow sandbar. 

As I motored slowly, I thought how truly strange it was to be driving toward a submerged beach with the intention of running into the sand. A disconcerting clue to the depth, aside from instrumentation, was the rapid change in the water’s color. It shifted from cobalt blue to a brilliant turquoise as the sun reflected off the white sand below. 

Soon, I felt the bump of my hull on the soft sandbar. I hurried forward, let go my 45-pound anchor, and paid out some 10 feet of chain. I then reversed the boat to set it. I let out more chain and, for the first time in my life, jumped off the bow of my boat into 2 feet of water. I lifted up the anchor and carried it back some 20 feet to give it more scope. 

As I was pushing my anchor in the sand, a ­paddleboarder casually cruised past me. I stood near where the water depth dropped from 2 feet to 20 feet in less than the length of my boat, climbed back on board Triteia, and deployed a second anchor off the stern. The steep drop-off meant that there was no risk of going aground, but the offshore breeze and changing tides could cause the boat to bump in the night. 

As the day progressed, the sun heated the forests and the mountain range created its own clouds. With the absence of the trade winds, these clouds increased in size until they shrouded the mountaintops. I watched this happen day after day, realizing how rare it is to be able to slow down one’s life to the point of having the opportunity to watch clouds be built. 

As the sun marched on, boats of all shapes and sizes arrived at the sandbar: sailboats, motorboats, pontoons, kayaks, paddleboards. At one end of the sandbar, I could see a volleyball net near a tour boat. Where the sandbar meets the ocean, some 20-plus kayaks explored just inside gentle waves breaking on the reefs. To the south, fishing boats and pleasure craft spread out, with families swimming and walking in the warm water. Next to Triteia, a small powerboat arrived with a mother and her adult daughter as captain and crew. They blew up classic, colorful pool floaties, walked a few yards, sat in them and opened two beers. In all, I counted 50 boats, and everyone had as much space as they wanted.

As the afternoon ­progressed, the clouds obscured the sun. The islanders hauled up and made their way back to the shore. Triteia had the sandbar all to itself. I sat in the cockpit as gentle rains passed from north to south down the bay. The sunset broke through a few gaps, with beautiful ­golden rays shifting in remarkable contrast to the dark gray clouds and green mountainsides. The water’s surface was still and slick, with Hawaiian sea turtles popping their small, round heads up for air. 

As night arrived, I ate ­dinner in the cockpit and enjoyed the quiet. Looking in any direction, it would appear we were well offshore, but we were anchored in one of the calmest spots I’d ever had the pleasure of experiencing. 

Turning in for the night, I climbed into my bunk and opened my forward hatch. I looked up at the twinkling stars between gaps in the clouds. The anchorage was completely silent as a ­gentle onshore breeze blew in through the hatch and brought with it the familiar scent of the sea. 

Writer and filmmaker James Frederick has logged more than 10,000 nautical miles of passagemaking in his sailing career. Most recently, he completed solo ocean passages from Los Angeles to Hawaii, and Hawaii to French Polynesia. Follow Frederick’s journey on his YouTube channel.

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I’m constantly asked, after more than six decades of offshore cruising and four circumnavigations, what the most difficult part of the sailing lifestyle is. The challenge now, I always pontificate, is to find a harbor where I don’t owe a lot of people a lot of money. 

Yes, the most important item you can bring aboard your boat is your sense of humor—not to laugh at others, but to laugh with them as they laugh back at you. Everything marine can be humorous if you view it the right way. 

Let’s take oars or propellers as ­examples. Many newbie sailors ­aren’t sure why propellers even exist on small sailboats. The truth is that ­mean-spirited, desk-bound designers include them to unexpectedly “suck in” dropped dock lines, stray sheets and wayward halyards. That’s right: King Neptune and his pals are sadists. There’s no other way to explain it. 

Ditto inboard engines. Their job is to stop in narrow harbor entrances, up-current of jagged rocks and upwind of closing bridges. And the lowly tiller. This is an ordinary wooden stick that, once at sea, forces the person holding it to yell nasty insults at all the other folks aboard—and not quite grasp why the crew isn’t smiling. 

There’s no end to the creative ­humiliations that sailboats provide. I’ve powered away from the dock so many times with my power cord attached that my wife thinks huge blue sparks catching the dock on fire is a normal part of casting off. 

And it’s not just me. A rum-soaked Floridian friend of mine traded his fiberglass sloop for a classic wooden yawl at the Bahia Mar Resort and Yachting Center—and went sailing while hugging a bottle of rum. Alas, he wasn’t too sure how to reef his new vessel. In a relatively minor squall, he lost his mainmast over the side. It had to be cast off when it threatened to poke a hole in his semi-rotten planking in the Gulf Stream. Oh, he was bummed, though not as bummed as when he went under the (closed) 17th Street bridge an hour later and lost his mizzen as well. 

My wife refuses to let me use my ­portable drill without supervision. Why? I once drilled through the top of our water tank. Then, to prove that my mistake wasn’t a fluke, I drilled through a picture of our daughter (which was, like, hiding on the other side of the bulkhead). No, I’ve never drilled through our hull, but, according to my long-suffering wife, it is only a matter of time. 

Electrically, I’m no better. All the marine electronics I buy are filled with smoke—which usually leaks out the moment I (mis)connect them. “Did you check polarity?” my wife always asks with a smirk as their plastic cases begin to melt. I long for the good ol’ days of my sailing youth, when tube radios tuned to 2182 AM had metal chassis. 

I also regularly wear wraparound Tahitian pareos around the boat. I’ve had them get entangled in my windlass, my engine’s flywheel and various other moving parts. Once, during the America’s Cup in New Zealand, while powering in front of a dock crowded with Kiwi spectators, my outboard engine lost power. I immediately whipped off its cover to wiggle its spark-plug wire. Somehow, this act yanked off my pareo and spun me around in the dinghy like a top while those on the dock covered their eyes. 

Dinghies are as ego bruising as their motherships. I’ve face-planted myself coming onto beaches too fast, bonked my head standing up too quickly while going under docks and, of course, guillotined myself on a dozen evil dock lines.  

Dock hoses? Oh, please! I’ve filled up many a fuel tank with water, and vice versa. Seriously, never attempt to shower with diesel fuel, no matter how dirty you are.

Booms are aptly named. The first time I was hit in the head while tacking, I vowed never to allow that to happen again—and I didn’t until a few minutes later, when the thought was knocked out of me during a jibe. Of course, now that I’m sans hair, I can knock myself out just standing up under a boom. 

Don’t get me started on navigation. Once upon a time, during my celestial daze, er, days in the ’60s, it was easy to mistake Bermuda on the East Coast for Catalina Island off the West Coast. Nowadays, with modern GPS included in each toothpick that Apple sells, not so much.

Things were much more laid-back in the Caribbean when I arrived in the ’70s. For example, if people spoke French and served croissants, it was probably Fort-de-France on Martinique. If they spoke Spanish and whipped up tortillas, it was probably Mexico. Or Colombia. Or Barcelona in Spain. That’s why it was called dead reckoning, because that’s how many of us ended up when our doctors were off a thousand miles or so. 

Marine radios present their own set of problems. While it is perfectly OK to talk about a September day over the VHF radio, never use the same phrase for the month between April and June, unless you want a search-and-rescue helicopter hovering overhead. Speaking of those folks, it is always good to know what ocean you’re in. It speeds things up if you can inform your rescuers about needing assistance in, say, the Pacific instead of forcing them to guess.

Why are marine toilets called heads? Well, because that’s always what they’re messing with—your head. Seriously, they do call it a joker valve, don’t they? It’s impossible to explain to a landlubber the indignities of such satanically possessed devices. I’ve been squirted so many times that I wear my heavy-weather gear while pumping. In fact, this is how foul-weather gear got its name. (Not really.) 

As a result of the pandemic and my shrinking income, we hadn’t hauled in a few years. This meant we had to scrape the boat’s bottom before we went sailing. And here’s the truth of it: As an aging sailor gets arthritic, those freaking barnacles are fast. And not only that, but we’re tenacious too. I used to remove them with a putty knife. Now, I use a cold chisel and a sledgehammer. 

In the tropics, ventilation is important if you live aboard, especially in places where the local cuisine includes beans, beans and more beans. Yes, wind scoops can be cruising necessities in laid-back Mexico. Tugboats aren’t the only vessels that toot. (Why exactly is Montezuma so vengeful?)

This brings us to the subject of tender traps. The bottom line? I’ve never had a dinghy I couldn’t fall out of, capsize or pitchpole. Wanna know how to swamp a dinghy? Buy a new outboard. In my experience, both will be upside down and underwater within days. 

I remove the engine covers of my new outboards before I even mount them, and I paint the insides with antifouling paint. Think I’m kidding? I’ve found crabs swimming in my carburetor float. I’ve had seaweed snarling our starter cord. Our murderous dinghy drowns our outboard so often that I don’t need to tilt it up to check its prop for nicks. Hell, our lower unit needs sunblock. 

Batteries? I use the lead-acid variety for the convenience of being able to remove their caps and peer inside to see if they’re full of juice. Simple, eh? Why waste money on an expensive battery monitor?

Yes, I have a laptop aboard to keep track of our finances. The moment I keyboarded in our floating home as an asset, the software quickly transferred that amount into its liability column, and then the whole screen started flashing, beeping, and proclaiming: “You’re broke, Skipper. You’re officially bankrupt in every currency in the whole watery world.” Ah, the joys of circumnavigating. 

Of course, I prefer not being too ­negative. In fact, I once wrote a book singing the praises of cruising vessels. It fit on the back of a postage stamp. 

Actually, I’d have included more positives in this article, but, if I remember correctly, my short-term retention has been poor since the ’60s. Where were we?

Don’t get me started on the customs process. Once the guys in uniforms begin asking me for money, I whip out a rubber hose from my back pocket and strike myself in the head with it. This saves time. If they ask me if I’m carrying drugs, I always reply, “None that I haven’t already ingested,” with a wink and a grin. 

Regrets? None! I look back on watery life and remember all the glorious free rides I’ve had on US Coast Guard vessels, on search-and-rescue choppers, in the back of various squad cars—oh, what a lucky guy am I.

Incidentally, I’ve developed a cosmically cool way of dissuading those determined bean counters with long memories who foolishly want us to pay back the money we borrowed from them on previous circs. As they approach, I calmly inform them that there are three types of people in this world: people who can count and people who can’t.

That line usually gives us just long enough to hoist anchor and sail away. Ah, the great blue sea. 

Currently on his fourth circumnavigation, Cap’n Fatty is an eternal “boat kid” who was raised aboard an Alden schooner and never grew up. He’s lived aboard for 63 years while amassing hundreds of thousands of miles under his keel and has authored a dozen books on the subject. He says his biggest problem as a serial cruiser is “finding anchorages that don’t contain people who I owe a whole lot of money to!”

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If there was one thing we’d learned in our first couple of weeks in Costa Rica, it was that the country is absolutely brimming with life. All kinds of life, in all kinds of places. 

Our water tanks, for example, were being colonized by ­disconcerting white algae that had taken hold in the tropical climate. Black-and-white mold speckled the bottoms of ­cushions, the edges of books, and the damp corners into which breezes rarely ventured. On one memorable evening, as the last of the day’s sun diffused across the hazy horizon following an incredibly torrential downpour, a fledge of termites descended and covered the just-rinsed decks in a disgusting layer of insect ­paraphernalia. They dropped into the boat through the open hatches until we gave up and closed everything. We found them crawling up our legs, clustered in the corners of the settee ­cushions, and absolutely coating the cockpit, plastered down by rain. For days afterward, we found termite wings littering the boat, like stray confetti after a party.

We first arrived in Costa Rica in June following a monthlong passage south from Mexico’s Sea of Cortez. Wild Rye, our 32-foot 1971 Wauquiez Centurion, was coated in a stubborn layer of salt and dust, remnants of northern Mexico’s desert-type climate. My partner, Liam, and I were feeling equally grubby after the passage, our faces sunburned and clothes stiff from sea spray. The cool rains that greeted us in Costa Rica were divine. Having arrived at the start of the rainy season, we had no doubt that there would be more where that came from. For the next several months, our small world would be shaped as much by fresh water from the skies as by the salty ocean that held up our floating home.  

We started our explorations in Bahía Santa Elena. A bay within a bay on the remote northern edge of Santa Rosa National Park, protected from the southwest swell by its orientation and from the gusty Papagayo winds by the high hills to the north, it was a haven of stillness after a long month of constant motion. The only noise was the rush of wind over the hilltops high above and the constant background chatter of the jungle. Howler monkeys roared, tropical birds called, and, at dawn and dusk, enormous flocks of parrots filled the air with their strange, rambunctious conversation.

Paddling up the estuary in the dinghy on the rising tide was like entering another world. Light filtered through the mangroves, and the harsh midday sun softened to a dappled glow. Blue morpho butterflies winked in the trees like bright jewels, and colorful land crabs scuttled along mangrove roots suspended over the water. We spent hours drifting and listening to the unfamiliar birdsong, our ears transporting us even when our eyes couldn’t pick out the wildlife tucked away in the dense greenery. 

Another day, we hiked up to a ridge overlooking the bay. Our guidebook had an old map of hiking trails in the national park, but when we finally found the start of one, it clearly hadn’t been used for some time. The dirt road had been obscured by fallen trees and heavy curtains of climbing vines. Liam seemed to intuit, rather than actually see, the path under our feet; I crossed my fingers and followed. 

After an hour of serious bushwhacking, stopping every so often to pick small spines and burrs out of our clothes, we came around a corner and encountered a trail crew. The sight of two men with machetes and an Isuzu Trooper towing an ancient grader was decidedly surreal. We stretched our legs with pleasure on the crisp, newly cut swath, kicking up clouds of dusty red earth and admiring the strange mix of cactuses and deciduous canopy cover that characterizes the tropical dry forest in northern Costa Rica. On the return trip, we passed the trail crew again; they had made it about 300 feet farther into the dense growth before the grader overheated. Based on how many times my ankles had been snarled by strong, spiny vines, I was not surprised. The tireless growth of the tropical forests strikes me as a life force that far outmatches any human efforts to tame it.

For a tiny country, Costa Rica packs a mighty punch when it comes to ecological diversity. Although it makes up less than one-tenth of a percent of the Earth’s surface, it is home to nearly 6 percent of global biodiversity. Due in part to its geographical position—sandwiched between North and South America, as well as the Pacific and Atlantic oceans—and in part to its mountainous topography, the country contains a wealth of ecosystems and microclimates, from chilly, high-altitude cloud forests to coastal mangroves and everything in between. With more than 25 percent of its landmass protected in the form of national parks, reserves and refuges, Costa Rica has become something of a symbol of biodiversity.

As we meandered south, we visited as many of these protected areas as we could, enjoying the gradual transition from the tropical dry forest to muggy, muddy rainforest. For two Canadian gringos who have spent the majority of our short lives north of the 49th parallel, this land of eternal summer with creatures such as the tapir and tamandua, the kinkajou and bushy-tailed olingo, hummed with opportunity for new sights and experiences.

In the Curú Wildlife Refuge, on the southern edge of the Nicoya Peninsula, we stepped softly through groves of fruit trees and coconut palms left over from the area’s agricultural history. Feisty capuchin monkeys threw down half-eaten mangoes to defend their territory, and the air was heady with the scent of fermenting fruit. In the dim purple twilight, a coati sashayed past, tail held high, nose scuffling the forest floor. 

Farther down the coast, we anchored in front of Manuel Antonio National Park—the country’s tiniest and one of its most visited parks—and spent a day watching the local sloths as they blissfully alternated between snoozing and munching on leaves in the forked branches of cecropia trees. More than any other animal we were lucky enough to see, the sloths seemed to embody the mellow pura vida lifestyle for which Costa Rica is known.

With their goofy, blissed-out grins, I imagined them to be saying, “Take it easy, man, life is good.” And it sure is.  

On the Osa Peninsula, Corcovado National Park grows increasingly popular for its lush biodiversity; it’s one of the most biologically intense places on Earth. Instead of paying the steep park fees, we explored the fringes of the peninsula’s intensely humid rainforest. We anchored in Drake Bay to make use of the public hiking trail that runs for 10 miles along the coast, all the way to the San Pedrillo ranger station on the edge of Corcovado. 

We saw brilliant blue-and-yellow gartered trogons, and a family of capuchin monkeys, one mother still with a tiny infant clinging to her back. We hid from the daily deluge of rain under the broad, leafy canopy of a gnarled old tree, having foolishly declined a friendly fisherman’s offer to join him under the tarp shelter of his panga. We plunged through ankle-deep mud in our rain boots. Although we had anchored in Drake Bay with jungle exploration in mind, I instantly fell in love with the anchorage for its beach, as well: a wide, sandy crescent bisected by several creeks running down to the sea, with a high green hill at its back into which the town disappeared. The ocean, at its front, was as calm as a millpond.

The rich, life-filled wildness of the Costa Rican jungle is not ­limited to parks. Everywhere we went, we were struck by the denseness of the trees, which grew unchecked right down to the tide line. Even the largest coastal towns were half-hidden within a leafy embrace and hard to spot from the water, buildings further camouflaged by their tin roofs, which oxidized to a pale, mottled green. Every beach we visited was lined with verdant growth, trees wreathed in mist in the early mornings, and pools of shade in the heat of the midday sun. From their thick canopies came the strident song of kiskadees and the high, fluting calls of toucans. From overhead, I imagine the country looks like a sea of green, with canopies ruffled by the wind like waves on water. An ocean of trees.

Next to the lush forests—but in a way intimately connected to them, because it is the rain, in part, that fuels that verdant growth—what I will remember most about Costa Rica is water. At the end of our first week, we were running desperately low, a result of having placed too much faith in other cruisers’ assurances that it rained all the time. With only 2 gallons left in our last tank, we anchored in front of the small fishing town of Junquillal, just east of Bahía Santa Elena, and dinghied in to ask around. 

Feeling a bit shy after weeks of solitude, we approached the fishing dock and waved at a group of surly-looking fishermen playing cards in the shade. In response to our slow, heavily accented Spanish request, a fisherman walked over, grinned and said: “I like your little boat. And sure.” He shouted something in rapid-fire Spanish, and another guy walked over, dragging the end of a well-used and abused hose. The two men stood chatting with me (I used the word liberally; I probably caught about one word in five) while I filled our jerry jugs, and then they helped me lug them all back to the dinghy. As we cast off, dinghy loaded to the gunwales, the group wished us well with shouts of “Pura vida!”

We never ran low on water after that. Docks at every fishing pier and coastal resort, no matter how decrepit or luxurious, all seemed to have a water hose, and everyone was happy to share. As we headed south and the rainy season established itself, we reveled in the torrential afternoon rains that could fill our tanks in an hour. There was the cool relief of cloud cover as towering thunderheads built, fueled by the heat rising off the land; the crisp freshness of rain, washing away the salt of sweat and sea spray, delightfully and tinglingly cold on our skin; the relief as rain drove away the afternoon heat, and the equal relief as the next morning’s sun chased away the lingering dampness. Everything we had read and heard about Costa Rica during the rainy season indicated that it would be too wet and ­uncomfortable. The reality was that we absolutely loved it. 

Looking back, what we appreciated above all was the sense of transition, through ecosystems as well as seasons.

Looking back on our three months in Costa Rica, what we ­appreciated above all was the sense of transition, through ­ecosystems as well as seasons. As we floated south, we moved toward the rain in space and time: from drier to wetter forests, lower to higher average rainfall, and toward the wettest months of the year, which are August through October. It was a continuation of the transition we experienced when leaving Mexico’s arid heat and venturing into the humid tropics, which is itself the mirror image of the transition we experienced when we made that first big leap from Canada. As people whose home is forever on the move, it might seem like we’ve abandoned the seasonality of Canada for eternal summer, but we are moving through seasons, all the same. It’s just that the motion is geographical more than temporal. 

Now, as the rainy season approaches its zenith, we start to look ahead to the next change, the next place. Perhaps from here, Wild Rye will find her way out of the tropics and back into the higher latitudes. After a few magical years of endless summer, we think it might be nice to see some snow again. And so, the cycle will continue, until one day our season of travel comes to its natural end, and the next change, the next adventure, will be found back home where we started. 

Hilary Thomson and her partner, Liam Johnston, have been living and traveling aboard their 1971 Wauquiez Centurion 32, Wild Rye, since 2019. Their eastern Pacific journey encompassed points northward to Haida Gwaii, in northern British Columbia, and southward to Panama City.

Weather and Sailing Conditions

Costa Rica’s Pacific coast has two distinct seasons: dry, from December to May; and rainy, from June to November. The driest weather is in Guanacaste province in the north, and the rainiest part of the country is the Osa Peninsula. 

During the dry season, there will be more-consistent wind for cruising, but the country is affected by the Papagayo gap winds: strong, intermittent northeasterly winds that commonly blow 30 or 40 knots, with gusts up to double the forecast windspeed. They are strongest from December through March, when the northeast trade winds are at their height in the Caribbean. To sail through the Papagayos, follow the shoreline carefully to avoid the fetch that builds farther out to sea. 

During the rainy season, winds tend to be light. Take advantage of the regular afternoon onshore breeze if you want to cover any miles under sail. Rain squalls bring short-lived periods of stronger wind, often accompanied by lightning and heavy rain that can obscure visibility. The storms are most common in the late afternoon and early evening. 

Costa Rica sits on the southern edge of the Northern Hemisphere hurricane zone, which affects Pacific Central America and Mexico as well as the Caribbean. However, Costa Rica is far enough south that the risk of a hurricane landfall is low.

Anchorages

Many anchorages on the Pacific coast are fairly exposed to southwest swell; be prepared for a lot of rolling, especially from May to October, when the southwest swell is at its largest. Setting a stern hook to hold the bow into the swell will help keep the boat comfortable. Exposure to swell also makes for sporty (or occasionally ­outright dangerous) dinghy landings. Expect to navigate many surf breaks, and watch the local pangas for an indication of the best approach. To escape the swell, consider exploring the Gulf of Nicoya and Golfo Dulce, which are sheltered by Costa Rica’s two large peninsulas and have many interesting anchorages. 

In the dry season when the northeast trades and Papagayos are blowing, swell will be less of an issue, but protection from northerly winds and fetch will be important. 

The Pacific coast of Costa Rica has significant tides (­generally around 8 feet), so plan your shore arrivals accordingly, and make sure to tie your dinghy well.  

Formalities

Upon entering Costa Rica, cruisers are given a 90-day cruising permit. Extensions are no longer permitted at the expiration of the cruising permit, and it is not possible to reenter Costa Rica for three months. When we were in Costa Rica in 2021, all cruisers were required to use an agent to check in because of the pandemic. For us, the use of an agent made an otherwise-­lengthy process easy. I was quoted prices between $375 and $450 for the check-in service, with a significant discount (around $100 off) for members of the Panama Posse, a go-at-your-own-pace cruising rally between Southern California and Annapolis, Maryland, via the Panama Canal.

Ports of entry in Costa Rica include Marina Papagayo, Playa del Coco, Puntarenas, Caldera, Quepos and Golfito. Marina Papagayo is the northernmost port of entry; customs and immigration officials are located in Liberia, and the port captain is in Playa del Coco, each about 25 miles away, so hiring an agent might be cost-effective compared with the taxi fares and time required to do it yourself. Golfito, the southernmost port of entry, has several marinas with immigration, customs and the port captain located nearby, so clearing in or out here on your own is straightforward. Our exit clearance, which we were able to complete ourselves, cost about $15. Many officials in Costa Rica speak English, but don’t count on it. All marinas will have helpful English-speaking staff.

Cost

We found daily items such as groceries, beer and fuel to be cheaper than or on par with American prices, while tourist-oriented items such as marinas and dining out were often more expensive. Marinas ran from $2.50 to $3.50 per foot per night; beers were about $1 each. Dining out was variable; the cheapest meals were reliably found at soda restaurants (much like American diners). Free potable water is available nationwide, and hoses can be found at most docks.

Guidebooks and charts

We used Sarana’s Guide to Cruising Pacific Costa Rica and Panama(2015) by Eric Baicy and Sherrell Watson. It’s an affordable e-book with useful sets of waypoints for ­approaching anchorages and navigating tricky areas. Also available is Charlie’s Charts: Costa Rica by Margo Wood. We found Navionics to be fairly ­accurate throughout the ­country; however, many hazards are uncharted, and we would not recommend traveling this coast without a detailed guidebook. —HT

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Quetzal had recently glided into Lunenburg Harbour under spinnaker, five days outbound from Bermuda. It was great to be back in one of my favorite Nova Scotia haunts, and time to get ­serious. Polar Sun, my friend Mark Synnott’s Stevens 47 cutter, was also in Lunenburg. Mark is a ­climber, professional adventurer and bestselling author. We had most recently sailed together in Grenada, and now he was also bound north, leading a National Geographic expedition through the Northwest Passage, hoping to find new evidence about the fate of British explorer Sir John Franklin. We gathered in Quetzal’s salon and chatted long into the night, discussing our preparations and aspirations for our upcoming voyages.

On June 15, Quetzal slipped her mooring and steamed into the fog. It was reassuring to have Alan, a dear friend from Lunenburg, back aboard. Ron, a Quetzal glutton who has crossed the Atlantic with me twice before, and Mark, a terrific shipmate from Montana, completed the crew. Our job was to sail to Newfoundland, where our Viking voyage would commence. However, our first landfall was fabled Sable Island, a crescent of shifting sands 90 miles south of eastern Nova Scotia. It’s notorious as the “graveyard of the Atlantic,” and more than 350 wrecks form a necklace of tragedy. It’s also home to an unlikely herd of 500 wild horses. It’s also not easy to visit, so when Alan arranged a coveted landing permit, we had to stop.  

After a two-day sail from Lunenburg, we dropped the hook just off Sable’s northern shore. We hailed the park authorities, launched the dinghy, and prepared for a beach landing. There are no harbors on Sable, and landings often go badly because of stealthy wave breaks. We were the first boat to arrive in 2022 and had been warned not to attempt to get ashore unless the conditions were favorable. It was calm and clear as I searched for a stretch of beach with a minimal break and then gunned our 6 hp Tohatsu. In my mind, we were marines storming a beach. As the dinghy plowed into soft sand, a modest wave plopped aboard. We struggled to jump out and haul the dink up the beach. Reality hit with the second, soaking wave. We were four post-middle-aged guys in an overloaded dinghy, but we were ashore on Sable Island.

The park rangers helped drag the dinghy to a spot beyond the reach of the tide. Trekking through sand and marram grass, we encountered the horses. Perched on a low dune near a freshwater pond, we observed an injured stallion fend off unwanted inquiries from a pair of frisky colts interested in his harem of mares. The once-proud stallion was limping badly, and Mark, a veterinarian, assured us his days were numbered. Parks Canada has a hands-off policy concerning all wildlife on Sable, where the horses, introduced in the 1700s, have thrived. Originally from Acadian stock, they have developed into a unique breed to withstand the harsh climate of the North Atlantic. As we made our way back to the beach, we encountered a plump of gray seals, and a few curious harbor seals, a mere fraction of the thousands of seals that breed on Sable.

With strong winds forecast by late the next day, we decided to cut short our visit and head for Newfoundland. After a breezy passage across the Grand Banks, we made landfall in St. John’s. We secured every fender we had and eased alongside an unfriendly wharf. Alan’s friend Mike Riley delivered two beefy 12-foot spruce sections that we later fashioned into ice poles. In the spirit of Viking plundering, we enjoyed great food, drinks and Irish music along George Street, whose claim to fame is having the most bars per square foot of any street in North America. Continuing north, we made landfalls in Trinity, Fogo and Twillingate before arriving in Lewisporte, a small town with the nicest marina in the Canadian north. 

The crew for the next leg, the challenging 1,800-mile, 18-day passage to Iceland by way of Labrador and Greenland, turned up on July 7. Scott, Antonio, Levi, Brian and Jeff had all sailed aboard Quetzal before, some many times and most across an ocean. After a dry run of stuffing ourselves into survival suits and a sobering safety briefing—falling overboard was a very bad idea—we shoved off for an overnight passage to L’Anse aux Meadows, the only documented Viking settlement in North America and a national historic site administered by Parks Canada.

We had icebergs on our minds. Environment Canada provides ice updates online, and I studied them daily. I also downloaded the app Iceberg Alley, which documents icebergs and whale sightings. There were reports of a few stray bergs along our route, and we kept a sharp lookout through the night. We didn’t see any icebergs, but a pod of minke whales escorted us around Cape Bauld at the tip of Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula.

As the dinghy plowed into soft sand, a modest wave plopped aboard. Reality hit with the second, soaking wave. We were four post-middle-aged guys in an overloaded dinghy, but we were ashore on sable island.

We came alongside a new wharf at Garden Cove. Two local fishermen took our lines. They didn’t seem to mind the driving rain and near-freezing temperatures. When I told them that we were headed to the nearby park, one informed me, “You can’t walk there from here.” I was surprised because it was just over a mile away and I’d made the walk before. “Nope, can’t walk there. It’s too wet. But you can take Rabbit’s truck. Keys are on the dash.” 

The visitor center at L’Anse aux Meadows, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, details the Vinland voyages of the Vikings, who reached this faraway shore sometime around 1000 A.D., nearly 500 years before Columbus. Sagas, originally oral histories, tell the story of Leif Erikson’s voyage to Vinland. With a crew of 35, they departed Greenland and made their way north and west. Their first landfall, which Erikson dubbed Helluland, or place of stone, was likely somewhere on Baffin Island. It was a forbidding land, and they sailed on. Their next landfall, Markland, meaning wooded land, was probably along the Labrador coast, but they didn’t tarry and rode a favorable northeast wind farther south. Finally, they came to the shallow, rocky anchorage near today’s L’Anse aux Meadows and decided to make the grassy knoll overlooking the harbor the first European settlement in the New World.  

The term Vinland, or place of grapes, has historically been problematic. The ­sagas are clear that when Erikson sailed for Greenland the following spring, his cargo included grapes and vines. While it is unlikely that wild grapes have ever grown in Newfoundland, the Norse ­artifacts at L’Anse aux Meadows are indisputable evidence of a settlement dating from around 1000 A.D. First discovered by Norwegian archaeologists Helge and Anne Ingstad in 1960, these remains are of Norse-style sod buildings, including a forge and small shipyard. Artifacts include slag from forging, numerous iron nails used for shipbuilding, and more than 50 wrought-iron pieces. It is possible, or even probable, that Erikson’s landfall was farther south, and many historians now believe L’Anse aux Meadows may have been where his brother-in-law, Thorfinn Karlsefni, tried to establish a permanent settlement a few years later. Hiking around the respectfully restored site in a bone-chilling rain, I had deep respect for the men and women who sailed from Greenland in a low-slung boat, probably less than 60 feet long, with a single square sail and only their natural instincts to guide them.

That night, one of the local fishermen provided the crew with lobsters for a feast. Before we shoved off the next morning, Scott took a swim, an invigorating ritual he undertook at every landfall, even when we were surrounded by ice. We made our way across the Strait of Belle Isle and approached mainland Labrador. Fog closed in as we neared Battle Harbor, but, undeterred, we threaded our way through a maze of rocks, racing darkness to the wharf. 

Battle Harbor occupies a rocky outcropping that is steeped in history. A Marconi wireless tower was raised in 1904. Five years later, Robert Peary used the tower to telegraph news that he had reached the North Pole. Reporters from all over the world were dispatched to Battle Harbor, though today, significant historic and scientific research has concluded that he most likely did not reach the pole.  

I had deep respect for the men and women who sailed from greenland in a low-slung boat, probably less than 60 feet long, with a single square sail and only their natural instincts to guide them.

Continuing up the Labrador coast, we finally encountered an iceberg. It was a classic wedge berg, and we cautiously sailed toward it. I used my sextant to measure its altitude and the radar for a distance off reading. A quick calculation put the iceberg at more than 160 feet high and about 250 feet wide. We were in awe and shot photos from every angle, paying homage to the giant castaway from a distant glacier. Little did we know that a week later, we’d be routinely punching through ice-choked waters, casually dismissing isolated bergs like this one while searching for passages through sea ice. 

We anchored in Eagle Cove, a ­fishhook-­shaped harbor carved out of Hawk Island. This was genuine wilderness. We had been warned by veterans of Arctic travel to be on guard for polar bears, and some suggested that we carry a gun for protection. Instead, we carried bear banger cartridges and a pen launcher, which travels about 100 feet and then explodes with a mighty blast. It would certainly get a bear’s attention.

Scott and Brian were a long time ashore before I noticed them in a distant corner of the cove. When I retrieved them in the dinghy, there were shivering in their underpants. They had discovered a bed of mussels and braved frigid water to stuff their pants with hundreds of them for dinner. 

After a swift passage through a steep-sided strait intriguingly called Squasho Run, we made our way offshore. We timed our departure to catch strong but favorable winds on the back side of a deep low-pressure system, and to have as much daylight as possible to get beyond the numerous icebergs that Environment Canada’s weather and climate-change website assured me were hovering near the coast. The first 24 hours were rough as Quetzal ran before near-gale-force westerlies while being rocked by seas from every direction. Not for the first time, we came to appreciate the hard dodger and full enclosure that kept us dry and warm. A day later, conditions moderated, and soon we were under power gliding over quiet seas with a squadron of fulmars tracking our every course correction. On Day Four, 60 miles from land, we encountered many large icebergs. Then, through a clearing in the low clouds, Brian spotted the towering, snowcapped mountains of southwest Greenland. We were entering another world.

Icebergs come in different shapes and sizes. The big ones, which are masses of frozen fresh water, are generally easy to pick up on radar. Bergy bits, usually fragments of larger bergs, are 3 to 12 feet high and more worrisome to sailors, ­especially in bad visibility. Growlers, which occasionally hiss or growl as trapped air escapes, are 3 feet or less above the surface but can be deadly. They’re typically around 200 square feet in size but can weigh up to 1,000 tons. Imagine smashing into a growler at 6 knots.

With the sun shining, Levi launched his drone. He managed to land it on deck while we sailed between bergs. In addition to beautiful photos, it was also nice to get a view of what lay ahead. The wind freshened as we made our approach. We tried to stay upwind of the larger bergs, knowing that bergy bits and growlers were likely to be on the lee side. We slipped around several growlers, and one small berg that tried to block the entrance to the town of Qaqortoq. Its harbor was crowded with local boats, so we tied up alongside the commercial dock. Later, we moved across the harbor to an open fishing dock. Finding secure dockage in Greenland requires that you be ready to move when a commercial ship arrives and that you have long lines with chafe gear and heavy-duty fenders.  

Qaqortoq, the largest town in ­southwest Greenland, is also close to the site of the Vikings’ original Eastern Settlement. Founded by Erik the Red, Leif’s father, around 980 A.D., the ­settlement remained vital into the 14th century. Several Norse remains are visible in nearby fjords. We took on provisions, topped off our fuel and, surprisingly, had a delicious Thai meal in a small restaurant in the port.  

In Greenland, I shifted my attention to the excellent daily ice reports provided by polarportal.dk, a Danish ice- and climate-­monitoring institute. Our intended route was to follow an inside passage south to Nanortalik, then enter Prince Christian Sound. This spectacular 70-mile passage north of storm-ridden Cape Farewell provides a protected channel to the Irminger Sea and the east coast of Greenland. Protected, that is, if you can get through the ice. We were now worried about sea ice, or storis, which is frozen seawater that forms quickly and disappears just as quickly. Driven by wind, current and bathymetry, storis can completely block a passage. Looking ahead a week, our planned exit would likely be blocked by ice.  

High-latitude sailing and planning don’t mix. You take things a day, or even an hour, at a time, then react to drastic changes in weather and ice conditions. We had a hard upwind slog from Qaqortoq, tacking and motorsailing to stay clear of hundreds of large icebergs and countless smaller ones before finding an open spot along the wharf in Nanortalik. It’s a quiet village whose name translates to “place of polar bears.” The protected harbor ­provided a respite from the strong winds. 

The following day, July 19, we picked our way through minimal sea ice and entered the Ikerasassuaq Strait. Gale-force north winds were forecast, so we made our way to a landlocked bay, Paakitsuarssuaq, and conned our way past rocks and ice into the stunning anchorage.

The passage here is, simply, ­magnificent. Sheer-sided 6,000-foot mountains explode from the water’s edge, and several ­glaciers reach down to the sea, calving off bergs and bergy bits. It was calm, and we motored most of the way. Several times we slowed to a crawl, usually just downstream of a glacier, as the channel became choked with ice. Brian and Jeff manned the bow all day long, guiding us through narrow openings and using the poles to shove growlers out of our way. We nosed up to Kangerdluk Glacier and let Quetzal drift. Levi and I stayed aboard, and once again the drone was aloft. The crew took the dinghy to the foot of the glacier and snagged a few nice chunks of ice for captain’s hour.  

Luckily, the strong winds of the night before had pushed the storis south, leaving a clear path out. That night was the most stressful of the summer as Quetzal sailed toward Iceland in fog, gusty winds and ice-strewn waters. Jeff was a champion, manning the bow for hours in the dark despite the cold, wet conditions. We monitored the radar and became adept at picking up even very small bergs. It was an incredible relief to finally gain sea room, and the five-day 600-mile passage to Hafnarfjordur, Iceland, was surprisingly smooth. 

Quetzal and I took a well-earned break in Iceland. My wife, Tadji, my daughter, Narianna, and her fiance, Steven, flew in, and we toured the island by car. Iceland is a rugged land of fire and ice. The Fagradasfjall volcanic eruption was ­greeted with nonchalance by locals and intrigue by visitors. Nari, Steven and I hiked 6 miles each way on a rough trail to get a firsthand look at molten lava. Quetzal was treated well by the Icelandic Keelboat Association, and I gave a talk in Reykjavik in appreciation. We toured the Settlement Exhibition at the City Museum. The first humans in Iceland were Viking settlers who arrived around 870 A.D. In just over 100 years, these bold mariners had made their way to Greenland and Canada.  

The new crew turned up on August 7, and we were underway the next day. Fridrik, a photographer and dauntless sailor who circumnavigated Iceland solo in his 33-foot X Yacht, filmed our departure. Jim, Chris, Sean and Denise, all Quetzal veterans and good friends, had a lumpy first sail as we pushed north through a leftover swell opposed by strong winds. We decided to take the long way to Norway, along the north shore of Iceland, which would also take us just above the Arctic Circle. We skirted the dramatic headlands of the Vestfirdir (west fjords) and made landfall at Isafjordur, where several sailboats were holed up. They were waiting for the ice conditions in East Greenland to improve before carrying on. In what had become a pleasant ritual, we made our way to the pool for a soak. Every town in Iceland has a pool that usually includes a hot and (really) cold tub. You alternate from one to the other. 

We had fair winds as we headed east, rounding the headland of Horn at latitude 66 degrees, 30 minutes. I had a reminder of the many miles Quetzal has before her. In December of next year, we hope to be rounding the other horn, the infamous cape perched at the tip of South America, nearly 7,500 miles of latitude away. 

We made landfall at the small island of Grimsey. Known as the “island on the Arctic Circle,” it’s home to 30 permanent residents, thousands of puffins, and seemingly millions of pissed-off Arctic terns that dive-bombed us as we hiked to the monument that denotes the actual position of the Arctic Circle. It’s a massive round block of concrete. It’s round because the circle keeps moving a few feet each year, and it’s easier to relocate a round monument than a square one. That night, Magnus—the busiest man on the island who runs the fuel dock, airport and his own fishing boat—came aboard for a drink. He informed us that the puffins were getting ready to depart. Apparently, a memo goes out, and within a day or two, all the puffins head offshore and don’t return until the following spring. The terns were also getting ready to start their epic migration from the Arctic Circle to the Antarctic Circle and back. 

From Grimsey, we made a nonstop passage to the brooding and beautiful Faroe Islands, the next waypoint on the Viking route across the Atlantic. We were never alone; doughty fulmars and soaring gannets kept us company. We hove-to just west of the island of Kalsoy to wait for a 5-knot tidal current to change our way. It’s critical to time the tides right, and the Rak app was incredibly helpful. Riding the current, we zipped through the starkly beautiful Leirvik Fjordur channel and made landfall in the capital of Torshavn. The Faroe Islands need time to explore properly, and the few days we had were not enough. We departed for the Shetland Islands, our final stop before Norway, at 0300.

The morning was clear and the wind crisp. Chris and Jim are devoted celestial navigators, but opportunities are rare in the often cloudy north. This was the perfect morning. Chris skillfully measured the angular distance between the silvery crescent moon and Jupiter, a process called lunar distance, and a challenging sight to take. He then patiently worked Jim and me through the process, and, many calculations later, we were able to check the accuracy of our ship’s chronometer. This technique was used by Joshua Slocum and other early voyagers, which liberated them from the need for accurate timepieces. 

The North Sea was determined to keep us from calling at the Shetland Islands. A hard east wind accompanied by 8-to-10-foot seas with an annoyingly short period between persuaded us to carry on for Norway. Denise and Sean took long stints at the helm, conning Quetzal to weather. 

The last three days of the crossing proved to be the toughest as we pounded our way east. Conditions finally eased as we approached the coast. We sighted the red-and-white lighthouse on the tip of Fedje Island in the late afternoon of August 19. It was a bittersweet moment for me. Quetzal had completed her ninth Atlantic crossing, successfully retracing the Viking route, the result of two years of planning and three months of challenging sailing. It was hard to believe that we had pulled it together. But as we made our way into the quaint harbor, the only sailboat in sight, I realized that plenty of adventures lay ahead. 

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