The picture of a beautiful boat anchored in an idyllic tropical bay often evokes thoughts of warm breezes wafting across tranquil blue waters. What the image doesn’t show is how that same warm breeze can cause the interior temperature of a boat to soar past 100°F.

While portholes and hatches can be opened to let air drift into the cabins, they are often too small or poorly positioned to make a significant difference. One common solution is a wind scoop—a canvas bag fitted over hatches to direct airflow. However, wind scoops require adjustment when the wind shifts, which can be inconvenient, especially at night in a marina or dock.

Enter the Breeze Bandit, an innovative product from Cruising Solutions of Charleston, South Carolina, USA. Specializing in practical solutions for boaters, they’ve designed a simple yet effective tool. The Breeze Bandit is a four-sided nylon pyramid that attaches around a hatch using included press-studs. Unlike traditional wind scoops, it doesn’t rely on a single large opening to face the wind. Instead, wind hits the cone and is deflected through a pocket into the cabin, adjusting automatically to shifts in direction. If it rains, the cone can be quickly removed, and the hatch closed.

This concept is so straightforward that I wonder why I didn’t think of it myself during sweltering Florida summers in a marina. Instead, I installed two AC units—a solution far more expensive than the Breeze Bandit’s $65 price tag. A clever marina strategy would be to loan these out to incoming boats; once people experience the comfort, they’d never want to leave.

Watch a video of installing the Breeze Bandit below:

The post Shooting the Breeze appeared first on Cruising World.

Repairing a shore power cable is a straightforward project that can be tackled comfortably while seated—either indoors or aboard your boat. Shore power is a marina luxury that keeps your batteries charged and powers AC (alternating current) appliances when a “ring main” is installed in the cabins or galley, not to mention another desirable AC acronym, Air Conditioning, if your boat has it fitted. Most marinas provide power pedestals at each dock, typically offering 30-amp, 120-volt outlets. Some also have 50-amp connections for boats with higher power demands, as well as 15-amp outlets intended for light use, such as running a single tool. However, these smaller outlets are usually marked “not for shore power” and shouldn’t be used to handle a boat’s heavier electrical load.

The heavy cables that are needed to connect a boat to shore power can be bought on the web or at chandlers.

The most common type in the US is made by Marinco Inc., but there are also others with the same terminal connectors. All have a male and female plug at each end of cables that are available in various lengths. It’s also possible to buy the wires and the plugs separately to make custom lengths to suit a boat that is always moored in the same dock space. It’s better to use a length that is not overly long, to reduce resistance and overheating of the cable that is exposed to the elements day-in and day-out.

The actual plugs on the ends of these cables are a special configuration that consists of power (black), return (white) and ground (green), and they only plug into a receptacle one way.

They may also have a black locking ring that enables them to be securely attached to a pedestal or a boat that has corresponding threads.

Some pedestal receptacles are angled downward to reduce the incursion of rainwater that could short out the plugs.

If there is no locking ring facility, this type of angled connection is very susceptible to working loose due to the movement of the boat or even the wind. The only remedy is to tie the plug to the pedestal. If there is no locking ring facility on the pedestal it is still useful as a ¼-inch rope fits nicely between the ring and the boot that can then be tied to the pedestal.

If, through a bad connection, the plug overheats inside the receptacle, it usually trips the contact breaker, but if it continues to short out, it can start a fire inside the pedestal. Over time the plugs also become corroded due to the environment they operate in, making it necessary to replace the entire plug or the outer plug connector part of it.

Note: If either plug of a manufacturer’s shore-power cable still has the original plugs attached, they cannot be dismantled because they are one-piece molded assemblies.

The only way to fit a new plug to these cables is to saw the old one off, then fit a completely new male or female plug in the manner described here. This is not at all difficult and much cheaper than buying a new shore power cable set.

The male and female plugs at each end of the wire use different boots and the spare parts are not interchangeable.

A single 1/4” inch thin flat blade screwdriver is all that is required to do these repairs because the Phillips screws all have one open slot across the head of the screws.

Dismantling A Female Plug

To replace or rebuild a failed female plug, first pull the boot away from the plug and slide it a few inches down the wire—because it need not be removed from the wire unless a new boot is to be fitted. Next, remove the three screws in the end of the plug, and loosen the two on the side of the body—but do not completely remove these two, as they only clamp the cable in place. The white plug part can now be pulled out of the body exposing the wires inside.

Move the body back down the wire a few inches. (If this is difficult, the two side screws may not have been loosened enough.) It should now be possible to see what has caused the failure of the connection and there may even be signs of burning on a wire.

To remove the wires, simply loosen the three side screws and the plug can be pulled clear of the wires. The screws are colored red, green and white to match the wires.

Dismantling A Male Plug

Unscrew the three screws in the front of the male plug, and the boot can then be drawn back down the wire. On the male plug, there is no inner body and the plug screws directly into the boot.

This exposes the three wires attached to the plug that can now be unscrewed from the plug and repairs made in the same way as the female end.

Reassembling Both Plugs

Depending upon what is discovered when the plugs are dismantled, Marinco parts may need to be ordered. If the wire shows any signs of burning or brittleness, the cable should be cut back until the wires are clean. This is usually only about two or three inches and is best done with a hacksaw in a vice.

If a new boot is to be fitted, it will be necessary to trim one of the rings off at the end of the boot to be able to slide it onto the 5/8-inch diameter cable. Now, using a box cutter (Stanley knife), a scalpel (X-acto knife), or a similar knife with a new sharp blade, carefully trim the outer cover back 1 5/8-inch and remove it along with its inner strings until only three new wires are left. One method of doing this is to place the cable in the vice and slice into the top half of the outer cover, which is normally quite thin and flexible, but not so deep as to nick the wire insulation. Then, score a straight cut from the circular cut back to the end of the cover, peel it open, and it will then be easier to score around the rest of the cover. Now trim 5/8-inch of the wire insulation to expose the copper conductors and twist them to stop them from fraying.

Now push each wire end into its corresponding colored hole in the plug until the insulation fits inside the little raised hole, then tighten the locking screw. It is important to do this correctly: green wire goes into the green hole, white into white and black into black. If done incorrectly the polarity of the plug will be wrong. On the female plug, push the plug end into the body that locates with a small square keyway, and tighten the screws to fasten the plug to the body. Then, tighten the two clamp screws to secure the plug to the cable and pull the boot back over the complete plug.

This completes the installation of both male and female plugs—with a DIY cost saving of approximately 200 percent over the cost of a new shore-power cable set.

The post DIY Shore Power Cable Repair: Keep Your Boat “Plugged In” appeared first on Cruising World.

Personal safety gear is more than a one-and-done purchase. For gear to be effective, sailors need to become completely familiar with it, and commit to a regular inspection and maintenance routine.

The onset of winter might sideline sailing, but it also affords an opportunity to reconsider personal safety gear. Start with a thorough cleaning and inspection of your kit. This includes the foul-weather gear, life jacket, tether, strobe, whistle and AIS beacon. 

Consider replacing older, worn-out gear while adding some new kit. The goal is to have reliable, comfortable equipment that you’re willing to wear. It’s about function, not fashion. The value lies in how effectively this gear keeps you afloat, makes you more locatable, and wards off hypothermia.  

One of the biggest misconceptions is that if an inflatable life jacket has never been used, it must be as good as new. This ignores the fact that such gear is regularly drenched with salt spray, cooked by the sun, then tossed into a locker and ignored. The best way to ensure operational reliability is to follow the manufacturer’s maintenance procedures. Look online for product updates or recalls. 

A friend and safety expert recently surveyed other safety trainers and equipment experts about how often they encounter inflatable-life-jacket failures. One pro reported a 5 percent failure rate. Another said 11 percent. If aircraft had such a failure rate, lots more people would be taking the train. 

Fortunately, there’s a way to beat those odds. It involves carefully scrutinizing key components while doing an annual, offseason inflatable-­life-jacket inspection and maintenance.  

Begin by checking straps and clips for signs of fraying or cracking. Open and unfold the device, removing ancillary equipment such as a strobe or an AIS beacon. Check battery expiration dates, and operate each device in its test mode. 

Next, remove the carbon-­dioxide cylinder and inspect it. Look for an intact seal on the cylinder, and note any signs of corrosion. 

Then, orally inflate the life jacket and leave it overnight in a temperature-controlled environment. The next morning, check to see if there’s been a noticeable dimension change to the bladder. Even if you are handy enough to repair leaking seams on your inflatable dinghy or stand-up paddleboard, don’t attempt to patch a leaking life jacket. Replace it. 

Note how many exhalations into the inflation tube it takes to fill up the life jacket—because if you’re submerged, water pressure will make the process even more arduous. If you go overboard untethered and the autoinflation feature fails, a reflexive tug on the manual-inflation tab can deliver the requisite buoyancy, or the last resort will be oral inflation.

Pay close attention to the autoinflator hardware, either the bobbin type or the hydrostatic system. The former relies on the solubility of a tabletlike compound, held in a bobbin, which dissolves when immersed. This allows a plunger to pierce the carbon-dioxide cylinder, inflating the life jacket. These bobbins can, over time and exposure to high humidity, harden and become less prone to dissolving. Follow the manufacturer’s recommended replacement timetable—often for annual replacement.

Hydrostatic inflation systems respond to slight changes in water pressure when the unit submerges. The pressure-sensing element must make full contact with the water—and in some cases, the plunge is not deep enough to activate autoinflation. The best bet is to follow US Coast Guard wisdom and treat these life jackets as manually inflated systems with an automatic backup. Train yourself to yank the manual-inflate pull tab immediately. If the autoinflate beats you to it, that’s great, but if the auto system balks, no problem—you have already initiated manual inflation, and you still have oral inflation as a backup.

Most sailors find that there’s no perfect life jacket. Inflatables are comfortable to wear in their dormant state, but it’s important to get into the water and experience the transition from deflated to inflated. See how swimming is affected. Discover how vital the leg and crotch straps are to maintaining buoyancy with your head elevated. 

One of the best ways to accomplish this is to attend a US Sailing hands-on Safety at Sea seminar in a pool with pros.  It’s another valuable offseason skill-building opportunity. 

“Practice makes perfect” might be a bit of an overstatement, but familiarity with safety gear does improve outcomes. Getting to know your life jacket means that you have jumped into the water wearing it, done some swimming with it on, and even tried climbing up a boarding ladder. 

If nothing else, find an indoor pool and a few fellow cruisers interested in gear ­familiarization. Dim the lights, and note how a bright flashing strobe on your vest or jacket destroys your night ­vision. (A light on a stalk might be preferable.) 

Try the whistle, adjust the leg and crotch straps, and consider how an AIS beacon would be deployed. See if you could reach a mini flashlight or handheld VHF radio tucked into the pocket of your foul-weather gear. 

Now is the perfect time, before the next season’s sailing begins.

The post Stay Safe Year-Round: Essential Offseason Gear Prep for Sailors appeared first on Cruising World.

We can’t see the wind, but we can see what it is doing to many objects on the water. Understanding the patterns and trends of the ever-­changing wind helps us sail faster, more efficiently, and on a more direct course toward our destination.   

Reading the wind is one of the great joys of sailing. Start by wearing sunglasses to dampen glare. This makes it easier to detect small changes of the ripples that wind causes on the water. I use prescription sunglasses to help me read the wind.  

Stand up in the boat so that you can see farther. Study one section of the horizon at a time. In a minute or two, you will be able to recognize what the wind is doing. 

Start by looking at the wind within 10 boatlengths, and then extend your view farther out, eventually all the way to the horizon. Study the patterns. Out loud, say where you think the wind is best.  

There are many clues. The first indicator is the water. Dark patches with ripples close together indicate more wind. Look for the intensity of the patches. That means puffs. You can also see if the puffs are coming from different directions.   

The next indicator is your sails. The wind flows around the sails and lets you know exactly what is happening around your boat. I use an apparent-wind indicator (a masthead fly) to see what direction the wind is flowing. Other boats sailing in your vicinity are a helpful source of information too. If, for example, you see a boat well ahead of you steering a higher course, that suggests you are about to be lifted (able to sail a higher course toward your destination).  

A change of direction that forces you farther off course is called a header. Often, when wind changes direction, it is part of a puff with more ­velocity. Anticipate a puff just before it flows into your sails. If it is a strong gust, be prepared to ease out your sails and head up a few degrees to lessen the effects of the puffs.  

Flags flying on the shoreline are helpful in trying to figure out if the wind is going to change direction. A set of anchored boats is another helpful source. (Be mindful that current flow can affect how a boat sits at anchor.) 

If a strong gust approaches your boat, then alert the rest of the crew that you are about to get a blast of wind. Crews don’t like surprises. Suddenly heeling over can startle an unsuspecting crew. 

Smokestacks are another good source of wind-direction information. A smokestack is high in the air and indicates what direction the wind is blowing at a higher elevation.

While you are sailing, keep a mental note of how each puff of wind is affecting your boat. The patterns repeat throughout the day. On a light-air day, head for a set of clouds. Often, good wind is underneath clouds. On a ­very-light-wind day, you can feel a subtle breeze on your neck. Wet a ­finger and hold it in the air, and you can feel which ­direction the wind is blowing.

Buddy Melges once told me that he looks to see what direction cattle are standing onshore so they can feel the wind on their backsides.

Thermal factors have a big impact on wind. When air heats up on land, it rises. A cooler breeze over the water fills in to take the place of the rising air. This is called a thermal or a sea breeze. 

Before sailing, take a few minutes to check out different forecasts by weather services. My favorites include Windy, PredictWind, SailFlow and the National Weather Service. I like looking at more than one source to get a sense of what might happen while I am on the water. 

For long-distance passages, consider subscribing to a private weather service. On an expedition to Antarctica, our crew engaged a weather service that gave us accurate forecasts every 12 hours. We received the information via email on a satellite phone. Many ­grand-prix racing crews use customized weather services as well.

The locals can be helpful. A gardener at a yacht club used to give me tips every Saturday before I went out racing. He would say: “There is a lot of dew on the grass this morning.  There’s going to be a strong breeze from the south.” Or: “I noticed cobwebs on the fence. Probably going to be a westerly wind today.” I smiled at the lore of the gardener, and yet his forecast generally proved accurate, so I always factored his commentary into my thinking.

Expect the wind to be choppy and confused in harbors and around moored boats. You are better off sailing in open water. Areas with many powerboats chop up the waves and cause confusion reading the wind. I try to sail in areas with as few power vessels as possible.  

Superstar sailor Buddy Melges once told me that he looks to see what direction cattle are standing on the shoreline so they can feel the wind on their backsides. Melges also advised watching the direction birds take off because they usually fly into the wind to generate lift.

When you sail into a gust of wind, it helps to use your sail trim, steering, and weight placement to maintain an even keel. When a boat heels over too far, it makes leeway. The rudder and keel stall, making it difficult to steer, and the boat slows down.  

When I am daysailing, I like to keep my boat sailing fast. The helm feels better, and the boat performs better. So, I ask the crew to sit to windward in a breeze and to leeward in light wind. If you plan to make a maneuver, let the crew know well in advance so that they will be prepared to switch sides of the boat. Reading the wind accurately will help you understand when it is time to tack or jibe.

More than anything, practice. I’ve spent my entire career studying the wind. Predicting what is going to happen will make your sailing more enjoyable.

The post How to Read the Wind appeared first on Cruising World.

Haulouts are a necessary evil. They are the only time a boat owner can perform a thorough inspection of the hull, rudder and underwater hardware, as well as apply bottom paint and perform other below-the-­waterline maintenance.  

There are several ways to make the most of this process. Here are a few tips.

Keep the Water Out

Watertight integrity rises above all other priorities. The weakest links in this chain are hull fittings and seacocks. That’s why it’s important to use time on the hard to inspect each one.  

If they are metallic, then scrape off some paint. The metal color should look like copper. While the telltale green shade of verdigris is not harmful, any sign of a pinkish hue is cause for concern. Pink indicates de-zincification. It means the metal is brass, which contains zinc, rather than bronze, which does not. The former is definitely not suitable for use in seawater.  

Work all the seacocks, and replace any that are seized. Those that are stiff can often be freed with exercise and a little penetrating oil. Most modern ball-type seacocks use Teflon or other synthetic seals, which don’t need lubrication, however, those that have drain plugs can usually accept Zerk fittings, which allow the void around the ball to be filled with grease, making movement easier.

Stay On Course

Closely inspect the rudder for damage, and remember to look at the very bottom surface. Many rudders “leak” water while hauled. This might not be cause for concern. However, if the liquid is rust-colored, then water may have penetrated to the rudder’s internal metallic support structure. That structure might be stainless steel or a combination of stainless and mild steel (the latter is undesirable, but both can suffer). If corrosion is present, surgery might be necessary to avoid a parting of the ways between the rudder stock and blade—and the resultant loss of steering or the rudder altogether.  

If the rudder is skeg hung, then check the condition of the gudgeon, the stationary support for the rudder’s lower pivot point, called the pintle. It’s normal to have a small amount of lateral play here, but too much can indicate wear or damage. Fiberglass around the pintle hardware should be free of anything other than minor gelcoat surface cracks.

With spade rudders (those that are not supported at the bottom), grab the lowest portion and push-pull it to port and starboard. A small amount of play is normal where the rudder stock enters the rudder log, tube and bearing that provide support at the hull interface. Excessive movement can indicate wear and the potential need to replace the bearing. Both rudder types should otherwise move freely to their stops without binding.  

Keel and Stub

Have a close look at the keel, especially if it is externally ballasted. Trouble can lurk in the interface between the ballast and hull, which might be direct or might rely on a fiberglass protrusion called the stub. It’s not unusual to see some water leaking from this interface, but if it is rusty in color, it indicates corrosion to keel fasteners, which are typically made from a stainless alloy.  

How much corrosion has occurred is impossible to know without separating the keel from the hull, but there have been a few high-profile cases of keel loss, often with fatalities, so better safe than sorry.

Dropping an external ballast keel is no small undertaking, but for a skilled yard, it should be fairly routine. If the keel is externally ballasted and it is cast iron, the integrity of the coating is critical. Any breach will lead to rust, which will spread. Correction requires cleaning, grinding to bright metal, and then coating with an epoxy primer rather than simply applying antifoulant.

For all keels, check the bottom for grounding damage. If the keel is internally ballasted, then severe grounding damage can allow water to reach the ballast. This is problematic for lead ballast and especially concerning for iron ballast, which will rust and expand, damaging the fiberglass structure. Better to catch this problem early. —Steve D’Antonio 

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

The post After the Haulout: First Things First appeared first on Cruising World.

My jaw ached from hours of clenching. My fingers grew numb from white-knuckling the companionway as a brace. We were crossing the Sea of Cortez from Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, with our course set for Chacala on the mainland. There, we planned to rendezvous with my partner’s family.  

We had disobeyed the cardinal rule of cruising: You can choose a time or a place, but you can’t choose both. 

Despite the weather reports predicting sporty winds blowing into the 20s with moderate northwest swells, we were 40 miles southeast of Cabo when the northwest swell grew to 10 to 12 feet, every six to eight seconds, breaking frequently over the beam of our 41-foot Cheoy Lee sailboat, Avocet. The wind was sporty, as predicted, but at a much higher speed of 25 knots sustained with chronic gusts into the mid-30s from behind us.

I was on the first watch of the night, my harness clipped into our dodger, my eyes on the horizon. The only light to fill the ink-black space ahead of us came from the breaking waves that painted the sea with moments of phosphorescence.

Then, the faint glow of the moon began to rise. It was around that time that things took a turn for the worse. 

Bang is a sound you never want to hear at sea, let alone at night. Chris sprung from below as I tried to free myself from the dodger. “What was that?” he asked, thinking we had hit something. 

“It came from the rig!” I yelled over the deafening wind and sea. “I can’t see anything!” 

It took a few moments to realize that our 130 percent genoa that was heavily reefed had completely unfurled, leading us to become overpowered very quickly.

We disengaged our autopilot and immediately broke off, putting the swell more on our aft quarter to prevent further rounding up. Avocet became a sled with hull speeds into the double digits as we tried to figure out a plan. 

I clipped into the helm. Chris secured himself to the jack lines and walked to the bow with a new furling line in hand. 

In horror, I watched waves break over the bow and snuff out his headlamp. He would soon realize that our furling line had chafed through at the drum. 

At first, he tried to install the new furling line within the drum, but there was no way he could get enough wraps. Chris returned to the cockpit to grab another line, kissed me on the forehead, gave me a reassuring smile, and scrambled back to the bow. He attached the bitter end of the line to the sail’s tack and wrapped as many loops around the top of the drum as he could, essentially creating an external furling unit. 

Then, Chris sat, feet braced against our bulwark, and pulled in the furling line. The wind was howling, but it couldn’t muffle his cheers as the sail began to furl in. 

We then used the same technique as dousing our spinnaker to have our main sail shade the genoa, removing as much power as we could from the sail before blowing the sheet to make it easier to pull it in. Once the secondary furling line was secured to a cleat, Chris could remove the defunct line within the drum, install the new one, and reef the sail again to get us back on course. 

This was a worst-case scenario for a furler failure, but the method worked in a pinch. It prevented us from having to pull down the sail, which would have increased risk for us and for Avocet. In high winds, you should actively avoid coming into irons because there is a high probability that it will shred your sails to oblivion or tangle your lines. Or both.

In calmer seas later, after further investigation, we concluded that the furler drum had been set incorrectly and went undetected until the furler line was tested under tension, causing the abrupt chafe and snap. Ever since then, we have reset the furler drum and replaced the line, and have not had a single issue in the additional 2,000 nautical miles under our keel. 

We hope you never have to try this yourself, but we urge you to run through a Plan B, C and D if you should ever experience a failure like this.

The post Redundancy of Thought appeared first on Cruising World.

There’s an art to ending the season. A good boatyard with a capable crew smooths the transition from sea to land.

Every skipper who faces the fall haulout ritual can benefit from a glimpse at how other yards handle sailboats. Most yards utilize Travelifts and U-shaped lift piers, but the way that a crew maneuvers a sailboat into the lift slings, hauls, and blocks can add valuable insight. There are subtleties in the way that the lift operator snugs up slack in the slings and smoothly controls the powerful hydraulic winches. Attention to detail reveals competency. 

Equipment condition is important too. Beware of rusty lifting cables, frayed slings, and tires that show signs of sun rot and sidewall damage. 

And, as one old salt put it, “Even in the best of yards, you don’t want your boat to be the biggest boat that the yard has ever hauled.” 

There are ways to expedite the prehaul boat preparation. Remove the sails, dodger, and Bimini top, and offload provisions and gear for the winter. It’s usually a lot easier to do this dockside rather than after the haulout. Also make sure the holding tank has been pumped out, the ­knotmeter transducer is retracted, and the yard manager or lift operator has an underwater profile picture or drawing of your boat. 

Some yards allow owners to pilot their boats into the Travelift slip, while others don’t. In either case, boathandling skills are tested, and good and bad habits stand out. For example, most lift operators make good use of long boat hooks. They use them to tug on a rail or cleat. But some also reach for lifeline stanchions when a big pull is needed to coax the boat sideways. Even worse is when a lift operator uses an upper shroud to stop the boat’s forward motion. Skilled sailboat handlers can nudge a vessel into the Travelift slip without such rigging torment. 

If you’re engaged in a DIY approach to the lift slip, you must make sure that the boat is ready to be hoisted. Often a headstay or backstay needs to be disconnected at the deck. If so, cinch up a halyard and set running backstays to keep the mast stabilized. ­Double-check to make sure that the lift operator and sling crew know where your boat’s vulnerable folding or feathering prop resides. 

Strap locations are critical. Catching the sling on a prop blade is a costly mistake, and it’s the reason why most experienced lift operators appreciate that profile picture of the boat’s underbody. Also, they often use a long pole or boat hook as a probe to make sure there’s plenty of prop-to-sling separation. The two slings are connected with a line to prevent slippage, and are padded or sleeved where the webbing touches the topsides. 

Shallow Travelift piers and deep-draft vessels are a challenge. A skilled crew uses the upper portion of a rising tide to haul deeper-draft vessels, with a plan to finish during the last part of the flooding. This extra insurance often comes in handy. Note the high-water time on the day you go, and see how the yard crew handles scheduling. 

Good timing is just as essential during the ebbing side of the tidal cycle. This is one reason why many yards add a hydraulic trailer to the mix. Hauled boats can be placed in a trailer to be moved, pressure-­washed and delivered to the blocking location while the Travelift is free to haul the next boat. 

Less common are crane-hoist haulouts and traditional marine railways that follow the slope of the bottom during the transition from water to land. With crane hoists, it’s important that the cable is attached to a steel framework or spreader bars to keep the slings from overcompressing the sheer. Marine railways use a cradle fit to the shape of a specific hull. It’s secured to a railway carriage that’s run into the water, where the vessel powers, or is pushed, into the cradle. These methods are viable but slower.

The second task on the annual haulout list is bottom-cleaning effort. Over the years, this work has become more efficient and environmentally friendly. Residue from biological growth and bottom paint must be retained, preventing contaminants from washing back into the bay. Most antifoulant significantly reduces growth. High-pressure water blasting can help prep the surface for next season’s bottom paint.

Finally, the boat is moved to its ­designated space, in a growing number of cases by a boat trailer with a hydraulically raised and lowered frame and padded arms. Boatyards benefit from these trailers because hauled vessels can be placed ­closer together. DIY owners often prefer yards where space between boats is ­greater, leaving more room to tackle projects.

Blocking up sailboats, especially with masts stepped, is an art unto itself. Part of the challenge stems from the varied underbody shapes and draft differences among modern sailboats. In addition, ­many boatyard storage areas are not paved—sometimes not even gravel-­coated. These issues are exacerbated when winter storms besiege the blocked-up fleet. Many owners look for better yards in less-­populated areas where land is less ­expensive and storage is more available. 

The best yards don’t skimp on screw jack stands. They carefully block each sailboat’s keel and run chains between port and starboard opposing stands. Each jack stand is aligned so that the pad against the hull and the supporting column of the stand are as perpendicular as possible. 

When blocking is done on unpaved surfaces, especially in poor drainage areas, plywood pads are used under each tubular foot. In most cases, yard crews check stand tension regularly during the season, and specifically before major forecast weather.

Before signing a haul-store-launch contract, make sure you are aware of the date you must be ready to launch. Yards usually follow a first-out, last-in and ­last-in, first-out format, somewhat like sardine packing.

The post Keys to a Successful Haulout appeared first on Cruising World.

Are you planning to sail to the Caribbean this fall? Are you excited about spending a few weeks bareboating in the islands this winter?

Dreaming about which island to visit next can lead to some serious reading. Here are a few suggestions about resources that will let you feed those dreams with hearty, nutritional content instead of junk.

There are stacks of references to check before hoisting the sails and anchor. I unfold Imray charts, check the chartplotter for distance, log onto Facebook groups—there’s one for every island—and download the weather forecast. Then, I see what’s up with the ActiveCaptain app. I flip pages in the Doyle Guides to the Leeward and Windward Islands, or in the Cruising Guide to the Virgin Islands by Nancy and Simon Scott. There are others, including a dozen guidebooks compiled by Don Street.

Today’s boaters don’t know how lucky they are to have all these resources. It hasn’t always been this way.

One of the first books I read about sailing in this region was Isles of the Caribbees by Carlton Mitchell, published in 1966. Mitchell takes us aboard the yacht Finisterre from island to island through the Eastern Caribbean, with images by National Geographic photographers. I could see what those islands looked like. This book sent me off dreaming of sailing to the tropics.

In 1978, I finally got to the Caribbean for the first time, on a Morgan Out Island bareboat charter out of Red Hook on St. Thomas in the US Virgin Islands. While I’d grown up on lake boats and spent 10 years cruising the New England coast aboard Quinta, my 36-foot Alden sloop, I had no idea what I’d find in the tropics. The charter company gave us a spiral-bound guide, first published by The Moorings in 1974, with aerial photos of anchorages. It included a few words about anchoring, but no information about what we might find ashore. This was to be a DIY adventure.

When I decided to sail my second boat, Fair-Thee-Well, to the Caribbean in 1981, I needed to do some serious research. Street’s books caught my attention. I still have them. It was Street’s A Cruising Guide to the Lesser Antilles, published in 1964, that paved the way.

He not only provided advice on the various routes from anywhere north to the Caribbean, but he also provided detailed information about every cove, harbor and anchorage on every island. His writing was highly opinionated, and for good reason. He had sailed the Antilles for 50 years.

Street wrote for the serious voyager—the boat owner—not the bareboater. He was less interested in beach bars and French restaurants than in how to get into small coves and anchorages without hitting a reef. Reading Street is like sitting in the cockpit with a beer or a rum punch, listening to a crusty adventurer spin yarns and provide advice. His books are valuable and entertaining, a journey unto themselves. One of my favorites is Seawise, a collection of Street’s thoughts on every aspect of boat ownership and cruising.

His books haven’t been updated recently, but they are still valuable references. As he writes: “The bars and services ashore may change from season to season, but the rocks and reefs haven’t moved in a hundred years.”

Street’s website has a great deal of what he has written, too: street-iolaire.com/

Doyle Guides and App

Chris Doyle’s guides to the Leeward and Windward Islands have been around since the early 1980s. He’s an Englishman who sailed the Colin Archer ketch Sugar Creek across the Atlantic to Grenada in the late 1970s. He skippered charter boats and bareboats, made deliveries, and got to know the islands well. After being pestered by bareboaters asking for directions, he published his own guidebook, selling advertising to cover the cost of printing. He sold the book from boat to boat while paddling his Windsurfer around anchorages. He has been at it all these years.

I’ve been using Doyle Guides for 40 years. I even find the ads useful because they put a face to the services ashore. Doyle Guides also include colored sketch charts as well as information on marine services, hiking trails, restaurants and markets. New editions are printed every two years.

The Doyle Guides app is free and has the newest information. A map shows your current GPS location, and the app lets you locate post offices, Wi-Fi, ATMs, immigration offices, marine stores, dive operators, markets and restaurants. If you get lost ashore, it’ll show you where you are. I even use it while researching from my home in Maine.

You can also download the guidebook to your device. Lexi Fisher, a Grenadian who handles the day-to-day Doyle Guides updates, told me: “The Doyle Guides app has all of the same general information as the printed guides. However, I can instantly update the app version whenever any changes occur. This I do about every two or three days, as information comes in.”

Charts show locations for shoreside attractions and services. Click on one, and up pops detailed information. The app will even place a phone call for you. It’ll show you where there’s fuel and a hospital.

I find that the printed guides are easier to use while I’m on deck, steering the boat, but I like the app too. It lets you access the content offline if you don’t have Wi-Fi.

And yes, I’m paging through my 2009 edition right now, planning next winter’s adventures.

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We learned a great word from French cruising friends: bricolage. It’s defined as “something constructed or created from a diverse range of available things.” It encompasses our experience as offshore cruisers, and as boat owners in general. We’ve spent much of the past six years trying to construct a functional offshore cruising boat from diverse, and often limited, things.

The most limited thing, for us, has been money. We started our tenure as boat owners on an extremely tight budget. Things that would have made our lives easier—dock space, regular haulouts, new equipment—often felt out of reach. 

That said, one thing has always been available no matter where we were in the world, or how little was left in the bank account: help. We have found, to our ­surprise, that there is a boating ­community to hold us up all the way.

We purchased Wild Rye, our 1971 Wauquiez Centurion 32, in December 2017. We had $30,000 and two goals: to sail around the world and, leading up to that, to refit the boat ourselves. We wanted to know our boat inside out, and to have the skills to fix whatever problems might arise. 

Our refit settled into a pattern of being unable to afford to do things the straightforward way, and then relying on more-­creative methods. We’ve had mixed results.

The first, and nearly disastrous, example of our cheap-and-cheerful approach was when we decided to inspect Rye’s hull below the waterline. Wanting to avoid a haulout on Vancouver Island, which was a 20-mile daysail away, we attempted to dry out at the public pier near our home on Salt Spring Island. Armed with several old tires and a 2-by-6 for fenders, we tied up. As the tide went out, Rye settled down onto the wooden 4-by-4s that my partner, Liam, had planted in the mud in place of a grid.

We celebrated for one brief moment ­before watching in horror as Rye began to slide sideways, her topsides inching perilously closer to the pier’s struts. Much shouting and frantic action ensued, ending with Rye leaning hard against her fenders, mast angled sharply over the pier, but stable. 

Liam clambered over the side of the pier and spent several hours trudging through the sucking mud, making notes in the fading evening light, while I sat shaking onshore. This DIY stuff was not for the faint of heart. We motored home on the high tide at 0200. Rye had survived our first attempt more or less unscathed, but there obviously were improvements to be made in our technique.

Our second project was to upgrade the standing rigging. We wanted to lower the deck-stepped mast to reinforce the ­compression post and replace every shroud, stay, and fitting with an upsize version. Liam built a wooden jig, and we lowered the mast while Rye sat in ­borrowed space at a friend’s dock. 

With the help of many sets of hands and a friend’s truck, we wrangled the mast off Rye’s deck and into our backyard. That went fine, but around the same time, Liam also completed what would be our most disastrous project: pulling out Rye’s old Volvo Penta MD2B engine and replacing it with a newer used engine. 

He disconnected the engine, towed Rye (engineless and mastless) around the island with a tender tied to the boat’s starboard side, and lifted out the engine using the community crane at a government wharf, with friends and family there to help.

Our replacement engine died a ­permanent death just two weeks into our shakedown cruise in Desolation Sound. We were devastated, but amazingly, we knew what to do. We tied the dinghy to Rye’s hip, towed the boat around to a different ­government wharf, and hauled out that dead engine with the community crane. Then we spent six weeks rafted up at the government wharf, repowering (with a brand-new engine this time) in the ­company of several other cruisers who were just as deep into their own DIY projects. 

When it came time to install the new propeller to accompany our new engine, we motored around (via the trusty dinghy side-tie method, of course) to dry out at a pier that had a grid in place. Rye sat perfectly alongside the pier, going up and down with the tide for three days while we handled an incredible variety of problems. A local fisherman who often stopped to inspect our progress raised an unimpressed eyebrow when we told him how we had moved Rye to the pier sans engine: “Better luck than judgment,” he said.

We did eventually complete the essential items in our refit, and, in 2019, we sailed out the Strait of Juan de Fuca and turned left for Mexico. We hopped down the coast of the Americas as far as Panama, fixing and improving as we went.

While anchored in San Diego, we installed a composting head system. In La Paz, Mexico, we installed a new-to-us Bomar hatch from a marine consignment store; a neighboring cruiser let us borrow a generator to run our power tools, and loaned us a hookah system to do some underwater work.

In between larger projects, we did what felt like a million small tasks. We almost always worked on the boat while anchored out, and we carried a generous quantity of supplies: jugs of epoxy, boxes of stainless-­steel hardware, and all of Liam’s tools. They took stowage priority over nonessential items such as spare clothes and books, but we didn’t complain (much). 

The regular projects did give us a sense of rhythm. Exploring new places is a ­privilege, but, for me at least, it lacks a sense of purpose. Rye’s bottomless project list gave us something to work toward, and a valuable sense of accomplishment whenever we completed something successfully. Granted, many of our DIY efforts were not successful the first time around; bubbling paint, crooked cuts and stripped hardware were what we came to describe as “just a prototype.” We’ve sure learned a lot in the process.

By the time we began our Pacific ­crossing, we had lived on board for nearly two years. Rye felt, if not perfect, at least functional. I didn’t fully appreciate how much we had learned until we arrived in the Galápagos Islands, where Liam noticed that at some point between there and Panama, we had developed a crack on the forestay tang, where the forestay connected to the bow. We also had a worrying amount of play in the tiller-rudder connection. There were no haulout facilities in the Galápagos, so we had to make repairs at anchor in a busy, rolly harbor. 

Liam dived under the hull to secure the rudder with two bowline loops running from the rudder to a winch on either side of the cockpit. We didn’t want the rudder moving while we tried to pull out the pin that connected the tiller to the rudder. The pin was corroded in place; we heated it with a blowtorch to break the corrosion, and forced it out with a hammer and punch. With the tiller removed and the rudder locked in place, we measured the hole in the rudder stock and confirmed that it was the source of the wobble in the steering. 

Our forestay tang was welded to the bow roller, so we had to remove the entire assembly. We tightened up the inner forestay to keep the mast securely in place, and then disconnected the forestay at its lower end. Next, we removed the bolts holding the pulpit and bow roller in place (a job that required one person wedged inside the V-berth and the other person in the dinghy, loosening the bolts between passing ships’ wakes). We pulled off the bow roller and hauled it into town to find a machinist.

We planned to have a second layer of stainless steel welded onto the existing tang to reinforce it without requiring a huge rebuild of the bow jewelry. After a ­conversation with a helpful neighboring cruiser who turned out to be a rigger, we were pretty confident that the small improvement would be enough to get us to New Zealand.

Liam—who communicated the job using only 10 words of basic Spanish and some detailed sign language—found a machinist who could make us a new tiller pin and weld a reinforcement onto the forestay tang. Incredibly, both jobs were done within two days—not perfectly, but well enough. I was hugely relieved because it felt a bit precarious to be sitting at anchor with no steering and the mast only partially attached.

Looking back on our journey from a comfortably landlocked desk in New Zealand, I’m surprised at what we managed to achieve with a tiny budget and our old patched-up boat. More than that, I am surprised at how much the never-ending stream of DIY projects shaped our voyage. At first, all the work seemed like a means to an end (making it to our destination without sinking), but really, our DIY projects were the constant thread of learning and satisfaction that gave our journey a sense of purpose and community. 

We were doing it ourselves, but we were never alone. The act of asking for help and advice, and offering the same to others, provided connection in an often isolated lifestyle. 

The art and science of bricolage is ­embedded deeply in the cruising ­community. Cruisers come from different places, with different backgrounds and abilities, but we all come together to keep our boats afloat. Regardless of what’s ­available to us when we start, we can all end up in the same place: sailing out toward the infinite horizon.

The post The Bricolage of Boating appeared first on Cruising World.

It was just before 0700 on April 26, some hundred miles southeast of Tampa Bay, Florida, aboard John Hamm’s formidable Hylas 54, Split Decision. An hour earlier, I’d come on watch as the powerful cutter roared south under full sail in a solid easterly hovering between 20 and 25 knots, with the occasional higher gust. The seas were confused, bumpy and building, and nobody was particularly interested in breakfast. 

Still, the autopilot was handling everything nicely (competing in the Regata del Sol al Sol’s Cruising Class, auto-helms were permissible). I was perched by the wheel, taking it all in, when silently, unexpectedly, Split Decision rounded up hard to weather. The sails flapped wildly. What the hell? was my first thought. 

Little did I know that the next 17 hours were going to be very, um, interesting. 

We had departed St. Petersburg, Florida, the previous morning bound for Isla Mujeres, Mexico, as part of the 18-boat fleet in this biennial 470-mile Gulf of Mexico distance race that skirts the west coast of Cuba. I’d done the race once before and totally enjoyed it, so when the opportunity to crew on Split Decision ­presented itself, I was all in.

I’d joined a fun, experienced crew of racing sailors from the notable St. Petersburg Yacht Club. They were led by skipper Hamm, who completed a circumnavigation with his family some 20 years ago (Hamm’s brother, Chris, a professional mariner from San Diego, rounded out the six-man team). To say that Split Decision was exquisitely prepared is an understatement. Hamm had compiled a small library of instructional manuals that he’d written over the years on safety, systems, weather and operations that lined the shelves of his navigation station. It was impressive stuff.

On a prerace haulout several months earlier, Hamm had determined that there was water in the rudder. The Hylas service office in Fort Lauderdale recommended the following course of action: Drain it and dry it, make sure there is no rust, and seal it all back up. 

“We followed their ­recommendations,” Hamm said after our adventure. “I am sure if there had been a concern on their part about the integrity of the rudder, they would have suggested we replace it. They never did hint about needing a replacement.”

So, off we went.

The forecast was favorable, if a bit sporty: light airs for the morning start, a building sea breeze in the afternoon, and then a strong easterly filling in just before midnight. It all unfolded precisely as predicted. The conditions couldn’t really have been better, and we were all looking forward to a sleigh ride of a port-tack power reach all the way to Mexico. 

Which is what everyone else got to enjoy. In fact, new race speed records were established in the Racer/Cruiser and Multihull divisions.

We, in an instant, had no steerage. 

I put the autopilot on standby, took the wheel, and tried to get us back on course. It required a bit of effort to do so, after which I switched the self-steering back on. 

Seconds later, Split Decision again spun out of control. “You’d better get your brother up,” I told Chris. 

Hamm had no better luck than I did. 

Now what? It was 140 nautical miles to Key West, 91 to Charlotte Harbor and 108 to the Manatee River, just outside the entrance to Tampa Bay. The problem was, they were all to varying degrees upwind, and if we couldn’t get on top of the situation, we were going to get blown to Texas.

Luckily, we had a brand-new Starlink unit aboard, and crewman Christian Bergstrom took over as comms officer. His first call was to the event organizers. Our race was officially over.

Next, he reached out to all the various commercial towing outfits along the coast, none of which were interested in heading offshore in sketchy weather and a small-craft warning. 

He then contacted the US Coast Guard to apprise them of our situation, and received an offer to send a helicopter to snatch us off, which of course wasn’t an actual option. But they also said they’d send out a boat to tow us in the final miles if we still had steering issues as we approached the shoreline. That was much appreciated. The Manatee River made the most sense, so we swapped the genoa for the staysail and (sort of) pointed Split Decision’s bow in that general direction. 

We collectively surmised that the rudder cables had jumped the quadrant, which was, unfortunately, under the big berth in the aft cabin. Tearing everything apart to have a look in a somewhat violent seaway was in nobody’s interest. Instead, Hamm dug out and set up the emergency tiller, then led a pair of lines to the cockpit winches. 

At this stage, I was back on the wheel and could more or less scribe a wandering course some 30 to 40 degrees left or right of where we actually wished to go. It was maddening, to say the least. Chris set himself up alongside the winch, and when I really lost it, he’d give a quick, sharp tug on the emergency tiller to give me a bit of control. To be honest, it was more akin to sculling than steering, but at least we were heading home. 

It was now pretty apparent that it wasn’t a quadrant issue, but that we’d lost a good portion of the rudder. 

This went on for many, many, many hours.

It was after midnight as we motorsailed the final miles to Tampa Bay. It turned out that upping the rpm gave us better steerage, but there was no way we could directly drive into the Manatee River anchorage. Bergstrom had been in regular contact with the Coast Guard, and true to their word, they sent out a big RIB with a professional crew to tow us the final miles. The tariff? A full inspection once the hook was down. Of course, Split Decision passed with flying colors. After that, at 0300, a bottle of rum made a welcome appearance. 

A while later, Hamm’s curiosity got the better of him, and he plunged into the river to have a look. Which is when he discovered that most of the rudder was missing. I still can’t believe that I didn’t feel or hear anything at the time, basically perched right above the thing. A mystery, indeed. 

Naval architect Gerry Douglas is a mutual friend of Hamm’s and mine, and had hooked me up with Split Decision in the first place. In his former role as chief designer at Catalina Yachts, he’d been especially interested in the hows and whys of rudder failures. When I checked in with him after the race, he was interested in learning more.

Several weeks later, Hamm sent me this update: “Gerry and I met at the boat, and two items came out of that meeting. One was [that] the large 5-inch stainless reinforcement did not appear to be 316 stainless as specified on the drawings from the designer. We think it was stainless, but some lower grade (maybe 304), because when we applied a large magnet to it, there was a small attraction, which would never happen with 316 stainless. The rudder shaft is 316 and had no attraction to the magnet. Gerry’s theory is that the rudder was weakened by water intrusion. He believes once a rudder has water in it, it will get water in it again and it will have some level of weakening due to corrosion. I am not sure if that was or was not a contributing factor on my rudder failure.   

“When the boat was pulled out of the water, the reinforcement stainless was very clean, and was bent and twisted. It now has a little bit of surface rust after being out of the water for five weeks. FYI, upon closer inspection, we found streaks which removed bottom paint and dug lightly into the bulb on the bottom of the keel. With the new bottom job just a few weeks before the race, there should have been no streaks in the paint. Speculation by some of the crew is that we may have hit a net of some kind that dragged under the keel and then hung on the rudder, causing it to break. Who really knows? Lots of speculation here!”

All I do know is that I never got to sip that first cold Corona on a beach near Cancún. I ended up back home with just another sea story and a sad case of the lost rudder blues.

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